George Pelecanos - The Way Home

A large and a small revolver, a couple of semiautomatics, and boxes of ammunition were laid out on a card table. The weapons still had serial numbers and if confiscated would be traced back to legitimate gun stores in Virginia, where they had been originally purchased by straw buyers.

Lawrence stood beside Knight, looking down at the weapons, experiencing that curious sensation of excitement and dread some men feel in the presence of guns.

Lawrence had shot a boy many years ago. Had he killed the young man, Lawrence’s punishment would have been more severe, but the wound was not fatal. Lawrence could barely remember why he had done the thing. Some slight, real or imagined, had sent him after the boy with a Taurus. 38, a true Saturday night special, because Lawrence knew he couldn’t settle it with his hands.

“What’s that?” said Lawrence, pointing to a small auto pistol with a chrome finish and a laminated wood stock.

“Davis thirty-two,” said Knight.

“Does it work?”

“It ain’t gonna blow up in your face, I don’t think. I mean, shit, you said you wanted the cheapest thing I had.”

“It’s for my partner. I’m askin, will it stop a man?”

“I’m not even about to answer that. The Davis is a gun and it shoots bullets. That’s all I can say.”

“Okay. I’ll take that.”

“You said you wanted a revolver for yourself.”

“Autos jam.”

“They been known to.”

“What you got?”

“I brought out a couple pieces you might like. S and W’s, both. There goes a thirty-eight, right there.” Knight pointed to a short-barreled Chief. “Smith and Wesson make a nice product. You can’t go wrong with that.”

Knight’s voice was unenthusiastic. Lawrence knew he was about to be stepped up to the larger, more masculine-looking weapon set beside it. He knew, but he couldn’t help asking the next question.

“What about that big boy right there?” said Lawrence.

“Go ahead and pick it up,” said Knight.

Lawrence lifted the gun off the table. He hefted it and turned it in the light. It had a stainless finish, a six-inch barrel, and rubber, finger-molded grips. It felt right in his hand.

“Three fifty-seven combat magnum,” said Knight. “That’s a pup right there. You squeeze the trigger on that boy, it’s like shootin a full can of beer at a thousand miles an hour. Make a nice hole goin in and a mess goin out. It’s gonna kick, too. I don’t know, you might want somethin more manageable for your body type… ”

“I’ll take it,” said Lawrence.

“You gonna need some bullets, right?”

“Not a whole box.”

“I only sell bricks.”

“What about a shoulder rig for this one? I can’t be putting this monster down in my dip.”

“I can sell you that, too.”

“How about throwin it in?”

Knight laughed through his teeth and shook his head. They negotiated a price, and Lawrence paid him from a roll he had in his pocket, then stashed everything into a daypack he had brought with him.

Walking to the basement steps, Lawrence said, “Where you get all this Redskins shit, man?”

“Shows. The Internet.”

“You go to the games?”

“Not anymore,” said Knight. “I hate that stadium.”

“We gonna do it this year?”

“Not this year. But we will.” Knight put his hand on Lawrence’s shoulder at the front door. “You don’t know me, man. We ain’t never met.”

“I heard that,” said Lawrence.

He walked to his Cavalier, parked on the street.

After repeated knocks on Chris’s door with no response, Flynn was let into the apartment by Andy Ladas, who had an extra key. There was nothing there, no note, no notepads to rub that would reveal the secret message, no telltale signs left behind to let Flynn know where Chris had gone. It occurred to Flynn that he knew little about Chris’s life as an adult. He was not familiar with his hangouts, his haunts, or the locations of the homes or apartments of his closest friends.

He did have Ali’s number logged into the address book of his cell. He phoned Ali, got him, and filled him in on the latest events. Ali said that he would try to contact Lawrence; he had his number and knew where he lived. While Flynn waited in the quiet of Chris’s apartment, he helped himself to a beer, drank it quickly, and had another. By the time he was headed for a third, Ali phoned him back.

“Lawrence wasn’t answering his cell,” said Ali. “I went over to where he stays and talked to his sister. He’s been out the apartment all night. She hasn’t seen or heard from him.”

“Can you get away for a while?” said Flynn. “I want to look for him. Two sets of eyes and all that.”

“I can meet you,” said Ali. He told Flynn where, a halfway point on Riggs Road, near South Dakota Avenue.

“Twenty minutes,” said Flynn.

They drove the streets for hours, but they didn’t find Chris.

He had checked into a motel high on Georgia Avenue, in south Silver Spring, just over the line into Maryland. Though it was near the niceties of the new downtown, it had a Plexiglas reception area and the requisite male hooker, dressed and made up as a female, lounging in the lobby. It was not a plastic-sheet flophouse, but it was close.

What it did have was a covered garage. Chris had tucked the van far back inside, well out of view from the street, before he checked in.

He had a duffel bag with some clothes in it, and his shaving kit. He had not bought any alcohol or weed to smoke. He wanted his mind sharp and clear. His thoughts were grim and clouded, and he needed to see through them to some kind of light.

He had turned on his cell, and its ring tone sounded frequently. The calls were from his father, Ali, his mother, and Katherine. He let them go to message. Eventually the calls stopped.

He lay on the double bed of the stark room, watching television but not watching it, thinking. He had used the remote to get ESPN, and now there were highlights of a bicycle race, many men wearing tight shorts and colorful jerseys, navigating a twisting downhill road, and some sort of accident where several bicycles went down. He did not follow the sport, could not identify this particular race, and was uninterested. He had never been a fan of biking. As he reached his teens, he had thought it was nerdy and lame.

His father used to strap him into a seat on the back of his bike and ride him all the way down to the Potomac on the paved trails of Rock Creek Park. He had been very young and his memory was sketchy, and he had not thought of it at all in a long while. What he remembered, mostly, were flashes and sensations. Sun streaming down through the trees. The wind on his face and in his hair. The feel of his own smile. On those rides, when he got up a good amount of speed, his father would sometimes reach behind him and squeeze Chris’s hand, reassure him, tell him that everything was going to be all right.

I am not someone who could kill a man. There is nothing in my past and nothing inside me that would allow me to do that. Ben couldn’t, and neither can I.

Ben had tried to help Lawrence. Ben had seen something in him that others couldn’t see. If Ben were alive, he’d stop Lawrence from what he had planned. Chris knew this. It was on him now to act for Ben.

He relaxed and fell asleep.

His ring tone woke him up. He looked at the caller ID on his cell and saw that it was Lawrence.

“Yeah,” said Chris.

“It’s me,” said Lawrence, his voice gravelly. “We about to do this, son.”

“All right.”

“I set it up. Got us some iron, too.” Lawrence listened to silence and said, “You still with me?”

“Where we supposed to meet ’em?”

“I’ll tell you face-to-face. You and me need to hook up and lay it out.”