George Pelecanos: The Way Home

“I’m here,” said Lawrence.

“Where’s Chris at?”

“I had to drop him. That’s right. Me.”

“What do you mean, drop him? ”

“I didn’t shoot him or nothin like that. I put him down with my hands. He was tryin to stop me from doing this thing I got to do. Gettin all high-horse on my ass.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s breathin. He fell down and hit his head. He ain’t as rough and tough as he thinks he is. But he’s gonna be okay.”

“Where is he?” said Ali.

“On a bike trail, under a bridge. Near the Peace Cross, out by Colman Manor.”

“Where exactly?”

Lawrence described the short way in and Ali wrote it down. Ali picked his cell up off the desk, and Lawrence listened as Ali spoke to Chris’s father with urgency and gave the father directions to his son. As Ali talked, Lawrence took a black Sharpie from a leather cup filled with writing utensils and slipped one into the pocket of his North Face. Ali ended the call and placed the cell phone back atop the desk.

Ali’s eyes went to the floor, where the gym bag sat. “What’s in that sack?”

“My valuables. You don’t think I’d leave them in my car, do you? In this neighborhood?”

“It’s not so bad. Me and my mother live across the street.”

“I know it. Gotta hand it to you, ’cause you got out.”

“You could, too.”

“It’s too late for me.”

“It’s not,” said Ali. “You don’t have to do this.”

“But I’m about to.”

“I could call the police.”

“And have me arrested for what? Thinkin on a murder?”

“I bet if they searched your car, they’d find a gun. That’s an automatic fall for you.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Killing those men is not what Ben would’ve wanted.”

“Don’t start with me,” said Lawrence. “You don’t even want to put your hand near the flames I got inside me today. Chris did, and he stretched out.”

The chair creaked beneath Ali’s shifting weight. “Why’d you come here, Lawrence?”

“To appeal to your sense of right, I guess. To ask you one more time to get my nephew someplace good.”

“I’m tryin to. But it takes baby steps to get where Marquis needs to be. Wasn’t no leap from where I was to that house across the street, or this job I got right here. You can’t just snap your fingers and make it happen.”

“Take care of him the best you can. That’s all I’m askin.”

Ali nodded slowly. “I will.”

Lawrence picked up the gym bag and stood from his chair. “Where the bathroom in this piece?”

“In the back.”

Lawrence walked past the desk. Ali listened as the toilet flushed and the sink water ran. A couple of minutes later, Lawrence emerged from the bathroom without the bag and stood across from where Ali was seated.

“Place is dirty. You could use some new furniture, shit like that. Maybe a TV set that ain’t broke, so the boys could chill in here.”

“You forgot your bag.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“What’s going on, Lawrence?”

“Take care of your little niggas, hear?”

“I’m doin my best.”

Lawrence held out his fist and reached across the desk. “Unit Five.”

“Unit Five,” said Ali softly. He dapped Lawrence up.

Lawrence grinned. “See you later… Holly.”

Ali smiled a little against a sinking feeling as he watched him step to the door. The small bell chimed as the door pushed out and Lawrence hit the sidewalk.

Ali got out of his chair and walked into the bathroom. There on the closed toilet lid sat the open gym bag, filled with cash. And on the mirror, written in black: Your boy, Lawrence

Ali jogged out of the bathroom, went to the front window of the storefront, and looked out onto the street.

Lawrence Newhouse was gone.

Sonny Wade walked into a bedroom of the white rambler in Riverdale. Wayne Minors sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless and taut. He had been napping, and Sonny’s heavy fist on the closed door, ten minutes earlier, had woken him up. Beside Wayne, the girl named Cheyenne slept nude atop the sheets. Raspberries of acne dotted her bony back.

“You been dozing?” said Sonny.

“I get tired after,” said Wayne.

“I told you not to take no postcoital naps.”

“Huh?”

“We got work and I want your head straight. Here.” Sonny reached into his windbreaker and drew a Taurus. 9 from where he had slipped it against his belly. “You’re gonna need that.”

“I got my knife.”

“That’s only good for close work. ’Less you plan to throw it.”

“I could.”

“This ain’t no carnival. Take the gun.”

Wayne took it and placed it beside him on the bed. He reached over to the nightstand and picked up the hardwood-handled knife with the spine-cut steel blade. He fitted it in its sheath, hiked up one leg of his Wrangler jeans, and strapped the sheath to his calf. He put on his black ring-strap Dingo boots, stood, and drew a black T-shirt over his head. He folded up the sleeves of the T-shirt one time to show off his arms and touched his wallet, chained to a belt loop, to make sure that it was secure.

“Say good-bye to your little slut,” said Sonny.

“Don’t call her that.”

“Do it and let’s get gone.”

Wayne leaned over the bed and kissed Cheyenne’s shoulder. His bushy mustache flattened out against her bone. He stood straight and holstered the Taurus in his waistband, under his T.

They walked into the living room. Ashley and Chuck were seated on the couch. There was a bong on the table before them, a ziplock bag of marijuana that was mostly seeds and stems, empty wine cooler bottles, crushed cans of beer. The television was on. They were watching MTV Cribs.

“You leavin?” said Ashley.

“It’s time,” said Sonny, his idea of a warm good-bye. He looked at Chuck, rolls of fat spilling about his waist, staring at the TV, too frightened to meet Sonny’s eyes. “You never met us. Is that clear, fella?”

“Yes,” said Chuck.

Sonny stood over Chuck and leaned forward. “You speak on either of us, my little buddy will come back here and carve you up.”

Chuck’s lip trembled.

“ ’Preciate the hospitality,” said Sonny.

Sonny and Wayne walked from the house. They got into the Mercury and drove over to the community center and park, where brown people were playing baseball on one of the diamonds. Sonny and Wayne got out of the black sedan and broke their cell phones on the hard road and threw the pieces into the woods. Sonny wanted no record of the incoming or outgoing calls they had made while they were in town, nor did he wish to worry on the tracking possibilities of GPS. They’d buy a couple of disposable cells at a convenience store when they left town.

They drove over to Kenilworth Avenue and headed into the city. Sonny had loaded the Mercury with all of their belongings. They had no firm plans or destination but were ticking with anticipation of the violence that was about to come.

Twenty minutes later, they were on New York Avenue. Sonny gripped the wheel of the fake-fur-covered steering wheel and spun it as Wayne lit a cigarette off a butane flame. He blew a smoke ring that shattered in the wind. Looking at it, his eyes crossed.

“What’s postcoital mean?” said Wayne.

“Means after you stick her, stupid.”

“My name is not Stupid.”

“Hmph,” said Sonny Wade.

They rolled through the open black gates of the National Arboretum and drove to the information center to get a map.

The little man’s name was Larry. He had returned to his home under the bridge, a brown bag holding a pint of store-brand vodka and a six of beer clutched under his arm. He had found Chris lying on the path with a blanket under his head. Chris was awake but motionless, looking up at the steel beams beneath the bridge floor. There was blood on his face. Larry wiped at it with a dirty rag, which only smudged the blood further. He covered Chris with another blanket.