George Pelecanos: The Way Home

“That did it,” said Wayne, instantly lit. His eyes had begun to spiral.

“Now your nose is gonna bleed.”

“Means it’s good.” Wayne nodded toward the small brick house. “Them’s bathrooms?”

“No, it’s a mo-tel.”

“ ’Cause I feel like I could shit.”

“Clench your sphincter,” said Sonny.

Wayne folded his arms petulantly and unfolded them. “I need to walk. Look around. Could be they’re lyin in wait.”

“Dumbass. You think they parachuted in?”

“I’m sayin I can’t sit still.”

“Go ahead, then, but roll up that window before you do. That rain’s gonna damage my velour.”

Wayne closed the window. “You comin?”

“Nope. I think I’ll stay dry.”

“What if somethin happens?”

Sonny smiled. “I’ll hear you scream.”

“Or them,” said Wayne, and he stepped out of the car.

Sonny watched him go down the stone path toward the rest room structure. It was hard to see him through the windshield, what with the rain. Wayne turned the corner and went around the back of the building and was gone.

Lawrence stood behind the brick house for a long while, but his nerves got to him when he heard the work truck come to a stop on the road. He looked around the corner and saw a young, heavyset female in an Arboretum shirt get out of the truck, a big cell or two-way holstered to her side. She was a white girl and she wore a rain slicker over the shirt and carried a bucket and hand shovel. If she saw him she’d see a hood rat from the side of town she never drove through, and she would get suspicious and maybe call security. Lawrence guessed she was one of those college girls who had majored in trees and plants. They had a name for that. Whore culture. Lawrence was too nervous to remember the word. But she was not the type to be cleaning out a bathroom. Wasn’t no way she’d walk into the men’s. Lawrence slipped around the corner and quietly pushed on the door to the men’s room and stepped inside.

It was smaller than he thought it would be. Around a green metal divider, along one wall, were two urinals and a green metal stall holding a toilet. On the wall to his right was a white sink, a soap dispenser above it, and to the left one of those hot-air hand dryers that no one liked to use. Beside the sink, an office-sized trash can lined with a plastic bag. The floor was made up of small tiles in various shades of brown.

Rain tapped at the shingled roof. Lawrence heard the engine of a car, sounded like a big one, as it neared and then came to a stop.

He realized then that he had no plan.

In his mind, he had seen himself facing them, his gun hand hanging loosely at his side, his eyes steely, perhaps a small smile on his face, drawing quickly, beating their draw because they were white boys and slow, spinning the gun and holstering it before they even hit the ground. Ron O’Neal. The Master Gunfighter.

But here he was, low Lawrence Newhouse, cowering in a dirty bathroom. Trapped.

If one of them walked in, Lawrence would have to use Ben’s blade. The sound of a gunshot would bring the other one, prepared, and that would mean that he, Lawrence, would be doomed.

Lawrence stood in front of the toilet stall. In his quivering hand was the carpet knife. The wood handle was damp with his sweat.

He shook his braids away from his face and tried to raise spit.

Wayne Minors had gone around the back of the building with the shingled roof and had found nothing but bright green ivy and a meter on its red brick wall. He had to go, but he preferred to urinate outside. Because he was still a child, he pissed his initials against the bricks. When he zipped up, he moved back from the wall and looked down a gently sloping hill.

He squinted through the mist and the rain. Down there behind a tree he thought he saw… yes, it was. A bicycle. Wayne stared at it, his mouth open, breathing through his nose. He got down to one knee and as his pants leg rode up, he drew his Rambo III knife from its sheath.

He gripped the hardwood handle and pressed the heavy-duty pommel and the steel blade against his leg. He went around the corner of the building and looked to the Mercury, parked in the space at the end of the stone path. He made a chucking motion with his chin but could not clearly see Sonny’s reaction, or if he had one at all. The windshield was heavy with water.

One bicycle, one man. Ain’t gonna be no problem. I’ll walk out with a trophy and see the admiration in Sonny’s eyes. Because I am his equal. I am not stupid.

Wayne turned and stepped quickly into the men’s room.

Lawrence got a look at the man who had come to kill him as he emerged from behind the green metal divider. He was a little white man, tightly wound and strong, with a thick mustache and slightly crossed eyes. He held a hunting knife.

Lawrence opened his mouth to speak but could not. The little man giggled and came across the room. He was on Lawrence fast as fire, his knife hand raised.

This is the man who murdered Ben, thought Lawrence Newhouse, stepping back against the sink wall, frozen, unable to raise the Crain carpet knife, as he watched Wayne’s weapon come down toward his chest.

The blade glanced off the holster and butt of Lawrence’s gun. It surprised Wayne and woke Lawrence up.

This is the man who murdered Ben.

Wayne raised the knife again.

Lawrence grabbed Wayne’s knife hand at the wrist and pushed him back. He danced Wayne across the tiles and into the green metal divider, rocking it. He had Wayne’s T-shirt bunched in his right hand, still gripping the wood of the carpet knife. He spun him and held tight, pushing and lifting him, Wayne’s feet grazing the tiles as they headed back to the sink wall, and Lawrence, with great force, slammed him up against the hand dryer. He let go of Wayne’s shirt and moved the knife to the little man’s neck and broke the flesh with the end, hooking it in beside the artery. Wayne’s eyes pinballed in their sockets and he bared his teeth. He made an animal sound and freed his hand from Lawrence’s grasp and stabbed at Lawrence furiously with the spine-cut knife. Lawrence gasped as the blade entered his chest again and again. Still, he held fast to Wayne.

Lawrence buried the hook deep and found purchase in the little man’s flesh. He grunted with effort and ripped the Crain knife violently and almost completely through Wayne’s neck, severing his artery and windpipe. Lawrence was showered in blood.

Wayne’s head unhinged in a backward direction as he crumpled and fell. His boots kicked at the tiles. His head, loosely attached to his torso, floated in a widening pool of fluid. He had voided his bowels, and the stench was heavy in the room.

“God,” whispered Lawrence.

He stumbled to the divider and leaned against it. He looked down at his T-shirt, drenched in crimson. He winced at the pain and dropped the Crain knife to the tile floor. He listened to the wheeze in his own breath.

Let me keep my feet.

Lawrence drew the heavy revolver from inside his shredded jacket and walked out of the men’s room and into the rain.

The heavyset woman was now standing beside her truck. She saw Lawrence and her eyes grew wide. She turned and bucked. Lawrence saw her lift her radio off her hip as she ran into the woods.

He heard the opening of a car door. An old black sedan was parked at the end of the stone path. Its driver’s-side door was opening and a big white man with a walrus mustache was getting out. He stood behind the open door and glass. Lawrence raised his gun and pointed it at the man’s torso.

Lawrence saw the big man reach inside his windbreaker. His eyes lost their will, and his hand came out empty.

The man smiled. “Where’s my friend?”