George Pelecanos - The Turnaround

“Dad,” said John, standing behind him. “Dad, it’s all right.”

Alex stood and turned. John had his cell phone out and was making a call. Alex reached out and took it from his hand.

“Don’t,” said Alex. “No police.”

“What, are you kidding?”

“I’ll explain. Come on, let’s go inside.”

They moved toward their home. Alex put his arm around his son as they walked.

“You okay, Dad?”

“Yes. Did he say his name?”

“He said that he was the man who gave you your eye.”

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No.” John looked at the Mag-Lite and smiled with affection at his father. “What were you going to do with that?”

“Damn if I know. I didn’t have a plan. I saw him out here with you and I just grabbed it and ran.”

Vicki was waiting for them at the front door.

It was very late when Raymond got the call on his cell. He was at his mother’s place, seated in his father’s old recliner, watching television and not watching it, as someone does when his thoughts are intense. The phone rang in his pocket, and he answered it and heard Alex Pappas’s voice. Gone was the gentle tone he had come to like and grow comfortable with in the past couple of days.

Alex described the visit from Charles Baker, his attempt at extortion, and his conversation with John.

“He was talking to my son, right outside my home,” said Alex. “Where my wife sleeps. Do you understand, Ray? He came to my home and threatened my son.”

“I do understand,” said Raymond. “Did you -”

“No. I didn’t call the police. But next time I will. I need to be clear with you on that.”

“I got it,” said Raymond. “Thank you, Alex. Thank you for thinking of my brother.”

“You’ve gotta do something about this,” said Alex, the anger gone out of him.

“I will,” said Raymond.

He next phoned James, now at his apartment on Fairmont.

“Where does Charles Baker stay?” said Raymond.

“Why?”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know exactly. He’s in a group home on Delafield. One of those places for men on paper. Said he’s in a house on the thirteen hundred block, in Northwest.”

Raymond ended the call abruptly. He got up out of the recliner and went down to the cellar, quietly, so as not to wake his mother. There, on a workbench, he found his father’s tools in a steel box. Ernest Monroe, the bus mechanic, had kept them orderly and clean. Since his father’s death, Raymond had used them infrequently and left them in their proper sections, as his father would have wished.

Ernest had never kept a gun in the house. He said it was dangerous and unnecessary, that with boys around, it would just be a temptation that would lead to tragedy. But he had modified certain tools, and shown them to his sons, in the event that the family was in need of protection. One of them was a heavy-shafted flat-head machinist’s screwdriver whose tip Ernest had bench-ground to a point.

Raymond lifted the screwdriver from the box.

On his way to work, Alex Pappas often topped off the tank of his Cherokee at the gas station on Piney Branch Road. This served two purposes. The gas was relatively cheap at this particular outlet, and if he desired, he could check on his investment property, situated directly behind the station, while he was there.

It was not smart to have unrented property, as the absence of a tenant left the owner vulnerable to vandals and possibly even squatters. But Alex did not have much cause to worry, as his property was in a decent neighborhood and was visible from a heavily traveled road. Also, it was well fortified by design, solid brick with no windows. The electric company had built the substation with the intent of blending it in, as much as possible, with the rest of the neighborhood.

Still, as secure as the building was, he needed to find someone to lease it, if only to get Vicki off his back. She was right, of course. She was almost always right when it came to money.

Alex was pondering this, looking at his building as he set the pump’s nozzle into his vehicle. He could see the wide, corrugated bay door that fronted the property, and the small parking lot, which the Iranian, the last tenant, had enlarged at his own expense to accommodate his flooring and carpet customers.

When the tank was full, Alex drove around to the front of the building and parked. From the glove box he got his Craftsman measuring tape and a set of keys holding one that operated the bay door.

Later, he drove down Piney Branch Road, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Piney Branch became 13th, and farther along he turned onto New Hampshire Avenue and headed toward Dupont Circle. It was the same route he had taken for over thirty years. Most days, his mind was focused on day-to-day minutiae and the mundane. But not today.

Raymond Monroe found his mother in the living room, watching a morning news show on the television. He held his overnight bag in his hand.

“I’m off, Mama.”

“To work?”

“Yes.”

“I heard you talking to those people at the hospital on your phone. Something about you had an appointment.”

“Yeah, I got something I need to take care of. I was just telling them I was gonna be in late.”

“And I can see that you won’t be coming home tonight.”

“I’m staying with Kendall and her son.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“I know it. You’re like that Energizer bunny.”

“That winds down, too, eventually.” Almeda Monroe looked up at her son, her beautiful eyes set deep in a face plowed by time. “Your brother doing okay?”

“He’s fine. Drinks too much beer, but hey.”

“So did your father. If that’s the worst you can say about a man. ..”

“Right.”

“I was married to a good one. And I raised two fine sons. I would say that my life has been a success. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Raymond. He bent down and kissed her. “I’ll call you tonight, hear?”

“Have a blessed day, Raymond.”

Going down the road in his Pontiac, he went by Rodney Draper’s house. Raymond was reminded that he needed to give Rodney a call. He did so as he drove toward Northwest, heading for a street called Delafield.

“HELLO.”

“Can I speak to Alex Pappas, please?”

Alex, standing at the register, looked over his shoulder. John, Darlene, Blanca, Juana, and Rafael were beginning to mobilize for the lunch rush, all of them moving about without being told to, fulfilling the duties of their respective stations.

“Speaking.”

“It’s Rodney Draper. I’m getting back to you.”

“I’m glad you called.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have, quite frankly, given the circumstances. It was Ray Monroe who asked that I help you. He said that you kept up your end of the bargain, whatever that means. He told me to give you any information you need.”

“I’ve got a pencil.”

The woman’s name was Elaine Patterson. The kids in Heathrow had always called her Miss Elaine. She was in her mideighties now and in poor health. The victim of a stroke, she lived in a nursing home off Layhill Road, past the Glenmont Metro station in Wheaton.

“She’s one of our treasured citizens. Miss Elaine took classes in the one-room schoolhouse, before the courts sent our kids out into the public system. The stroke shut down some of her brain functions and sharpened others. She has very strong memories of the distant past but often can’t remember what she did yesterday. Her speech is halting and she can no longer read or write. I’ve been doing oral history work with her when I find the time.”

“I’ll be mindful of her health. I promise you I won’t stay with her long. Could you let her know I’m coming, so this won’t be a shock?”