George Pelecanos: The Cut

“No,” said Lindsay, moving quickly again, going up the steps.

“Hold up,” said Lucas.

“No!” shouted Lindsay, turning the key to his front door and disappearing inside his house.

Lucas walked back to his Jeep. He had enough experience to know that his time spent on 12th Street had not been wasted. He always learned something, even if that nugget of knowledge was not readily apparent. It was possible that the Lindsay boy distrusted anyone who looked like police, or didn’t want to be seen by his peers talking to an authority figure. It was also possible that he had real information related to the theft. At any rate, Lucas knew where this Lindsay kid lived and where he went to school. He would be easy to find.

The next night, Lucas was buzzed through the camera-monitored security entrance of the American Legion, Cissel-Saxon Post 41, on Fenton Street in Silver Spring. Fifteen minutes later, he sat on a stool beside an army veteran named Bobby Waldron, not long back from Afghanistan. Waldron was stocky, muscled up, heavily inked, kept a military haircut, and had close-set eyes. He lived with his parents in Rockville and worked occasionally as a uniformed security guard. He’d been treading water since his return to the States.

Beers in brown bottles sat on the bar in front of Lucas and Waldron.

“So this guy, the manager of the appliance store,” said Waldron, “he decides to give me my instructions. They were about to have a tent sale on Saturday and they needed someone to guard the merchandise they had brought outside on Friday. My orders were to be on the premises overnight. I guess my boss had told him I was a vet, ’cause this dude was trying to speak his idea of my language. Secure the perimeter. Hold your position, shit like that.”

“You see much action that night?”

“Tons. Those appliance thieves were crawling across the parking lot on their bellies once the sun went down. Had Ka-Bars clenched between their teeth.”

“How could you see them if it was dark?”

“I was wearing my night vision goggles.”

“I saw those in Call of Duty. They’re cool as shit.”

“I know.”

The room was large, dimly lit, and had no decorations to speak of. It looked more like a rec center than it did a saloon. Unless there was a special event, the bar stayed sparsely populated and was usually patronized by men. One didn’t have to be a combat veteran to be an American Legion member. If a person served in the military, they were eligible. Sons, daughters, and spouses of vets were also welcome. Of those who had served in theaters of war, Middle East, Vietnam, and a few Korean veterans were the main customers. Once in a while a WWII man would shuffle in, often accompanied by a relative or a walker. If a woman entered, the drinkers were momentarily filled with hope, even if she was plain or unattractive. If the woman was under thirty, tongues scrolled out of the drinkers’ mouths like those of cartoon dogs.

Guys constantly went in and out the side door, which led to a fenced yard with a barbecue grill and patio. Out there they could smoke.

The beer was very cheap. People came here to drink at 1960s prices, but also to be among their own. The post was a place of comfort if you wanted to be around people who understood. Some, like Bobby Waldron, only felt right in this atmosphere. One young Texan, an Iraq veteran, showed up twice a month, driving all the way from Brownsville. He said this was his favorite post. Lucas came here occasionally, and to the VFW Post 350 at Orchard and Fourth in Takoma Park, to meet friends. Today he was waiting on Marquis.

Waldron was in Lucas’s ear about his girlfriend, who worked out at the Kohl’s off Route 29.

“Ashley’s her name,” said Waldron.

“Yeah?” said Lucas. He knew it would be Ashley or Britney. He sipped at his beer.

“Nuthin upstairs,” said Waldron, himself at the bottom of the bell curve. “But down below? God.”

Thankfully, Marquis Rollins soon arrived. As he came into the room, a sort of half-assed salute was issued by a couple of the guys at the bar. Rollins was tall and, if not exactly handsome, always well groomed. He was wearing a matching outfit, silk shirt and pants, earth-tone print, looked like expensive pajamas to Lucas, with New Balance running shoes. His left pants leg had little inside it. There was a plastic knee and a titanium shin pole, fitted to one of the sneakers, beneath the fabric. Marquis walked stiffly but more proficiently than many amputees. He said hello to Waldron and eased himself onto the stool on the other side of Lucas. Lucas noted, without saying so, that Marquis smelled nice.

“Gentlemen,” said Marquis.

“A beer for my friend,” said Waldron.

“Bud Light,” said Marquis to the tender. “Wanna maintain my good looks.”

“You do look tight,” said Lucas. “Where do you get an outfit like that?”

“Nowhere you shop.”

“Ali Baba wants to know who stole his shit.”

“Ho!”

“Gotta give you credit. I couldn’t get away with wearing a getup like that.”

“Who don’t know that? ”

The bartender served Marquis his beer. The three veterans tapped bottles.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Marquis. “Had to go out to Seven Locks and pick up my nephew. My sister’s son?”

“What he do now?”

“Possession with intent to distribute. His second arrest, so it might get serious. The boy stayed overnight ’cause I had to secure the bond. I’m hoping one night in that jail out there was enough to scare him. But who knows? Another baby gangster, thinks he knows somethin.”

“They all do.”

“And they all get caught. He had to pee in a cup every week since his last conviction. Told me he had that beat, too; something about a syringe of clean urine he taped under his nutsack. Like those parole people ain’t seen that trick. They nailed him for that and violated him, and then they gave him another chance. And now he blew that chance.”

“How’s your sister?”

“On her last nerve. I’m gonna stay on that boy now. Get him involved with my church.”

Marquis would get a substantial disability check from the government for the rest of his life. He also had a business, traveling up to car auctions in Pennsylvania and making luxury auto purchases for buyers back in the D.C. area. The savings for the customer were substantial, and Marquis took a flat thousand-dollar fee. He spent part of his free time with community outreach programs, working with fellow members of his congregation, and the rest trying to snake women. At thirty-two, he had the need.

“ I could do some stuff at your church,” said Waldron. He was tapping the base of his beer bottle on the bar. On his left forearm were a multitude of “dots,” shrapnel bits embedded under his skin. He had added many other dots in ink. Both his biceps were inked in tiger stripes.

“Like what?” said Marquis.

“Help out, somethin,” said Waldron.

“What about your job?”

“I can’t stand that security guard thing I got. First of all, there’s that stupid uniform. And they gave me a can to hang on my belt-can you believe it? The shit postmen spray at dogs.”

“We can’t pay,” said Marquis. “But we can always use help.”

Waldron nodded, a familiar look of disappointment on his face. He stared ahead, then threw his head back and killed his beer. He signaled the bartender and was served another. Then he patted his breast pocket, where a pack of Marlboro Reds showed through the fabric of his cheap white shirt.

“I’m gonna go have a smoke,” said Waldron.

He picked up his fresh beer off the bar. They watched him exit through the side door to the backyard.

“You hang with him much?” said Marquis.