George Pelecanos: The Cut

“Nah,” said Lucas. “Bobby’s got a girlfriend.”

“For real?”

“She’s got the fire down below.”

“Like in the song.”

“He’s there if I need something,” said Lucas.

“He still goin to those gun shows?”

“I believe he is. He makes a lot of interesting contacts.”

“You can buy damn near anything from those folks.”

“Seems that way.”

“Your man sure is all wound up,” said Marquis.

“He doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind. In the Korangal he got up every morning, took orders, and knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Here he’s got nothin to do. You know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

It was a common problem for many of the vets. Overseas, in the thick of it, they talked about going home. What they would do when they got back, the anticipation of their favorite Mom-cooked meal, the Chevy or Ford truck they were going to buy, how high they’d get, which girl they’d fuck first. Once home, some said that their time overseas was the most exhilarating and rewarding of their lives. It felt as if nothing would ever fill them up like that again. So they looked for it. Lucas and Marquis had been lucky to find something. Most did, eventually. The ones who couldn’t were in for some long hurt.

“You feeling all right?” said Lucas.

“Better than a year ago. Much better than in the beginning, when they had me in a harness and on a leash. It’s no house party, walking on a stilt.”

“Looks like you’re maintaining.”

“Praise God, I’m here.”

Marquis Rollins had taken a direct hit from an RPG. It had come right through a doorless, unarmed Humvee that Marquis was driving, ferrying wounded back from a hot spot of houses under heavy insurgent fire near the Jolan graveyard. He knew immediately that it was bad; he could feel the blood pooling beneath him, but he kept driving, weakening by the minute, never once looking down. He had a mission: to get the wounded back to safety. He felt the task would keep him alive. HQ kept him talking on the radio, kept him conscious until he brought the men in. Later, they told him that a piece of shrapnel the size of a cell phone had entered his thigh. The surgeons couldn’t stop the resultant infection. Two weeks later they took his leg off above the knee.

Marquis was from Suitland in PG County and had grown up fifteen miles from Lucas, but they met for the first time in the war, both serving in the 2/1, the Second Battalion of the First Marine Regiment assigned to Fallujah. Their shared geographic background had made them close fast.

“What about you?” said Marquis. “You maintaining?”

“I’m fine.”

“ ’Cause it’s hard to tell with you, man. The way you hold all your shit tight inside you.”

“What do you want me to do, speak on my feelings about the war?”

“You can, with me.”

“Ask me a question. Not any old question. The question.”

“Okay. You ever kill anyone over there?”

“I did, Marquis. I killed someone.”

“More than one, I remember correct.”

“Course, they were all trying to kill me.”

“Pretty simple,” said Marquis. “Now, when you get to the why of it, that’s somethin else. But it’s better if you stay with the basics: We fought to win and we fought for each other. That’s how we do.”

“Except they didn’t let us finish it. In Fallujah they sent us in, pulled us back out, and sent us in again. The brass and the politicians played games with marines. They were concerned with perception, all those images on TV broadcast around the world. They let Al fucking Jazeera influence their strategy.”

“That’s better,” said Marquis with a chuckle. “That’s my boy.”

“Fuck it,” said Lucas, letting himself wind down.

“Right,” said Marquis. “So I guess you are maintaining.”

Lucas had a swig of his beer. “I’m keeping busy.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Workin on a thing. I need any help, I’ll let you know.”

They drank slowly. Marquis nodded toward the side door. “Waldo been out there a long time.”

“Bobby’s gunnin those smokes in tandem.”

“He chews, too.”

“But not at the same time.”

“Yeah, that would be unseemly.”

Lucas finished his beer, left money on the bar, and slipped off his stool. “Tell him I said good-bye.”

“You gonna leave me here with him?”

“I’m meeting a lady friend,” said Lucas.

“That’s why you got that shirt on?”

“You like it?”

“Looks like a tablecloth to me.”

“It’s gingham.”

Marquis held out his hand. “Two-One, man.”

“Two-One.”

They bumped fists. Lucas left the bar.

Constance Kelly was waiting for him outside his house. She got out of her Honda, crossed Emerson, and walked toward his Jeep. Her hair was down and she walked with energy and looked first-snow clean. Lucas felt a little light-headed, looking at her. Goddamn, she was mint.

“Hi,” she said, settling into the passenger bucket.

“Hey,” said Lucas. He kissed her mouth. “Hungry?”

“You know it,” said Constance.

They drove down to the U Street corridor, where he found a spot on a residential street. Lucas took her into Busboys and Poets, the bookstore and cafe that was bustling with activity, all sorts of faces and types, the D.C. most folks had wanted for a long time. He bought her a couple of novels: Lean on Pete and The Death of Sweet Mister.

“Is there a reason you picked these out?” said Constance as they stood before the register.

“You mean, am I sending you a message.”

“Yeah, like when a guy makes a mix tape for a girl.”

“Good clean writing, is all. I thought you’d like them.”

He had a table reserved at Marvin on 14th, but they were early, so they went up the stairs to the rooftop bar. It was warm enough to be outside without the heat lamps on, and not yet summer. The space was crowded for a reason. It had a beach atmosphere and a city vibe. The people were attractive, and that night’s music, seventies soul and funk, was bottom heavy and tight. A snaky trombone solo had come forward, and everyone was moving their feet and hips. They couldn’t help themselves.

The bar specialized in Belgian ales. Lucas wedged out a spot for him and Constance, ordered her a blonde and a Stella for himself. He left a five on the bar and asked the tender who was on the stereo.

“Fred Wesley and the Horny Horns. ‘Four Play.’ ”

“Righteous,” said Lucas.

“You know those people had fun back then.”

Lucas flashed on images, photos he had seen of his father as a young man, smiling with his friends out in one of the Blackie Auger clubs, his hair longish and curly, stacks on his feet, baggies, an open rayon shirt, a crucifix and mati hung on a chain resting on his hairy chest.

“You here?” said Constance.

“Just thinking on someone,” said Lucas.

“Think of me.”

Lucas felt the vibration of his iPhone buzzing in the front pocket of his jeans. He retrieved it, looked at the screen. Tavon Lynch was calling in. Lucas answered.

“Hold up, Tavon,” said Lucas. To Constance he said, “I gotta take this, a work thing. I promise, just this one time tonight.”

“Go ahead.”

Lucas left the rooftop, walked passed the doorman, took the steps down to the main floor, and went out on 14th, where he stood on the sidewalk and resumed his conversation.

“What is it?” said Lucas.

“We lost another one,” said Tavon.

“Another one what? ”

“ ’Nother package. Off the porch of a home east of Capitol Hill. More like Lincoln Park.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re in Northeast right now.”