George Pelecanos - The Cut

“I can do that, too,” said White.

“Save it for Lucas,” said Ricardo. He picked up his tumbler and drained it. He limped to the bar cart and poured more scotch.

That’s right, thought Larry. Drink up.

“Let’s go,” said Ricardo, making eye contact with Mobley and White. “We need to go out to the bays and strategize. You, too, Larry. We’ll see your ass out.”

The four of them walked from the office, Ricardo mumbling, limping deep. Larry lagged behind. He was unsteady on his feet. He would be all right if he could just get outside. He wanted to run.

You’re too weak to try and stop it.

Larry felt his cell vibrate in his pocket, heard that little chime sound it made when a text message had come in. He drew the phone and read its screen. I’m here. Get him out.

“ Fuck me, man,” said Larry, staring at his phone. The others stopped and turned to look at him. “That’s my lieutenant. I need to call in.”

“You’re off duty,” said Ricardo.

“I’m never off duty,” said Larry.

“Call in, then,” said Ricardo.

“Not in front of y’all,” said Larry.

“I bet this motherfucker got to pee sittin’ down, too,” said White, and Ricardo laughed.

Larry looked at his father. He felt nothing, not even hate.

“Take your privacy,” said Mobley, pointing back at the office. “Go on.”

Larry’s long strides got him back to the office quickly, where he closed the door behind him. Now he was committed. He was sure.

He picked up the ring of keys off the desktop and dropped them into his pants pocket. He opened the desk drawer and rummaged through it. He found the piece of paper with Spero Lucas’s name and contact information written on it, along with all the names and numbers taken from Tavon and Edwin’s cell, and he folded the paper and slipped it into his back pocket. He flipped the dead bolt on the door that led to the back room, opened the door, and stepped inside. He shut the door softly.

“Ernest,” said Larry.

Ernest Lindsay got up out of his chair as if sprung. “ You. You’re-”

“I know who I am,” said Larry. “I’m about to get you out of here. C’mon, boy, move.”

Larry went to the rear door, read what was etched on its lock, and searched on the ring for the Schlage key that would match it. There were two possibilities and the second key fit. Larry turned it and opened the door. Ernest was right beside him.

“Listen up,” said Larry. “Get yourself to the wall of the tracks and follow it to the street. You’ll see a black Escalade parked about a hundred yards away. It’s open. Get in the backseat and lie down on it. I’ll be out there in a hot minute.”

“Why don’t you come with me?”

Larry put his hands on Ernest’s shoulders and gave him a little push. “Go.”

He watched as Ernest took tentative steps, then quickened his pace as he walked into a stand of weed trees that led to the wall. Ernest was swallowed by the darkness. Larry thought for a moment, then closed the door and locked it. He slipped the keys into his pocket.

He went back to the main office, opened the door leading to the bay area, and shut it behind him. He stepped quickly across the bay floor, passing under the buzzing, flashing fluorescent light that no one had ever thought to change, moving through the narrow space between the Expedition and the Mark, his eyes on the front door of the building, where the others were now grouped.

“Where you goin so quick?” said Mobley in that rasp of his, and Larry said, “Something came up; I gotta go back in,” and he kept on walking without breaking stride or looking at the man who was his father by blood only. Larry opened the door himself and heard it shut behind him.

He breathed fresh air as he moved across the lot. On the street he broke into a run and reached the Escalade. He got behind the wheel and looked over his shoulder. Ernest was lying down across the backseat.

“Stay like that,” said Larry.

He retrieved his cell and put it on the console, found his ignition key and fitted it, and fired up the SUV. He pulled away and when he got to the top of the cross street he braked and picked up his cell. He looked in his rearview mirror and waited. Soon he saw a man in dark clothing cross the street on foot, then pass through the open gate of the Mobley Detailing lot. Half a minute later, the text chime sounded from his cell. Larry looked at the screen. Make the call.

Larry dialed Beano Mobley’s number.

“Mobley speaking.”

“It’s Larry. I’m comin back in.”

“What the fuck…”

“I left my car keys back in the office. C’mon, Beano, open that door up, man.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Larry ended the call and tossed the phone onto the seat beside him. He gave the Escalade gas, turned right, and gunned it toward 46th Street. He could smell his perspiration. His shirt was damp and it clung to his back.

“You can get up,” said Larry.

Ernest got himself to a sitting position and wiped sweat off his face. He took deep breaths and let them out slowly. Larry looked in the mirror. Their eyes met.

“ Thank you,” said Ernest.

“This didn’t happen,” said Larry. “None of it. Anybody asks you where you been, your mother, your teachers, your friends… tell ’em you been shacked up with some girl. I reckon you’re gonna see something on the TV news tomorrow, or read about it in the paper. You’re not to speak on this, any of this, again. You understand me, young man?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Relax,” said Larry. “I’m taking you home.”

Lucas had parked the Jeep one street west of Mobley Detailing. Standing behind it, its tailgate up, he slipped on his pistol vest and belt, the holstered Beretta on his right hip, the clip-on holding the . 38 on his left. He took a short drink of water from a bottle, dropped the bottle on the cargo deck, and closed the tailgate.

He hugged the wall of the elevated tracks until he came to the adjacent street. He crossed the street, keeping low.

He swiveled his head and saw the Escalade idling up at the cross. He went through the open gate of the detailing lot. There was a light over the front door, but its wattage was weak and it did not illuminate the entire lot. He crouched against the fence in shadow and pulled his cell from one of his vest pouches. He hoped Larry Holley had the kid. If Holley had lost his nerve… But it didn’t matter now. He looked at the phone’s keyboard and he punched in the words Make the call and he hit “send.”

Lucas slipped the cell back into its pouch and velcroed it shut. He drew the. 38 from its holster and the M-9 off his right hip and thumbed off its safety. He walked forward, snicking back the hammer on the. 38 and locking it into place.

His heart rate was up and he could feel its hammer. In Fallujah his platoon had fought in two-man teams. He had paired up with Marquis Rollins, and after Marquis was injured it had been Jamie Burdette until Jamie’s death. Going into houses together near the Jolan graveyard, facing the unknown, jacked up on energy, ambition, and confidence, because your partner was with you and he had your back.

But now Lucas was alone and at the door.

The door opened a crack, and he felt a violent surge inside his chest. He kicked the door open, moved through it, and looked left. A short man in a white shirt was falling from the force of the contact. Lucas fired the. 38 three times rapidly into his torso just as he hit the floor, and his shirt tore apart and bloomed deep red.

He saw movement in his peripheral vision on his right, heard a gunshot, and felt the air move past his head. He dropped. In the prone position, one arm extended, he saw a big man in a cutoff T-shirt backing up between two vehicles, holding a gun, pointing it at him and firing, and he saw the muzzle flash and the floor before him spark, and Lucas rolled and got to his feet. He took cover behind the tail of the Expedition. He looked through its windows and saw the big man moving along its side, and he stepped back and straightened the arm holding the Beretta and he fired off two rounds into glass and the glass shattered, and in the rain of it he saw the man crouch down.