George Pelecanos: The Cut

Lucas got out of his Jeep and moved toward her. She was turning the door key on her Mercury when she noticed his approach. She stood straight and faced him.

“Cecelia Edwards?” said Lucas.

“You are?” she said, confident and not entirely unfriendly.

“Spero Lucas. I’m an investigator. We’ve met before.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for a little bit of information,” said Lucas, extending his hand for a shake.

Cecelia Edwards took his hand. Her eyes briefly examined the folding money that she now held. There were three hundred-dollar bills there, and she slipped them into her pocket.

“I was hoping we could be friends,” said Lucas.

“Sugar,” she said, “we are now.”

The next day, he returned to the D.C. Jail.

After going through security, where he showed his ID, signed in, and was wanded, he went to the visiting room and had a seat in a hard plastic chair set before a heavily smudged window. Soon Anwan Hawkins appeared in an orange jumpsuit and took his place on the other side of the glass. His hair was down and his braids touched his broad shoulders. He snatched the phone out of its cradle, and Lucas took his receiver out of a similarly mounted cradle and put it to his ear.

“Spero Lucas,” said Hawkins, his voice husky and riddled with static. “Mr. Petersen said you’d be stopping by. I never did get a chance to thank you for visiting my wife. You do good work.”

“You didn’t really need me, though, did you? You would have gotten your money regardless.”

“Huh?”

“I know, Anwan.”

Hawkins nodded. A glint of gold showed in his wry smile. “You wired up?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t be. That’s not your style. But then again, you can’t rightly go to the police.”

“No.”

“On account of you’re a murderer. I’m not just talkin about that little white dude, either. I get word in here. Holley, Mobley, and White. That was you, wasn’t it? Had to be.”

“Your business associates,” said Lucas. “Ricardo told me, in so many words. That I was giving the money back to the same people I stole it from. Meaning you.”

Anwan stared at him dead-eyed.

“But you hired me,” said Lucas. “Why?”

Anwan said nothing.

“You know I can’t hurt you,” said Lucas. “I can’t speak to anyone on this.”

“But you’re the curious type,” said Hawkins. “Relentless, too. Once I let you loose, I didn’t know how to rein you back in. I tried to warn you off of it. I did try.” Anwan shook braids away from his face. “When I hired you, I had the need for your services. But you took a week to get started.”

“I had to complete a job for Petersen.”

“That was crucial.”

“It was the week that Ricardo Holley visited you here in jail. Twice. It’s in the logbook, Anwan. You have to show your photo ID and sign your name to get in. It’s damn near impossible to falsify that.”

“You got a DOC in your pocket, too,” said Hawkins, with something close to admiration.

“I’m guessing that Ricardo told you that he and his crew were shaking down Tavon and Edwin.”

“Yeah. And they were paying those boys fifty percent of the package.”

“Ricardo came to you because the deal with them was finite,” said Lucas. “Tavon and Edwin told me themselves that they didn’t know the identity of your connect. Only you did. So if the financial relationship was to continue, Ricardo needed you. He didn’t need those boys anymore.”

“Eliminate the middleman.”

“You ordered them killed.”

“Had Tavon and Edwin come to me right away, told me that they were being stepped on by those men, it wouldn’t have happened. But they decided to keep the full fifty. I regret it, but it had to be done.”

“You said you weren’t about that.”

Anwan shrugged. “They stole from me. I can’t have that perception gettin out there on the street telegraph. The idea that I’m weak. I didn’t get up here where I am by being soft.”

“Up where?” said Lucas. “You’re in prison.”

“Today I am.”

“You’re looking at long time.”

“I got the best lawyer in town. I’m gonna walk. Bet it.” Hawkins studied Lucas’s narrowed eyes. “Don’t be angry, Spero. I got paid and so did you.”

“I fucked up,” said Lucas, more to himself than to Hawkins.

“You’re a bull, son,” said Hawkins. “It’s your nature. You walk into a room and you just break shit. But don’t be getting on your high horse with regards to Anwan Hawkins. You can’t fix it. And you can’t do a motherfuckin thing about me.” Hawkins leaned forward. “You got your cut. There ain’t nothin more to say.”

Lucas quietly hung the phone in its cradle. He stood and walked from the room.

Lucas spent the next few days quietly, going out occasionally, wary when he came back to his apartment, expecting the law to be there, waiting for his return. But it did not happen.

He passed an evening with Miss Lee, playing Scrabble in her first-floor living room, and on Sunday he went to church and said his customary prayer of thanks, and something extra. Afterward he went to Glenwood and lay roses on his father’s grave.

On Monday he visited Ernest Lindsay at his house to make sure that he was settled and okay. They talked about the books Lucas had given him and the movies described within their pages, but they did not discuss the events that had led to Ernest’s capture and rescue in Edmonston. The mother’s boyfriend was there and the atmosphere was tense. Ernest seemed relatively fine, with the resilience of youth on his side, and Lucas promised himself as he left the house that he would stay in touch with him.

Outside he saw Lisa Weitzman sitting on her porch. He visited with her, intending to stay for a minute or so, and right away he remembered the fun they’d had and their easy conversation, and he asked her if she was free for dinner. The two of them had drinks in the downstairs bar of Cafe Saint-Ex, on 14th, then drove north and dined at Sergio’s, in his old neighborhood, in a hotel on Colesville Road, where the veal scaloppine’s tomato-based sauce was exquisite, and afterward they went to back to his apartment and made love as reggae music played through candlelight, and he was reminded of how good it was to be young and alive.

The next morning, he phoned Tom Petersen and asked him if he could come in.

“You’ve come far, pilgrim,” said Petersen.

“You sound like my brother,” said Lucas.

“You do have a bit of a beard going there.”

“I shaved a few hours ago. It’s my two o’clock shadow.”

“The testosterone levels are off the charts at your age. I’m sure it speaks volumes to the ladies.”

Lucas, in Carhartt, was seated before Tom Petersen’s desk. Petersen, big, shaggy, and blond, wore a wide-striped shirt, open collar, jeans with a thick brown belt, and side-zip boots. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a shop on Carnaby Street.

“What can I do for you, Spero?”

“Just wanted you to know I’m back in circulation and available.”

“You’re done with side work?”

“For now.”

“Excellent. I can use you.”

Lucas nodded, said nothing.

“Is there anything else?” said Petersen.

Lucas leaned forward. “Can I ask you something?”

“Ask.”

“Hypothetically…”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re defending a drug dealer. Jury trial. You know he did it, and the law and prosecution have all their bases covered. What’s your strategy?”

“In general?” Petersen tented his hands on his desk. “If it’s a black defendant, if he grew up disadvantaged, if he’s a nonviolent offender, and if I get the right jury? I argue, artfully I might add, against putting another young black man in prison for political reasons related to a costly and ineffective drug war. I talk about the disparity in sentencing along racial lines, if I can get away with it. I only need one juror who’s willing to acquit, and in D.C. that’s not too difficult. It’s your basic nullification argument.”