Джордж Пелеканос: The Double

“But why are you dressed like him? Do you subscribe to Teen Beat, too?”

“I’m partial to Tiger Beat. ”

“Why that record?”

“Just having fun. It’s a very cool cover, and an underrated album, especially the UK version. ‘Backstreet Girl’ is one of the most beautiful songs the lads ever cut. The Beatles never recorded a song so honest or so real.”

Lucas had no skin in the Beatles versus Stones game, and offered no argument. In musical matters, particularly classic rock, he deferred to Petersen, who played no instrument but was a bona fide music freak. A few months back he had taken his annual trip to Jazz Fest, where he typically took in both weekends of the event and crawled back with sunburn, a headache, and ten extra pounds.

“Well, you look real spiffy,” said Lucas. “Like a hairstylist on Carnaby Street. Or something.”

“And you? Where did you buy that T-shirt? It’s not Fruit of the Loom.”

“American Apparel.”

“And I’m guessing it’s a medium, not a large. You’re wearing it a size too small.”

“For the fit. Your point?”

“Your look is just as studied as mine, in its own way.”

“Don’t include me in your club. I woke up this morning and threw this on.”

At an inch under six feet, Lucas was not particularly tall, and at 175, his summer weight, he was not imposing. Nor was he a strutting peacock. His hair was black, kept short by a Nigerian barber at Afrikutz on Georgia Avenue, and he wore no jewelry, outside of his crucifix and mati. He was not stunningly handsome, certainly not in the manner of his brother Leo, who was one year older and looked like a young Denzel. But he had something. When he walked down the street or into a bar, women noticed him. Some of them got damp. He had recently turned thirty-one, and he was as lean, cut, and fit as the day he walked out of boot.

“Which reminds me,” said Petersen. “While I’m out getting you lunch, no fraternizing with my interns.”

“Right.”

“Have you seen Constance lately?”

“No,” said Lucas.

“I had planned on promoting her here.”

“Guess she had other plans.”

“Whatever happened between the two of you, she didn’t want to cross paths with you anymore. That’s why she left this office. When you have an opportunity to be with a quality young lady like Constance... A woman as choice as her doesn’t fall into your hands every day, Spero.”

“We had fun,” said Lucas. “I liked Constance.”

He knew that she was special. But he had been to bed with another woman while he’d been with her. He hadn’t promised Constance, directly or implicitly, that he would be faithful. He was a young man, making up for lost time. He was sorry that it hadn’t worked out between them, but he had little remorse.

Petersen looked at Lucas, a marine veteran of Iraq who had fought in Fallujah, where the fiercest house-to-house combat of the war, perhaps any war, had occurred. A man who’d left his youth in the Middle East and come back looking for a replication of what he had experienced there every day: a sense of purpose and heightened sensation. Petersen sensed that there were night-black shadows beneath the surface of his investigator’s cool facade. He was fond of Lucas, at times close to fatherly, but in personal matters, out of respect, Petersen didn’t push him.

“On the Bates thing?” said Petersen. “Get me something.”

Lucas said, “I will.”

That evening, Lucas smoked a little weed, then grabbed his newest road bike, put it up on his shoulder, and walked it down the stairs of his crib. Summer nights were his favorite time to ride.

Lucas rented the top floor of a house on Emerson and Piney Branch Road, in Northwest, a four-square backed to a bucolic stretch of alley in 16th Street Heights. His landlord, an elderly fourth-generation Washingtonian named Miss Lee, lived on the first floor. His rent was reasonable and there was ample space for his bikes and kayak, which he hung from hooks on the back porch. When Miss Lee asked, he performed routine maintenance on the house and sometimes he did so unprompted. The setup, a country spot in the city, was perfect for him, though he suspected that his peace would soon be disrupted. A huge Mormon church had been erected across the alley in the past year and was due to open its doors. For now, though, all was quiet.

He had recently bought a used Greg LeMond bike from a friend who was about to leave the country for redeployment to Afghanistan. It was a righteous machine, but he didn’t care for its rainbow of colors, and he wasn’t into labels. Immediately he degreased, sanded, primed, and painted the tubes and forks a flat black. He kept the red wheels because he found them hot. It was a fast bike, significantly quicker than the one he had been riding for years.

Lucas swung onto his saddle, put his feet in the clips, and took 14th all the way downtown, then cut over into Northeast via K Street, and over to the 400 block of H, where he locked his bike to a post and entered Boundary Road, a restaurant on the edge of the thriving Atlas District. Unlike the riot corridors of U and 7th Streets, which had benefited more quickly from the construction of the Metro and its subway stations, H Street had taken forty years to be reborn after the ’68 fires. Lit-up business establishments and the sounds of conversation and laughter on the street said that it was flourishing now.

Boundary Road was an airy two-story space: brick walls, a distinctive chandelier, low-key atmosphere. Lucas had a seat at the bar. The night manager, Dan, frequently played reggae and dub through the house system, an added attraction for Lucas. Plus, he could come as he was — tonight, black mountain-bike shorts and a plain white T-shirt — and not feel out of place. He ordered a Stella from the bartender, a friend named Amanda Brand, who had called and asked to see him. He had silent-bounced for Amanda in other establishments, so they had a history. She also knew of his side work and what he could do.

“You eating tonight, Spero?” said Amanda as she served him his beer.

“I’ll have that flank steak, medium rare.”

“We’ll talk in a little bit, okay? I’m half in the weeds.”

“I’m in no hurry,” he said.

He listened to the Linton Kwesi Johnson coming through the system and drank from the neck of his cold beer. At the end of the full bar he noticed a nice-looking woman sitting alone. Their eyes met and hers did not cut away. It was he who blinked and lowered his gaze. He was typically a man of confidence, but her bold nature disturbed him. The next time he looked back at her she was getting up off her stool. He watched her walk toward him, heading for the restroom. She wore black jeans, a black tank top, and brown motorcycle boots with a T-strap and buckle. Her chestnut hair was shoulder length with cognac highlights. She had a strong, prominent nose and as she passed he saw her bright blue eyes, brilliant even in the low light of the room. She was tall, curvy, and full-breasted, built like a sixties movie star imported from Sweden or Italy. As she passed he studied her shoulders, her arms, and her back, and Lucas’s mouth went dry. He had a long pull off his beer.

Amanda returned with his meal. The bar crowd had thinned out somewhat.

“Eat,” she said, nodding at his steak.

Lucas dug in and had his first taste. He swallowed and said, “What’s up?”

“I have a friend, a woman named Grace. She’s had a little trouble lately. I think you might be able to help her.”

“What kind of trouble, exactly?”

“Man trouble. Not unusual for her, actually. Grace seems to attract a certain kind of guy. She’s divorced, with a long line of cumsack boyfriends. They don’t stick around long.”