Джордж Пелеканос: The Double

“I make do,” said Spero.

“Because of the mess in Vietnam, our generation distrusted the military. In the seventies, to go into the service was just about the most uncool thing a young guy could do. Your dad never even considered it. And then, when you enlisted...”

“What?”

“He was proud of you, of course. Among other things, Nine-Eleven made many people look at military service in a positive way again. He understood why you felt you had to go and do your part. But he was still angry that we’d gone to war. He didn’t support the decision. He wasn’t fond of politicians who send young men and women to fight and die for an ideological experiment.”

“I fought for my brothers.”

“Even so. Your dad wondered how a man like you could be trained and ordered to kill, and then be expected to simply turn that switch off when you came home. He said it was like telling a lion to become a vegetarian.”

“Most of the guys I served with manage to deal with it.”

“How about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“Is this about college again? ’Cause I’m still not going.”

His mother’s gaze was unyielding, but there was a hint of a smile on her face. “You always were stubborn.”

“Family trait.”

“Change the subject?”

“Please.”

“How’d you like the fayito tonight?”

“The food was great, Ma. Thank you.”

“How ’bout a little ice cream or something, for dessert?”

“I’ve got a big day tomorrow,” said Spero. “I better go.”

Eleni’s eyes softened. “Se agapo, agori mou.”

“I love you, too.”

At his apartment, late that night, Lucas phoned Billy King.

“Yeah.”

“It’s Spero Lucas.”

“Lucas.”

“Are you still at the house in Croom?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“And tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here all day.”

“I was thinking I’d stop by tomorrow night.”

“You’re coming with what we discussed?”

“I’m gonna bring it,” said Lucas.

“Now you’re talking,” said King.

“Say, just after sundown.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Lucas ended the call and set his phone alarm. He stripped to his briefs and got into bed. Staring at the ceiling, he thought of the coming day.

You hit us, we hit you.

Since he’d been staying out in the Croom house, Billy King had gotten into a morning routine. He’d wake up early, down a cup of coffee in the kitchen, drive to a diner on 301, and load up with a full-on breakfast. After, he’d head over to the boat launch at Jug Bay, bullshit with the fishermen, talk bait, hulls, and engines. There wasn’t much marina action to speak of down there, which meant few loose women, but the Patuxent River area would have to do for sport until he could get himself to a livelier place. Deep water, powerboats, trim, and drink. It was what he was made for.

King had never owned a boat, but he had ambition. As of yet, he hadn’t amassed the kind of cash a man needed to afford even a used runabout, let alone a Parker or Shamrock. The maintenance, the slip fees, winter storage, hell, the cost of gas alone... You had to have bank, or be born with it.

The eighty thousand that Lucas was going to deliver would get King closer to his goal. He’d never had that kind of money, all at once, in his life. Now he was about to score.

He’d grown up with only the bare essentials. Food on the table, little more. His old man was career military. Glenn King turned a wrench for the air force, and in Billy’s early years, the family moved quite a bit. It was a stretch to call it a family; there was little warmth in the dynamic, and Billy was an only child. His mother was a plain, quiet woman, submissive, obedient to the father, fearful of him when he drank. The father was a beer man who went for quantity, cans, and price over taste. Rheingold, Hamm’s, or Schlitz, depending on where they lived. At the end of the night, the father would sometimes go into his bedroom and wake up the mother, and Billy would hear the creak of the bedsprings and the father’s grunts. But never a sound from his mom.

The father didn’t praise him or notice him much at all. Glenn was a big man, so Billy, who already had some bulk on him by the time he was thirteen, vowed to get bigger and started throwing weights as soon as he could get into a gym. By the time they moved to Florida, where Glenn was stationed at Eglin AFB, on the Emerald Coast, Billy had grown huge and was recruited to play high school football. In the off-season he wrestled as a heavyweight, and because of his strength and athleticism, he dominated the mats. But football was his sport. Being an accomplished football player meant something in Florida; he was known. He partied with kids who had money, sometimes on big, beautiful powerboats docked at exclusive marinas in the Gulf. The rich kids told him, in subtle ways, that he wasn’t one of them, which only made him more determined to gain entrance to their club. In the locker room, the other guys joked with him about his big pipe, and the word got out, which made him very popular with the girls. Billy banged them in cars, under the mangroves, on the beach at night, and in bathrooms at parties. He got a rep as a guy who could last. He liked to hear the noises the girls made when he was fucking them, and chuckled low when their faces changed as they were about to come. He laughed out loud when they begged and said please. He took little pleasure in the act himself. He’d never loved any of them, or even liked them. Females were whores to him, nothing more than holes.

The important thing was, he’d outmanned his father. He knew how to cause a girl to make those sounds. He was bigger than his old man, and stronger. He drank bottled Heineken, not piss water in cans. He had a future. He’d never wear a military uniform or have a boss. Billy was going to own a boat.

But he didn’t get to tell the old man any of this or shove it in his face. Glenn King died of a massive heart attack on base one day while Billy was at school.

The way it turned out, high school was the highlight of Billy’s life. A torn ACL ended his football career. His grades were shit, so college was out of the question. He was slick but not smart. All he had left was his good looks and size. That got him out of town, and a long way further, for a while.

Now he was an aging stud nearing his expiration date. He knew this. The sun had wrinkled him prematurely, and though he was as muscled up as ever, he was carrying too much weight. Time seemed to be moving fast. There’d come a day, not too far off, when women would stop wanting Billy King.

But he had a plan. Secure the money from Lucas, take care of him, and get out of this house. Head back down toward Cobb Island and shack up with Lois. Use her till she was dry, pinch her for her jewelry, and get gone. Move to the South, where life had been good for him. He’d heard the Flora-Bama coast was real nice. Settle somewhere down there, maybe even get a job. Buy himself a boat.

King went to his bedroom dresser and opened its top drawer. There he kept his cash and a shoe box that had once held his first pair of Chuck Taylors. In it were the things that meant the most to him since his childhood. A baseball signed by an Atlanta Brave, a buffalo nickel coin collection, a pen with multicolored ink that he’d saved up for as a kid, and a cardboard crown. The crown had been made just for him and put on his head at a homecoming dance, when they’d named him Senior of the Year. In sloppy, glittered letters, someone had written “King Billy” on the front of it. King looked at the crown and issued a small smile. This faded as a familiar feeling dropped through him like a black curtain, an emptiness that could never be filled.