Джордж Пелеканос - The Man Who Came Uptown

Antonius and DeAndre got into an old Toyota Corolla, owned by DeAndre’s cousin Rhonda, and sped north on Georgia Avenue. Traffic cameras recorded the Corolla’s vanity plates, which read ALIZE, the brand name of a cognac-based liqueur popular in certain quadrants of the city. Later, at the Fourth District police station, officers of various races and ethnicities watched the traffic-camera footage repeatedly, laughing their asses off at the idiots who had driven a vanity-plated car to an armed robbery, laughing even harder at the word Alize . By then all the suspects had been apprehended and arrested. DeAndre Watkins quickly flipped on his friends in exchange for reduced charges. He was currently on the fourth floor of the Correctional Treatment Facility, the hot block most commonly referred to by inmates as “the snitch hive.”

“How’s Sherry doing?” said Ornazian.

“She’s a little agitated at me right now,” said Antonius. “See, I was using the phone here in the jail, called this other girl I know. I needed someone new, Phil. I been with Sherry a long time, and I can’t get sprung by the same-old. You know how that is.”

“So, you had phone sex with this girl who wasn’t your girlfriend.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I told you before, the jailhouse phones are bugged.”

“Yeah, well, you were right. The Feds recorded my conversation with this girl, then played the tape back for Sherry to make her angry. They trying to get her to testify against me, say I was in on the robbery.”

“And?”

“Sherry was madder than a mad dog,” said Antonius. “But, see, that’s my girl right there. She’ll stand tall.”

Antonius was a man with needs, maybe more than most. He was good-looking and charismatic, which hurt him more than helped him. He was currently housed in the solitary-confinement unit known as South 1. He was being punished for having sexual relations with a female guard. Inmates claimed there were only two spots in the D.C. Jail that were safe for sex or shankings, out of view of cameras. Antonius thought he had found one of the spots. He had been mistaken.

Ornazian fired up his laptop, set it on the table between them, found what he was looking for on YouTube, clicked on it, and turned the laptop around so that Antonius could see the screen. A video commenced to play. It featured Antonius, DeAndre, and several of their friends smoking blunts, boxing clumsily with their shirts off, and brandishing bottles of champagne and cognac as well as various firearms, including an AK-47. All of it set to a third-rate rap tune that they had freestyled themselves. Antonius couldn’t help but smile a little. He was feeling nostalgic for the camaraderie of his friends and a time when he was free.

“The prosecutors are going to play this for the jury,” said Ornazian.

“What’s that got to do with the robbery?”

“Nothing.”

“They just trying to assassinate my character.”

“Correct.”

Antonius shook his head ruefully. “Everybody be steppin on my dick.”

Antonius’s prospects were not good. He’d been in the jail awaiting trial for the past twenty-three months. The evidence against him was overwhelming. He was looking at twelve years in a federal joint. Lorton, the local prison over the river, had closed long ago, so he was going somewhere far away.

“How are you handling the hole?” said Ornazian.

“I don’t mind it,” said Antonius. “I got my own cell. Nobody bothers me down there. No situations, nothing like that.”

“You getting out soon?”

“They supposed to move me back to Gen Pop any day.”

“Let me ask you something. You ever come across a guy named Michael Hudson up on that unit?”

Antonius thought it over. “I know a dude goes by Hudson. Not really to speak to outside of a nod. Quiet, tall dude, keeps his hair close. Medium skin.”

“Is he clean-shaven?” said Ornazian, road-testing Antonius’s information.

“Nah, he wears a beard. Gets it full too. Heard he’s in on a rip-and-run charge. He’s waiting to go to trial.”

“That’s the guy,” said Ornazian. “Could you pass on a message to him when you get out of solitary?”

“Sure,” said Antonius. “What you want me to tell him?”

“Just tell him Phil Ornazian said, ‘Everything is going to be fine.’”

“I got you.”

“Thanks, Antonius. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you.”

“Wasn’t your fault. You tried.”

Ornazian reached across the table. He and Antonius bumped fists.

Men in orange jumpsuits stood in an orderly line, waiting patiently to talk to a woman who was seated at a desk bolted to the jailhouse floor. On the desk was a paper circulation log, a stack of DCPL book receipts, and a pen. Beside the desk was a rolling cart with shelves holding books. The cell doors of the General Population unit had been opened remotely by a guard in a glassed-in station that was known as “the fishbowl.” Two other guards were stationed in the unit, observing the proceedings, bored and disengaged. There was no need for them to be on high alert. When the book lady was on the block, the atmosphere was calm.

The woman at the desk was the mobile librarian of the D.C. Jail. The men addressed her as Anna, or Miss Anna if they were raised a certain way. On the job she wore no makeup and dressed in utilitarian and nonprovocative clothing. Her skin was olive, her hair black, her eyes a light shade of green. She had recently turned thirty, was a swimmer and biker, and kept herself fit. In the facility, she used her maiden name, Kaplan. On the street, and on her driver’s license, she went with her husband’s surname, which was Byrne.

“How you doin today, Anna?” said Donnell, a rangy young guy with sleepy eyes.

“I’m good, Donnell. How are you?”

“Maintaining. You got that chapter-book I asked for?”

From the cart beside her, Anna found the novel Donnell had requested and put it in his hand. She entered his name, the title of the book, his inmate identification number, cell, and return date in the log.

“Can’t nobody mess with Dave Robicheaux,” said Donnell.

“I hear he’s pretty indestructible,” said Anna.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You got any books that, you know, explain women?”

“What do you mean, explain them?”

“I got this one girlfriend, man, I don’t know . Like, I can’t figure out what she thinking from day to day. Women can be, you know, mysterious. Sayin, is there a book you could recommend?”

“Like a manual?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you should read a novel written by a woman. That might give you an idea of the kinds of things that go on in a woman’s head.”

“You got any recommendations?”

“Let me think on it. In the meantime, that Robicheaux is due in a week, when I come back.”

“What if I don’t finish it by then?”

“You can renew it for one more week.”

“Okay, then. Cool.”

Donnell walked away. The next inmate stepped up to the table.

“Lorton Legends,” said the man, asking for a novel that was often requested but unavailable inside the walls. The book was set in the old prison and on D.C.’s streets. “You got that?”

“We don’t,” said Anna. “Didn’t you ask for this same book last week?”

“Thought y’all might’ve got it in since then.”

By policy, sexually explicit books and books that promoted violence were not available in the jail library. Some urban fiction made the cut, some did not. Certain heavily requested books that espoused outlandish conspiracy theories, like Behold a Pale Horse and The Forty-Eight Laws of Power, were also prohibited. The sexuality and violence standards set by the D.C. Public Library for the detention facility were murky and often went unenforced. Some serial-killer novels and soft-core potboilers made it through the gates. Anna had once seen a group of inmates in the dayroom watching a DVD of The Purge .