Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

Across the street, past immobile construction equipment, near the bank on the 11th Street corner of U, flags and balloons announced the grand opening of a new store named Real Right Records. Below the identifying sign, in smaller letters: “African American Owned and Operated,” and “Your In-Town Music Connection.”

Tutt said, “You believe some fool, opening up a business down here? You got your criminal element and, on top of it, all this construction. How stupid could the man be?”

“Man’s name is Marcus Clay.”

“You know him?”

“Heard of him. Played ball for Cardoza back in the sixties. I saw him go off in this Interhigh match when I was, like, twelve years old. Got a few years on me, but they still talked about him a little when I was comin’ up. They say he could sky like Connie from the key.”

“Connie?”

“Hawkins. Clay’s got another store over at Dupont Circle, and in Georgetown. Got one in Northern Virginia, too, I think. Tryin’ to bring somethin’ into the community here, I guess.”

“Yeah, I see what he’s tryin’ to do. Question is, what the fuck for?”

Tutt turned south on 11th. They passed a black Z parked on the left. Tutt slowed down, checked out the driver and passenger, cruised past and went along the strip of two-story residential row houses.

“Rogers and Monroe,” said Tutt, and Murphy said nothing.

Down by T Street, Tutt pulled the cruiser over to the curb and cut the engine. Tutt liked to park here and watch the neighborhood. This was his quiet time, an opportunity to engage in what he called his “street surveillance.” Tutt still imagined himself to be a good cop. Murphy had no such illusions but was grateful for these rare moments of silence.

Murphy wished he were home, kicking back on his sofa, watching the game. The first two rounds of the tournament were the best, maybe the four best days in all of sports. Maryland would be finishing up with Pepperdine now, and it gnawed at him that he had no idea how Len Bias and the Terps had done. Like most D.C. natives, Murphy was a Georgetown fan, had managed to see the Hoyas edge Texas Tech the night before. Georgetown still had some good players — Williams and Jackson and Broadnax, too — but it hadn’t been the same since Patrick had shipped off to New York. Murphy’s heart had gone on over to Maryland this year because of Bias alone; there was beauty in the way that young man played.

“Check it out,” said Tutt.

Murphy scoped T. His eyes lit on a boy, eleven, maybe twelve, wearing a neon green knit cap and palming something over to another boy, bone skinny, at the head of an alley.

“You recognize them?”

Murphy shook his head. Far as he knew, they weren’t part of Tyrell’s crew.

“Stay here,” said Tutt, patting the grip of his service revolver.

“Want me to radio it in?”

“Uh-uh. I got it wired.”

Tutt was out of the car and across the street just as fast, one hand on his night stick, keeping it steady at his side as he made it behind a tree and then another, getting closer to the alley. Murphy studied Tutt: careful, but fearless as a mothafucker, too, the kind of partner most cops wanted. That is, if you could get past everything else.

Murphy heard a dull explosion somewhere behind him. He gazed idly in the rearview, saw nothing.

Tutt came up on the two boys, shouted out his warning, took off after the one in the green cap as the other hightailed it west on T. Tutt hit it: chest out, running hard while carrying twenty-five pounds of pack set and gun and assorted cop hardware, blowing and going, almost on top of the kid. Then he was gone into the narrow alley. Murphy did not consider chasing the skinny kid.

In the rearview, Murphy saw smoke rise over a row house roof, back off of U. Several sirens called out from different directions. Murphy adjusted the radio’s frequency and listened for the report. He keyed the microphone and informed the dispatcher that they’d respond.

Tutt emerged from the alley a couple of minutes later, John Wayning it across the street. He got into the driver’s side, his face pink, his eyes stoked and wide. Murphy noticed the red seeping into the skinned palm of Tutt’s right hand.

“Who was he?” said Murphy.

“Nobody we know. Some kid, young kid, way out of his territory. I was almost on him, but Tyrell’s boys got these old tires and shit spread out all over the alley. Slowed me down.”

“That’s what they’re there for.”

“I know. You should have seen the look on his face when I told him to stop, Murph... Ah, Christ. Stupid. I tripped back there, took some skin off on the concrete.” Tutt shook the pain out of his hand. “What’s all the noise?”

“Just came over the radio. Some kind of accident in front of that new record store. Got a car in flames right in the middle of U. Told them we’d get on it.”

“The Third District,” said Tutt happily, ignitioning the squad car. “ Always somethin’ goin’ on down here.”

“Why you love it, man.”

“You got that right, partner.”

Tutt spun the wheel, one-eightied the cruiser, and punched the gas coming out of the fishtail. Murphy flipped on the overheads and grabbed the door’s armrest. Tutt high-cackled as the cruiser left rubber on the street.

Donna Morgan didn’t get downtown much anymore. Her job was in Wheaton and so were the bars where she hung out with many of her friends. But she liked being downtown. In the District the young people talked about music and ideas and took chances on what they wore and how they cut their hair. Donna could remember wanting to live downtown, be a part of it herself. But she was cruising up on thirty now, and figured that her time had passed.

These days Donna Morgan only came downtown every other month or so to go to a club or see a concert. When her regular dealer ran dry, she also came downtown to cop a little blow.

Eddie Golden, Donna’s boyfriend and date for the Echo and the Bunnymen concert that night, hated to come downtown. Donna had seen Eddie lock his door as soon as they hit the District line on Georgia Avenue. Eddie told Donna to do the same, as he feared that car-jacking thing he had heard so much about, and Donna locked her door to make him happy, though she doubted anyone would want to steal Eddie’s drab four-cylinder Plymouth Reliant. The car had one of those magnetic signs on the passenger door, “Appliance Installers Unlimited” spelled out in red letters, even gave the phone number and address, as if anyone cared. No, nobody would want to steal this boring rag, not even on a lazy bet.

Eddie turned down Missouri, cut south on 13th Street.

“This looks a little better,” said Eddie. “More residential.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Eddie. Besides, we’re not exactly riding in the inner-city sports car of choice. Maybe if someone’s looking to heist some dishwasher hoses...”

“Go ahead and make fun. Just remember, we’re playin’ an away game here.” Eddie pushed in on the dash lighter, pulled a Marlboro red from the sun visor where he kept his pack, stuck the filter between his thin lips. “Who’s opening for Echo, man?”

“The Church.”

Eddie lit his smoke. “Oh, yeah, you played me one of their records, right? It was kind of trippy.”

Trippy. Eddie Golden could deal with that. Eddie used to love to smoke a little green, lay back and listen to Meddle or some other old Floyd, huff cigarettes, drink some ice-cold beers, maybe pull one off if he was alone. His dust days were over, though; he’d lost too many amigos to that stuff, K-heads who had dropped their bikes doing eighty or taken on the wrong guys in bars or sometimes everyone in the bar behind that crazy shit. So Eddie had made his way over to cocaine. He liked cocaine better because it made him more alert and also less shy. There was that other good thing, too: When he did high-grade C with Donna the two of them could go half the night.