Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

Murphy started down the stairs of the unit like he belonged there, chin up, giving her a friendly smile, neither flirty nor threatening, getting close enough to smell her now as she stepped up onto her landing. She had her keys in her fist, holding one of them point out, returning his smile cordially as she made her way around him to her apartment door, number 21.

Murphy glanced out to the lot and caught hold of Donna’s arm as she passed. He pressed a finger into the pressure spot behind her elbow joint, not enough to give her great pain but enough to let her know he could. He placed his other hand across her mouth.

She bucked beneath him as he pushed her toward her door.

“Don’t panic, Donna,” he said softly, his lips close to her ear. “Let’s just get inside.”

She nodded. He pulled his finger away from the nerves bundled at her elbow and saw the muscles of her face relax. He kept his palm sealed over her mouth, watching her key hand, making sure she didn’t try to take out one of his eyes.

She fumbled with the keys.

“Quick,” said Murphy. “I’m not playin’.”

A moment later they were in the apartment, and Murphy closed the door behind him. Donna flattened herself against the foyer wall.

Murphy reached into his jacket.

“No,” said Donna.

Murphy produced his badge and held it in front of her face. “I’m a police officer. Here to help you, Donna. You and Eddie.”

Donna blinked rapidly. “Where’s Eddie?”

“Never mind that. Where’s the money?”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t let’s waste too much time on this, Donna. I need to see the money, right now.”

Donna was frozen to the wall. She wanted to move. She didn’t want to show fear. But she couldn’t move.

“Donna!” yelled Murphy, her name echoing in the apartment.

His voice moved her off the wall. Murphy followed her through the living room. Donna saw the red light blinking on her answering machine as she passed. She stopped at her open bedroom door, felt a quiver in her knees.

Don’t go in there with him. Don’t. Anybody can buy a phony badge—

Murphy put the flat of his hand to her shoulders, gently moved her through the doorway. In the bedroom, Donna turned to face him.

“The money,” he said.

Donna found the pillowcase in her closet and handed it to Murphy. He placed it on Donna’s bed and reached inside. He pulled out a stack of bills held together by a rubber band, counted it, pulled another stack, counted that one. He studied Donna, tears breaking from her eyes and rolling down her face.

“What, you think I’m stealin’ your dreams?”

Donna shook her head. “It’s not that. I’m thinking of Eddie.”

“Good. Who you should be thinkin’ of. Now, he’s alive. But the ones who took him, they really put it to him. And you know what? He never did give up your name. Led those boys right off your trail.” Murphy thought of Wanda, lying flat on their bed. “You find someone who loves you that much, keeps lovin’ you in the face of all that pain, you oughtta hold onto him, understand?”

“Eddie did that?” said Donna.

“Yeah,” said Murphy, dropping the two stacks of banded bills to the bed.

“I... I want him back.”

“Gonna bring him back, Donna.” Murphy pointed his chin toward the money. “There’s five thousand there. You and Eddie need to take it and leave town. Everything’s about to blow up, hear? And the ones he took off, they won’t forget.”

“You taking the rest of it?” said Donna, ashamed she had asked the question as soon as the words had tumbled sloppily from her mouth. Ashamed at first, and then afraid.

Murphy stood straight, strengthening his grip on the pillowcase, his mouth set tight. He stepped forward, stopping a foot shy of Donna.

Donna’s shoulders began to shake. Her eyes were swollen with fear and drunk with confusion. Murphy raised his hand to wipe the tears from her face. Donna recoiled, stumbling back to the bedroom wall.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she said.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” said Murphy, tilting his head in a funny way. “I’m a cop.”

Clay, Karras, and Tate stood at the window, watched a canary yellow Lincoln with suicide doors come to a stop across U Street. Al Adamson, shaved bald, with a closely trimmed beard and wire-rimmed glasses, got out of the car and crossed the street. Karras noticed the cut of Adamson’s biceps beneath his black sport jacket.

“Al’s lookin’ serious,” said Karras.

“Yes,” said Clay.

“See he still works on those Continentals.”

“His specialty.”

“That,” said Karras, “and fuckin’ people up.”

“Feels like we got an edge, now, doesn’t it?” said Clay. “Just knowin’ he’s on our side.”

Tate let Adamson in the front door. Adamson shook Tate’s hand, then gave Clay a handshake that the two of them had invented back in their unit.

“Good seein’ you, man.”

“Good to see you.”

Adamson nodded at Karras, a light in his eyes. “Long time, Karras. Where your Hawaiian shirt at?”

“ Has been a long time,” said Karras.

“Ya’ll heard the radio?” said Adamson.

“What?” said Tate.

“Another shooting today, this one over in Kingman Park. Two young brothers got smoked in a market. Triggerman left the proprietors alone. Sounds like a gang hit. Add them to those kids last night and half a dozen others around town, and it looks like we’re about to set some kind of record here in D.C. Man on the radio said they’re callin’ this the ‘Red Weekend’ and shit.”

The men were silent as Adamson removed his glasses and steamed the lenses with his breath. He rubbed them clean on the lapel of his jacket. He fitted the glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

“Marcus,” said Adamson, turning to Clay. “Let’s talk about your problem.”

“They’ll be down here soon, I reckon,” said Clay. “We best get it together, figure out what we’re gonna do.”

Night had come quickly; its chill and darkness had emptied the Sunday evening streets. There was little activity on Fairmont, just a couple of hard cases hanging out up around 14th. Kevin Murphy killed the Trans Am’s engine, lifted a gym bag off the passenger seat, and set it in his lap. He pulled one stack of bills from the bag and slipped it under his seat. He got out of the car with the gym bag in his hand.

Murphy took the walkway up to the Taylor row house and rang the bell.

Lula Taylor opened the door and stood in its frame. A burning cigarette hung from the side of her mouth, her eyes squinting against the smoke curling upward, curtaining her face. Her fingers cradled a half-gone pack of Viceroys. Up one step, she cleared Murphy’s head by a quarter foot.

“Yes?”

“Kevin Murphy. The police officer who brought Anthony home yesterday.”

“And again today. I remember. Took me a minute, you bein’ out of uniform.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Murphy glanced behind him at the quiet street.

“Can’t ask you in,” said Lula, removing her cigarette from her mouth and tapping ash out onto the stoop. “And I don’t want to disturb Anthony. He’s up in his bedroom doin’ his mathematics. You must know how hard it is to get that boy started on his homework. Don’t need to be interruptin’ him now.”

“Didn’t come here to see Anthony, Mrs. Taylor.”

She looked him over. “What kind of business could you have with me?”

Murphy held the gym bag out. “Came here to give you this.”

She nodded at the bag. “What’s in it?”

“Damn near close to fifteen thousand dollars.”

Her lips twitched involuntarily, causing the beetle mole lodged beside her nose to notch up a quarter inch. She looked past him, trying hard to appear disinterested, and dragged on her cigarette.