Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

“Lot of money,” she said, smoke spigoting from her flared nostrils.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s unclean, I expect.”

“That’s right. Drug money, you want it plain. Much bad as it does, I thought it might be time to put it to some good.”

She looked past Murphy. “What would you have me do with it, Officer Murphy?”

“Use it to get Anthony out of here, for starters. Right away. Send him down to the country, where it’s safe. To be with his mother and sisters, where he belongs.”

Lula snapped ash off her Viceroy and studied the night. “What, just pull him out of school in the middle of the year?”

“The Social Services people down there, they’d work it out. He can start fresh in school in the fall. Ain’t gonna hurt nothin’, right? Let him breathe fresh air for a while, play in the woods, make new friends. Take walks at night without fear.”

Lula closed her eyes, imagining it. “You make it sound nice.”

“ Has to be better than this.” Murphy shifted his feet. “Mrs. Taylor?”

“What?”

“You did the best you could. You brought him to the point where he is, and he’s a fine young man.”

“Thank you. I do love that boy.”

“But the streets are stronger than you. And it’s only gonna get a whole lot worse in this town. You understand that? For the good of Anthony, you’ve got to let him go.”

Lula breathed deeply, her ample chest rising and falling. “Fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Wouldn’t object if you took a small piece of it, to make things easier for yourself.”

“My baby girl could use all of it. And I believe she’d use it for her children now.”

She hit her cigarette and dropped it on the concrete, where she killed the butt with the sole of her shoe. She looked at Murphy and nodded one time. He handed her the bag.

“Tomorrow morning,” said Murphy, “you put him on one of those Greyhound buses. The double-decker kind with the green-tinted windows. A window seat, too. Make sure he gets that.”

Lula Taylor wiped a tear that had threatened to fall. “All this money, I could fly him down there, first class, still have plenty left over.”

“Put him on a bus,” said Murphy, squeezing her hand.

He turned and headed toward his car.

“Officer Murphy!” shouted Lula Taylor.

But Murphy kept walking. He got into his Pontiac and drove away, not glancing back at the light in Anthony Taylor’s room.

Richard Tutt thumbed hollow-point rounds into a magazine, palmed the magazine into the butt of his Government Model .45. He turned the gun in the light, admiring the Colt insignia set in the walnut stock. Beautiful weapon. Some preferred the Lightweight Commander, which came in at twenty-seven ounces against the Government’s thirty-eight. But Tutt liked the heft of this gun.

He slipped the automatic in his holster, clipped to the belt line of his acid-washed jeans.

Tutt lifted his throw-down piece off the table, an F.I.E. six-shot .25 he had taken off some spade on 14th and T. Rughead had said, “You take care of my Astra Cub, now,” his face smashed up against the squad car window as Tutt patted him down. Had the pistol tucked in his drawers, right up alongside his snake. Fuckin’ niggers and their guns.

The .25, it fit nicely into the side pocket of Tutt’s Members Only jacket. He dropped it there and checked himself in the mirror. He looked fine.

The .45 held seven. That and the six-shot made thirteen. Murphy would post with his .357s, adding twelve. You could bury a few bootheads real easy with twenty-five rounds. Surprising them would be the key. But, Christ, you could fight a fuckin’ war with twenty-five.

Tutt picked up the phone and dialed Murphy’s house. He was surprised to see his hand shake. He’d never killed anyone, but in a strange way he felt he’d been waiting to all his life. Anyway, it would be a relief when it was done. No other way out of this one — a clean break and then move on. He could use a beer or something, but not yet. He’d celebrate later with Murph.

“Hello,” said Wanda Murphy on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Wanda, it’s Richard.”

“Richard, how are you?”

Tutt tapped the toe of his Dan Post boot on the floor. He wasn’t up for small talk with Wack-Job Wanda tonight.

“Kevin in?”

“He just walked through the door,” she said in that too-happy, sing-song way of hers. “Let me get him for you.”

Tutt heard conversation and footsteps. Murphy came on the line.

“Tutt.”

“Murph. Been out?”

“Got the money, Tutt. Got Tyrell’s twenty-five.”

“Goddamn, boy! How the fuck—”

“Eddie Golden hipped me to it, back at the house.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wanted to make sure. But I’ve got it. Got it right here. Was thinkin’ we’d take it to Tyrell tonight. Make a trade for Golden.”

Tutt said, “But we’re not really gonna make a trade, are we Kev?”

“No,” said Murphy.

Tutt relaxed. Murphy was with him all the way.

“The money will keep them busy,” said Tutt. “But you know what we’ve got to do.”

“I know.”

“Then you and me are square on this.”

“Yes.”

Tutt smiled. “Like you were, buddy. Been waitin’ a long time for you to come back around.”

Murphy relaxed his tightened jaw. “We’re gonna need help. Was thinkin’ about Rogers. He can bring Golden out, get everybody together in one room. He’s the weakest of the bunch. Won’t be hard to convince him we’re gonna cut him in.”

“We can’t cut him in, though, Kevin. He’s one of them. ”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll beep Rogers,” said Tutt, “clue him in.”

“Let me talk to him, Tutt. You’re not exactly the right guy to be talkin’ Rogers into anything. He can relate to me.”

“You handle it, then.” Tutt looked at his watch. “Meet me at O’Grady’s in an hour.”

“Make it two. I got some things to wrap up.”

“All right, partner. See you there.”

Tutt racked the phone and looked down. His hand wasn’t shaking anymore.

Murphy placed the phone back in its cradle. He glanced across the room. Wanda sat on the edge of the bed, her old Kmart housedress hanging loosely over a faded cotton sleeping shirt, pink slippers on her feet. The TV set threw colors on her face.

The laugh track swelled, Wanda’s laughter riding above it. “Oh, Kevin! That Punky Brewster girl is so cute tonight!”

“Want something to eat, sweetheart?”

“Had a grilled cheese before you came home. I’m feelin’ kind of sleepy. Gonna watch Silver Spoons, and then I’m gonna take a little nap.”

“Don’t sleep too long. You’ll be tossin’ all night.”

“I won’t.”

“Wanda?”

“What?”

“I’m goin’ out tonight. Got some police business I got to take care of with Tutt.”

Wanda’s eyes stayed on the television screen. “Okay.”

“Picked up something for you at the market today. I’ll bring it to you before I go.”

“Thanks, Kev.”

“Love you, girl.”

“I love—” Wanda’s hand jerked to her mouth. “Kevin, this little girl is fuh- nee! ”

Murphy changed into a pair of jeans, running shoes, and a short-sleeved polo shirt. He walked from the room.

Murphy wrote a one-page letter in longhand, standing at his workbench, and signed his name. He sealed the letter in an envelope and addressed it to George Dozier in care of Marcus Clay. Murphy had little respect for his superiors and none for the suits in IAD; Clay’s endorsement of Dozier, and Dozier’s rep, had sealed things in his mind.