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Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

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Джордж Пелеканос The Sweet Forever

The Sweet Forever: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Before you can thrive you have to survive. When cocaine hit Washington, D.C., in the mid-1980s, the city became nearly unlivable. Gun-carrying kids turned entire neighborhoods into war zones. Zombies walked the sidewalks on week-long binges. Many police officers and public officials, flush with drug money, looked away. Set amidst this chaos and danger, The Sweet Forever captures an unforgettable fight for survival as two men confront the most soul-chilling violence ever to visit the city. Marcus Clay is proud of his small chain of record stores, and proudest of his new store, right in the old neighborhood — now the epicenter of the drug trade. But a black man can’t get a break, even on his home turf, when the whole town is going crazy. Even his best friend, Dimitri Karras, who manages the store, is coming to work with his jaw wired tight from his newly acquired cocaine habit. A bad situation turns lethal when a car crashes in front of the store and Marcus sees someone grab a bag out of the backseat and run. The local drug lord wants what’s in that bag — and will do whatever it takes to prove that he is the law in this neighborhood. Nobody, certainly not a small-time businessman, is going to stand in his way. In searing confrontations, Marcus and Dimitri must defy the darkness close to home — fighting for their lives, their livelihoods, for the very soul of the city. Opening up the shadowy territory where private sin connects with larger, deadlier evils, George Pelecanos weaves familiar details from the recent past into a thriller of compelling menace and power. With characters as real as your own flesh and a relentless, dazzlingly original story, The Sweet Forever is a classic thriller from one of the most inspired writers at work today.

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“Had a full-page grand opening ad in there last week,” said Clay. “Can only afford two of those a month.”

“What you gotta do, then,” said Tate, “is run a half-page every week. Got to be in that joint every single week, Marcus.”

Karras looked at the two of them. They had this same argument every Friday, usually right about this time.

“I like those big ads, Clarence. Keeps the competition on their toes. Makes us look like somethin’.”

“It’s like they always told us in my marketing classes,” said Tate, “when they were teachin’ us print advertising: Frequency beats size, Marcus, every time.”

“That’s what she said,” said Karras, and no one responded. Well, Cootch did give him a charitable, lopsided grin.

Clay rubbed his face. “Cootch, turn that music down a touch, will you, man?” The music always got to Clay first, even more so in the last few years, as he neared the end of his thirties.

“This one’s gonna be big, Marcus,” said Karras, nodding at the wall-mounted speakers where the eight-piece funk was coming through.

“Bigger than the moonwalk,” added Cootch.

“Yeah, I know.” Clay hadn’t paid much attention to this group since Cameosis in ’80, but even he still knew a hit when he heard one. “Word Up” was going to be the bomb in D.C.

“Better be big,” mumbled Tate. “We brought in enough units, man. And too many on the wax side, if y’all don’t mind my sayin’.”

“The twelve-inch on this one,” said Clay, “is going to go large.”

Karras had been hoping the conversation wouldn’t go in this direction. The product mix had been the most heated debate subject for the last six months. Lately, they had been bringing in about 80 percent vinyl and cassette, 20 percent CD. No one seemed to know for sure the way the software was going to shake out. On top of that, the rumor mill had the national chains headed toward town. It was a crazy time to be in the music business. And a really crazy time, thought Karras, to be opening new stores.

“Hey, Neecie,” shouted Tate across the store. “Come away from that window, now, hear?”

Tate knew who she was looking at: that boy leaning against the Z, looked like some kind of drug boy to him, across the street. His girl was too young to be fraternizing with young men. She was especially too young to be checking out young men like that one. Far as he was concerned, she’d always be too young.

Denice Tate rolled her eyes and walked toward the men in the center of the store. She was fourteen, tall like her father, and suddenly running more to woman than to girl. Her hair fell in cornrows around a wide and pretty face.

“Denice,” said Cootch, saving her from her old man. “Got somethin’ for you here.”

He pulled a cassette tape from under the counter, handed it to Denice.

“What’s this?” she said, inspecting the unlabeled tape.

“Rare Essence,” said Cootch, “live at Anacostia Park, nineteen hundred and eighty.”

Her eyes widened. “Dag, you got this?

“First generation, off my personal master. Take care of it, girl, it’s precious.”

“Thanks, Cootch. They say this be bumpin’!”

“They say this is bumpin’,” corrected Tate, and once again Denice rolled her eyes.

Bumping,” said Karras to Tate. “You dropped your g there, Clarence. Just thought I’d point it out.”

“Thanks, Professor. Was wonderin’ why the boss man keeps your Greek ass around.”

Clay was looking through the window and out to the street, where a fine-looking white woman had gotten out of one of those Lee Iacocca cookie-cutter sedans and was crossing, heading toward the store. Ankle-high black boots with a short, tight skirt, black stockings, a jean jacket over a purple sweater — one of Dimitri’s friends, no doubt.

“Hey, Mitri,” said Clay, pointing his chin toward the street. “What you think about a woman wears shorty boots with a skirt like that?”

“That’s her hookup, I guess. You gotta admit, on her it looks good.”

“Yes, it does.” Clay liked the way she walked, too, not just the hip action, but the determination in her step. “You think she’s lost or somethin’, comin’ in for directions?”

Karras smiled. “No, she’s not lost. She’s comin’ to see me.

“I’m just messin’ with you, man. I knew who she was comin’ to see.”

“You could tell, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Clay. “She looks like one of yours.”

Clay expected a response to that one, but Karras hadn’t heard the cut. He was already headed for the front door.


Karras chuckled to himself, noticing Donna’s Susanna Hoffs — style haircut as she neared the door. It was the medium-length cut from the cover of the All Over the Place album, not the redone Hoffs look off the new LP. It would be just like Donna to be a little bit behind in her look. But it suited her, that black hair fluffed out, shorter on the sides and hitting her shoulders in the back, the black a nice contrast to her pale skin. She had the thick black eyeliner going today, too. He liked that.

He held the door open for her. She came in, and they embraced. Karras pushed himself into her for a moment, a habit of his, letting her know that he was still all there. Donna broke off first.

“That you?” said Karras, giving her his patented smile, wide and holding, though a bit tight from the cocaine. “For a minute there, I thought it was that Bangles girl walking across that street.”

Donna turned to the side, made forty-five-degree angles with both wrists, did a brief version of the “Walk Like an Egyptian” dance she had seen on MTV. Miniskirted girls were doing it on the floor of Cagney’s and Poseurs and the other new-wave clubs all around town.

“Yeah, it’s just me,” said Donna. “How you doin’ Mr. Karras?”

“Doin’ good. Come on, say hello to everyone.”

Karras introduced her to Cootch, Tate and Denice, reintroduced her to Clay. Clay could hardly keep track of Karras’s women through the years, but this one he recalled vaguely, if only for her face. One of his students back when he was teaching at the University of Maryland.

Clay and Tate returned to their argument about frequency versus size, and Cootch asked Denice if she wouldn’t mind helping him file some new stock into the racks.

Donna and Karras were alone. Donna leaned forward, put her mouth close to Karras’s ear.

“Got something for me?” she said.

“Yeah,” said Karras. “Come on back.”

Marcus Clay watched them enter the back room.

Four

Dimitri Karras pulled the vial from the pocket of his jeans and unscrewed its top. Donna Morgan had a seat on the edge of the sink. It was cramped in the bathroom; Karras took his liberty, brushed the rough denim of his leg against Donna’s stockinged thigh.

Donna pulled her leg back an inch. “Isn’t Marcus gonna know something’s going on?”

“He’s out there arguing with Tate. Believe me, they’ll keep arguing for the next ten minutes.” Karras lifted a spoonful of coke up to Donna’s nose. “Here.”

Donna hoovered it like a pro. “Mmm.” She did a quick shake of her head.

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