Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

Murphy lifted the pillowcase from where it sat heaped at his feet. He set it next to the box containing his father’s church lottery tickets and dumped the lottery tickets into the pillowcase. He dropped the last stack of banded money in as well.

Murphy brought his S & W Combat Magnums down from the shelf, took them out of their cases, and laid them on the bench. He picked up one of the .357s and turned it in his hand: six-inch barrel, squared butt, checked stock. The stainless steel satin finish winked in the overhead light. He thumbed back the grooved hammer, sighted down the barrel, and dry-fired at the wall. He opened the box of Remington rounds and located the bullets with the Xs etched in their heads. He broke the chambers of the guns and loaded six hollow-point dumdum bullets into each. He wrist-snapped the chambers shut.

Murphy found his gun belt. He buckled the belt to his waist and slipped the guns into the holsters, one on each side, steel scraping leather on entry.

He turned to the wall, where he had taped a Jesus card he had picked up at the Jarvis Funeral Home on the night of his brother’s wake. Murphy raised his hands, his palms facing the paper icon, and closed his eyes. Standing there, his guns heavy on his hips, he prayed.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want...

Murphy unbuckled his holster belt and dropped it in the pillowcase. He got a good grip on the load and headed up the stairs.

The TV was still on in the bedroom. Wanda was asleep on her back, her arms folded across her chest. Murphy turned off the set and walked across the room. He placed a red-and-white package of chocolates on the nightstand, next to her lamp. He knelt beside the bed.

“Brought you some Turtles, baby. Your favorite.”

Murphy ran a hand through Wanda’s coarse, dirty hair. He brushed dandruff off her housedress. He kissed her on the side of her mouth, her breath warm and sour on his face.

Murphy got to his feet and looked down at the husk on the bed. He switched off the light.

Short Man Monroe studied Tyrell, slumped in that big chair of his, running one of his long fingers down his cheek. Big man like Tyrell, it was strange seeing him look so weak. The call from Chink Bennet’s aunt, it seemed to take time off Tyrell right in front of Monroe’s eyes.

Alan Rogers stood against the wall, looking down at his shoes, smears on his face where he’d tried to wipe tears away. Rogers was nothin’ but weak; Monroe could see that now. You had to be hard, realize that death was just another day-to-day reality of the street.

Now Antony Ray? That was one hard nigga, boy. He’d snorted, laughed shortly, said something about “those simple-ass mothafuckers” when Tyrell had gotten the call. Now he was over by the table, doin’ a line through the tube of a ballpoint pen. Havin’ no feelings at all, it was something to reach for. No feelings meant no fear. Bein’ that cold, it could keep you alive.

“Alan?” said Tyrell.

“Yeah, Ty.”

“Tomorrow morning you send some flowers over to the funeral home, hear? I’ll put a couple hundred in an envelope, you run it over to Jumbo’s moms and Chink’s aunt.”

“Can’t believe it,” said Rogers.

“One of those accidents,” said Tyrell. “They just got in the way of some niggas doin’ some mayhem in one of them shops.”

Ray dropped the pen casing on the mirror, rubbed his nose. “Figures fat boy got smoked in some food store.”

“Wouldn’t of happened,” said Monroe, holding up his Glock, “he’d been carryin’ his gun.”

Monroe looked at Ray for approval. Ray’s eyes, heavy lidded with pin-head pupils, smiled.

“Seems like all our shit’s just flyin’ apart,” said Tyrell.

“Can’t let it slip away altogether, cuz,” said Ray.

“Heard that, ” said Tyrell, rising from his chair. “We best get on our way.”

Monroe released the magazine of his nine, checked the load, slapped it back inside the butt. He slipped the Glock barrel-down behind his Lees.

“Thought you said no guns,” said Rogers.

“Did I, Alan?” Tyrell eased himself into his leather jacket. “Yeah, well. Fuck all that.”

Ray laughed. “Wisht I was comin’ with you.”

“Need you to stay here and take care of our boy, Antony.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Give him water,” said Rogers, “he asks for it. Last thing we need’s another death on our hands.”

“Yeah,” said Monroe, “take care of Alan’s other girl.”

“Come on,” said Tyrell. “Let’s go.”

Rogers said, “Gonna take my Z, Tyrell, that’s all right. Need to do somethin’ after.”

“Fine.”

From the window, Antony Ray watched the two cars drive away.

Ray did a couple more lines of coke and had a seat in Tyrell’s chair. Felt good sittin’ there, too. Tyrell ever got tired of it, or went down, maybe Ray’d make this seat his own.

Ray shook a Newport from his deck, lit it, and dragged deep.

Tyrell, he’d always had brains. Could’ve been a real businessman, wearing a fine suit and shit, he’d had the opportunity. But he’d never been incarcerated, and it showed.

Ray, he’d been on the soft side himself when he’d first gone in on that armed robbery beef. Course, he’d had his priors, done plenty of violent shit before he took the long one. Wasn’t till he was in Lorton, though, that he killed his first man. Had to prove yourself real quick in there, sleepin’ in that dorm-style room in the Occoquan facility with all those other hard brothers, most of them scared inside but even more afraid to let it show. So you had to make a point. Ray made it when some skinny, light-skinned nigga cut across him in the prison barber shop, took the chair he’d been next in line to get. Friends of this light-skinned boy, they laughed right in Ray’s face, all of them tryin’ to take him for bad. Ray figured that before he knew it they’d be punkin’ him out in other ways, too. So he waited for that light-skinned boy when he was comin’ out the showers, and Ray cut him with a razor blade he’d melted into the stem of a toothbrush, slashed down with pressure and ripped him open from his chest down to his cock. Mothafucker bled right out, his legs kickin’, screamin’ for his God to save him, tryin’ to hold his hands over the long slice while the blood pumped out from between his fingers, and his life left his eyes. None of his niggas talked, either. And nobody laughed at Ray after that.

Ray closed his eyes. It wasn’t all bad inside. There was this one bitch he had, his very own house mouse, with these thick, fine-ass lips... Ray could almost see him there in front of him, wearin’ eyeliner, how pretty he looked.

Antony Ray stroked his cock through his jeans. He butted his cigarette and got up from the chair. He walked to the window and stared at the night.

“Fuck it,” he said.

Ray went back to the hall, opened the bedroom door, walked inside. He switched on the light.

“Golden boy,” said Ray, moving toward the bed. “That wing of yours is lookin’ like some August fruit.”

Eddie’s feet sought purchase on the mattress.

“Where you goin’? I ain’t gonna hurt you, boy.”

Eddie lay still. “I’m thirsty.”

“Figured you would be.” Ray chuckled. “Why I came in here, matter of fact. Gonna help you out there, Golden boy.”

“Please.”

Ray moved closer and smiled. “You ever suck a dick, Eddie?”

“No,” said Eddie, making a small choking sound.

“Get ready, then,” said Ray, unzipping his fly. “’Cause you gonna suck a good one now.”

Go ahead, Clarence,” said Marcus Clay. “Unlock the door.”