Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

Tutt smiled stupidly. “D’you fuck her?”

“Nah, Tutt, it wasn’t nothin’ like that. It was one of those ‘you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine’ kind of things. Real innocent, lookin’ at it now. But I thought I had committed an awful sin, and it was weighin’ on me hard. The point I’m tryin’ to make is, after I talked to my reverend, I had this, I don’t know, clean feeling, see, like I had got it all out, and there wasn’t nothin’ dirty left inside me. Like everything was in front of me again.”

“Way you feel tonight, huh?”

“Yes.”

Tutt looked over at Murphy. “You’re scarin’ me a little bit, man. We ain’t goin’ to no revival meeting here.”

“I know where we’re goin’, Tutt.”

“’Cause we gotta be together on this. You gave Rogers the instructions just like we said?”

“Alan knows what to do.”

“He brings Golden out, we smoke ’em all at once. Has to be that way, Kev. I’ll do Rogers if you want, ’cause I know it’s gonna be hard for you. And I’ll do Monroe, too. Want to see his face when I wave good-bye to him.”

“Take your time in there, Tutt.”

“They’ll live a few minutes longer, long as they don’t fuck with me too much. But I ain’t gonna take any of their insults. You just remember, they’ve all got to be put down.”

“Like animals.”

“What?”

“Forget it.”

“Afterwards,” said Tutt, “we arrange it so it looks like a hit. Bury our guns somewhere.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Tell you one thing. Someone did us a big favor today, evened the odds when they blew up Chink and Jumbo’s shit. That’s just two less to worry about, right?”

“Two more dead ones,” said Murphy, looking at Tutt. “It’s a start.”

“What d’you say?”

“Heard you tell that joke one night in the FOP bar when you thought I wasn’t listenin’. ‘What do you call a hundred niggers chained to the bottom of the ocean: A start. ’ ”

“Jesus, Murph, you gonna get up on that soapbox again? Thought you and me were square—”

“Just wanted you to know.”

“Wanted me to know what?”

“That I hate you, Richard. Truth is, I always have.”

“Fine.” Tutt squirmed in his seat, the green dash lights tinted his reddening face. “Long as we got an understanding about tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” said Murphy, his eyes level and calm. “Everything’s clear.”

The Bronco crossed the Maryland line.

Tyrell Cleveland squatted on the hearth and placed a fresh log on the fire. The flames heated his rayon shirt and beaded his forehead with sweat.

“Damn, cuz,” said Antony Ray. “Don’t need no radiators in this joint, way you keep that bonfire goin’.”

“Like it, man,” said Tyrell. “Makes me feel good.”

“How this gin make me feel,” said Short Man Monroe, seated next to Ray at the round wooden table, a plastic cup of Gilbey’s and pineapple held loosely in his hand. “ Cash good.”

“You don’t look so good, black,” said Ray.

“I’ll take care of my shit tomorrow,” said Monroe, his face ugly, twisted, streaked with dried blood. “Gimme some of that boat, man.”

Ray handed Monroe a lit joint and dipped his index finger into the coke heaped on the mirror. He rubbed some freeze on his gums. He swallowed half his drink and shook a Newport from the deck. Ray put fire to his smoke.

Alan Rogers came out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He had tried talking to Eddie, but he wasn’t certain if he had gotten through. Golden’s eyes had crossed in on each other all the way, and he was lying funny on the bed, like one of those retards Rogers had seen once. There were bruises and shit all around his mouth. And Golden’s arm, it looked fucked for real.

Rogers walked slowly to the living area, where Tyrell stood to his full height.

“How’s our Golden boy doin’?” said Tyrell.

“Not so good,” said Rogers, looking at Ray.

“Did exactly what you said to do,” said Ray, elbowing Monroe, who coughed out a hit of pot treated with Raid.

“He shouldn’t have lied,” said Tyrell. “You ain’t got no problem with the way we been hostin’ him, do you, Alan?”

“Nah, Ty,” said Rogers, trying to smile. “You know we all right.”

“Good. ’Cause you don’t like things around here, you can always think about goin’ somewhere else.”

“Have to get his ride fixed first,” said Ray.

“Get that raggedy-ass piece of shit towed off the highway where he left it,” said Monroe, dropping the joint in the ashtray and resting his hand on the grip of his Glock.

“Go on, boy,” said Ray, motioning toward the dining area. “Make yourself useful and put on some music.”

“Yeah,” said Monroe, picking up his toothpick off the table and fitting it in the side of his mouth. “And quit actin’ like a bitch.”

Rogers went back to the stereo, slipped Trouble Funk’s live album out of its sleeve. He placed the record on the platter, dropped the tone arm onto the vinyl, and turned up the volume. The multilayered go-go sound came forward: drums, then bass, then call and response.

“This shit is live,” said Monroe.

“ All the way live,” said Ray, touching Monroe’s hand.

Tyrell went to the bay window, looked at the headlights coming down the gravel drive. The Bronco came to a stop within the arc of the porch light.

“Here come our boys,” said Tyrell.

Tyrell eyed Tutt and Murphy as they stepped out of the truck. Murphy went around the Bronco, dropped the tailgate, took off his jacket, and threw it in the back. He retrieved a pillowcase and set it on the ground, pulled a double-holster gun belt from the pillowcase, and buckled the belt around his waist.

“What are they doin’?” said Ray.

“Officer Murphy’s strappin’ on a couple of revolvers,” said Tyrell. “And now he’s puttin’ on his badge.”

“Fuck’s he doin’ that for?”

“I didn’t know better,” said Tyrell, “I’d say he was gettin’ ready to make an arrest.”

“Fuck you doin’, Murph?” said Tutt, a catch in his voice. “Tyrell’s right there in that window, lookin’ right at us.”

Murphy did not look up at the house. He buckled the gun belt tightly to his waist and unsnapped the holster straps.

“I’m talkin’ to you, man!”

Murphy took his shield from his pocket and pinned it to his polo shirt.

“Murphy! I asked what you were doin’!”

“My job.”

Murphy grabbed the pillowcase off the tailgate and walked toward the house. Tutt fell in beside him.

“You goin’ in like that?”

“Yeah,” said Murphy. “And you better do the same. Don’t want to be fumblin’ with your shit if this goes wrong.”

“But they’ll know.”

“They’ll know anyway when they see your eager eyes.”

They took the steps up to the porch.

Tutt drew his Colt. He pulled back on the receiver and jacked a round into the .45.

They stopped at the scarred door, bass thumping through the bungalow’s walls.

Tutt’s face was ashen in the porch light. “They got that music up loud.”

“Guess we better pound real hard on the door, then.”

The lights went off inside the house. Murphy’s eyes went serene.

Murphy balled his fist, rabbit-punched the door three times.

“I’ll go first,” said Tutt, inhaling deeply.

“No,” said Murphy as the door began to open. “Not this time.”

Tyrell stood in the frame of the bay window. He watched Tutt gesture angrily to Murphy, and then he watched Tutt and Murphy move away from the Bronco and walk toward the house.