Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

Tutt stumbled forward and squeezed off two point-blank rounds from the .45; the hollow points imploded Monroe’s rotten-fruit face. Monroe’s heels rattled at the hardwood floor.

Tyrell snatched the Mossberg off the table while Ray fumbled for the .38 lodged in his slacks.

Murphy shot Ray in the chest, the dumdum bullet flattening on impact and punching out fist sized through his back. Ray staggered, yanked at the trigger guard of the gun, yanked the trigger instead. He screamed as the round entered his groin and blew his balls to chowder, the muzzle flame igniting his pubes. Foam spilled from Ray’s mouth as he pirouetted to the floor.

A shotgun blast roared in Murphy’s ears.

Murphy dove sideways, hot shot peppering his right shoulder.

Tyrell kicked the table up on its edge and fell behind it.

Murphy stood, raised the .357 in his right hand. His shoulder nerves spasmed, jerking his hand straight up. Murphy’s gunshot ventilated the bungalow’s roof. The Magnum slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

“Murph.”

He turned his head. Tutt was on his back, his eyes rolled up into his head. He was pushing the stump that had been his hand against the neck wound, now hosing blood.

Murphy heard the snick snick of a shotgun pump.

He raised his left hand, squeezed the trigger three times, spacing for the Magnum’s recoil. The shots splintered the wood table in a clean, close pattern.

Tyrell came up screaming, blood pumping from his stomach and spiraling from a steaming black gash in his cheek.

Murphy pulled off two more rounds as fire erupted from the shotgun. Murphy felt a part of himself stripped away.

Tyrell fell and rolled onto the hearth, one arm coming to rest in the fire. Flames crawled up his sleeve, melting the rayon shirt to his heaving torso. Tyrell gurgled as the fire claimed him.

Murphy felt unbalanced. He felt nothing on his left side. He looked for the damage to his arm.

“Lord!” he screamed, spinning in a circle through the cordite, the action sending a wash of blood bucketing onto the bay window.

Murphy dropped into Tyrell’s chair. He looked down. His left arm was lobster meat, shredded and red and slick, gone below the bicep. Blood flowed freely into his lap.

He managed the phone with his trembling right hand. He punched in 911.

Think of sensations. You feel things and you are alive: revolving blue and red lights striping the room, the smell of gunsmoke and burning flesh, the cat wail of sirens against the bell toll...

“Your name, please.”

Murphy gave the dispatcher his name.

“Your address.”

Murphy gave the dispatcher the address.

“What is the nature of the emergency?”

Murphy gave the dispatcher the numbered code.

“Repeat,” said the voice on the other end.

“Officer down,” gasped Murphy as uniforms kicked in the scarred oak door.

There goes Brad Daugherty,” said Dimitri Karras. “You believe he went first?”

“Cavaliers needed a center,” said Marcus Clay. “Not a bad choice, you think about it. Got that Dean Smith pedigree, too. And you know Bias is goin’ next.”

Karras stood beside Clay, who was seated at his desk in the back of Real Right. They were watching the televised NBA draft selections on the beat-up house set.

“Look at that,” said Clay. “One of Red Auerbach’s people is whispering something in Bias’s ear.”

“‘Get ready to go,’ he’s sayin’.”

“Most likely. Damn if that isn’t a pretty ice green suit Lenny’s got on.”

“Should be Celtic green. The color of money.”

“Here we go,” said Clay.

Bias’s name was announced. Karras clapped Clay on the shoulder and watched his friend smile ear to ear.

“From Northwestern High School to the world-champion Boston Celtics. Can you believe it, Dimitri?”

“With Bird and McHale and Parish down below, he’s gonna have to start off as the sixth man.”

“Be better for him that way.”

“Wonder if Clarence is watchin’ this,” said Karras.

“He’s probably sittin’ in traffic right now, tryin’ to get into town. Since he moved out to Maryland he’s been spendin’ most of his time in his Cutlass.”

“He did the right thing. With the schools here the way they are, it’s better for Denice in the suburbs.”

“Seems like everybody’s either movin’ out of D.C. or thinkin’ on it.”

“Speaking of that, I got a letter from Donna Morgan a few days ago.”

“What, from Florida?”

Karras nodded. “Outside of Orlando. She and Golden are renting a little house. Got a swimming pool in the backyard under one of those bug tents.”

“Sounds like a winner.”

“She always wanted to go to Florida. She’s selling watches in a department store. And Eddie’s installing dishwashers. Takes him a little longer than it used to on account of that bum wrist of his. But as far as I could tell, they’re doin’ all right.”

Applause came from the television’s tinny speaker.

“There goes Chris Washburn,” said Clay.

“Golden State. Bet it’s nice out there in California.”

“Oh, so you thinkin’ of leavin’ town, too?”

“You know me better than that.”

“’Cause I need you, man.”

“I am the glue that holds this operation together.”

“Wouldn’t go so far as all that.”

The phone rang on the desk, and Clay picked it up. “Real Right. Hey, Cheek. Any action over there? Good. Uh-huh... How’s our boy doin’? That right. Well, you make sure and praise him when he’s on it and point out to him when he’s not. I want him to stay with it... Yeah, me and Dimitri were just watchin’ it. Happy for him, too. Take care, Cheek.”

Clay cradled the phone.

“What’s up?” said Karras.

“Cheek says they’re doin’ some business over at Dupont Circle.”

“How’s it goin’ with our new employee?”

“He says he’s comin’ along. Yeah, I think Alan’s gonna be all right.”

Karras grinned. “Long as you can keep him away from Denice.”

“Knock that shit off, man. Rogers backed away from that his own self. Boy’s got self-control, unlike you. ”

They watched Chuck Person get called up by the Pacers; then Kenny Walker went to the Knicks.

“We doin’ anything out on the floor?”

Clay shook his head. “Cootch says we haven’t rung but one or two sales all day. If it wasn’t for Georgetown and Dupont, we’d be hurtin’ bad. We’re hurtin’ as it is.”

“You still talkin’ to Record City?”

“They’re comin’ back in next week. Say they’re interested in ‘testin’ the urban waters’ with a couple of small locations before they come to town with that superstore concept of theirs. They’re talkin’ buyout, but we’ll see.”

“Would you do it?”

“Get out of the way or get run over, that’s the way I’m lookin’ at it now. Like I say, we’ll see.”

Karras frowned, looking at the set. “Phoenix took William Bedford over Ray Tarpley?”

“I’m a little surprised at that one myself.”

Cootch’s head appeared in the doorway. “Boss?”

“Yeah.”

“Got a man out here from the mayor’s campaign office, wants to put some of those posters in our window.”

“Tell him we don’t do that,” said Clay. “We don’t do it for anybody. Explain it to him like that.”

“Right,” said Cootch, returning to the floor.

“He’s gonna get reelected,” said Karras. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Sure. Runnin’ against Mattie Taylor in the primaries and Carole Schwartz — a white Jewish Republican from Ward Three — in the general elections? Damn right he’s gonna win. Meanwhile, city services are down to nothin’, and the school system is fallin’ apart for real. And George Dozier tells me that crack’s already come to the District, ahead of schedule. Murder rate’s gonna accelerate now like we’ve never seen.”