Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

“Damn,” said Murphy. “That’s a pretty-ass Riviera. Seventy-three?”

“Seventy-two. Elaine bought it for me. It ain’t exactly like the one I owned. But it’s close enough.”

“Tell you somethin’. You got a woman like that, you don’t ever want to let her go.”

“I know it, brother. Believe me, I know.”

“See you next week?” said Murphy.

Clay said, “Bet.”

Kevin Murphy turned and walked east along the railroad fence, the atrophied stub of meat dangling from the sleeve of his T-shirt.

Clay watched him go, then drove away.

Marcus Clay slipped the sound track to Claudine into his tape deck and headed down to Mount Pleasant. Gladys singin’ Curtis, nothin’ could be better than that. He bought a couple of Boston creams — Elaine’s favorite — at Heller’s Bakery and then stopped at Sportsman’s Liquors, where he picked up a bottle of cabernet on the recommendation of Tasso and Leo, the genial brothers who owned the store. He drove over to Brown and parked his car.

Elaine sat on the stoop out front while Marcus Jr. ran around the rectangle of worn front yard, a small burgundy-and-gold football tucked under his arm. Clay took the concrete steps, waving to Pepe, his neighbor, who was working on a bottle of beer out on his porch.

“Daddy!” said Marcus Jr.

“What’s goin’ on, M.J.?” said Clay, going up the walk and handing the Heller’s box, cross-tied with string, to Elaine, who was moving one foot to “Black Satin,” coming from the open door of the house.

“What’s that I hear, On the Corner ?”

“I do love my Miles.” Elaine felt the weight of the box. “Thanks for thinking of me, Marcus.”

“I’m always thinkin’ of you, girl. Proud of you, too.”

“Come here.”

They kissed and then Clay went out into the yard. Marcus Jr. threw him the football. Clay threw an underhand spiral back.

“I’m the Redskins,” said Marcus Jr.

“I know you are, son.”

“Who are you?”

“Anybody but the Cowboys.”

“Tackle me, Daddy.”

“Okay.”

Marcus Jr. took off toward his father, and Clay caught hold of his arm. But he didn’t tackle him; he hugged him tightly and kissed him roughly on the cheek. He smelled his son’s hair.

Clay remembered, just then, the words that Kevin Murphy had spoken: No matter what goes down in this life, there’s always hope.

“Daddy, you sad? Why you cryin’?”

“I’m not cryin’,” said Clay. “I’m happy, that’s all.”

The sun woke Dimitri Karras early Thursday morning. Raising himself up on one arm, he read the face of the watch strapped to his wrist: ten A.M.

Karras licked his dry lips. He’d been dreaming of cool water in a tall glass, out of reach.

He withdrew a tissue from the box on the nightstand and blew blood from his nose. He dropped the tissue on the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed.

Karras rose and took a long shower, hot water first and then cold. His stomach flipped, and he leaned his weight against the tiles.

“Stupid,” he said.

He dressed and walked out to the kitchen. The message light on his answering machine was blinking; it was Marcus, most likely, calling to find out why he was late. He decided not to listen to the message. He’d think of something or other to tell Marcus by the time he got down to U.

Karras tried to drink a cup of coffee but couldn’t get it down. He poured the coffee out in the sink and rubbed his face.

God, he felt like shit.

It was going to be a long workday on three hours’ sleep. He could use a little bump to get through it. Just a little, to straighten out his head.

Karras took Connecticut Avenue uptown, the air conditioner’s blower the only sound in the car. He turned right on Albemarle Street and parked near the entrance to the Soapstone Trail. He got out of the BMW and walked west toward the apartment building where his dealer, Billy Smith, had his place.

While waiting for the light at the corner, Karras looked across Connecticut to the Nutty Nathan’s store. Nick Stefanos stood on the sidewalk out front, his hand resting on the shoulder of some bandanna-wearing black kid, both of them watching the bank of televisions in the display window of the shop. Karras hadn’t seen Stefanos since March, or thanked him for the work he’d done.

Karras crossed the avenue, approaching Stefanos and the kid from behind. As he neared them, Karras saw the televisions in the window were all tuned to the same image: Len Bias, wearing that jazzy ice green suit of his, standing out of his chair at the calling of his name.

All right, it was news. But why were they running the draft highlights again, two days after the fact?

“Nick?” said Karras.

Stefanos and the boy turned their heads. The black kid was crying freely, tears running down his cheeks.

“Dimitri,” said Stefanos, his eyes hollow and red.

Karras felt hot and suddenly nauseous in the sun. He backed away to a government oak, leafy and full, planted by the curb. Karras stepped into its cool shade.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. It was better there, standing in the darkness pooled beneath the tree.

The author would like to acknowledge Dream City, Harry S. Jaffe and Tom Sherwood’s extraordinary account of the rise and fall of Home Rule in Washington, D.C., as a major source of factual material in the writing of this novel.