Джордж Пелеканос: King Suckerman

“That’ll do it,” said Adamson.

“You bring gloves?”

“Three sets, in the pack.”

Clay said, “We best be on our way.”

Adamson reached up, steadied the droplight, counterclockwised the bulb a half turn. Karras was still staring at the gun in his hand, like he was wondering how it had gotten there, when the garage went to black.

By nightfall over a million people had converged on the Mall. Traffic below Pennsylvania Avenue, from 12th to 23rd, had come to a stop hours before, and the gridlock had begun to spread north. Motorists parked their cars and abandoned them on the 14th Street bridge, blocking a major route to and from Virginia; many Metrobuses stopped running, stranding riders well into the night; children’s faces, and the faces of their parents, were smashed up against the windows of the packed, newly opened Metro trains. A thousand boats floated in the Potomac River, their occupant’s eyes fixed on the darkening sky.

On 16th Street, the horns and raised voices of exasperated drivers could not make the traffic move.

“Better get over to Fourteenth,” said Karras. “Go south, then come on up Fifteenth to the Heights.”

Clay said, “Right.”

It took fifteen minutes to get around the block. Then they were on 15th and going up the hill, going slowly so as not to hit the pedestrians standing in the street. They heard a crack like summer thunder and saw a color mix reflected in the windshield’s glass.

“Fireworks have started,” said Karras.

“Yes they have,” said Clay.

“That’s the fireworks,” said Karras. “Isn’t it, Marcus?”

Clay said, “Relax.”

Clay stopped in front of Meridian Heights, let the motor run. People moved in and out of the shadows in the park to their left, laughing and shouting; sparklers sailed through the air, died before they hit the ground. On their right, the entrance to the condo building was lit and empty.

“That it over there?” said Adamson from the backseat as he tightened a pair of black driving gloves over his hands.

“That’s the place,” said Clay.

“Where you gonna park the Buick?”

“Be up a ways, on the street.”

“Anything else you need to tell me ’bout the setup?”

“I think I covered it.”

“I’ll be goin’ in first.”

“Figured you would.”

“Get that door opened for you.”

“Chain cutters are on the floor, Al.”

“Got ’em. Where you gonna be?”

“Me and Karras will be at the top of the stairwell, waitin’ on Cooper.”

“And I’ll be on the roof, backin’ you up.”

“Al?”

“No need to say nothin’, Marcus.”

“Go ahead, then, man.”

“Gonna get some,” said Adamson, clapping Karras on the shoulder before exiting the car.

They watched him move across the street, quick and low as a cat, the chain cutters in his hand, the asphalt beneath his feet flaring yellow from the fire of a rocket overhead. And then Adamson had vanished into the building just as quickly as he had sprung from the car.

“He can really move,” said Karras, the sound of his own voice calming his nerves. “I guess it came in handy for him over there.”

Clay stared at the entrance to Meridian Heights. “Yeah, he can move. Was always the first one in the jungle, too. Volunteered for the point every time. Never wanted to depend on no one else, I guess. You can’t fault him for it, though. I mean, after all, he managed to do something a lot of others didn’t do.”

“What’s that?”

“He came back alive.”

Karras looked at Clay. “You know something, Marcus? That’s the first time you ever talked to me about Vietnam.”

Clay shrugged. “First time you asked.”

He gave the Riviera gas and headed up 15th.

Marcus Clay parked the Riviera in front of a hydrant two blocks north. He killed the engine, slipped his hands into the black driving gloves, touched the handle of the door.

“You gonna leave it in a fire zone?” said Karras, gloving his own hands.

“Fuck it,” said Clay. “Ain’t no cop gonna bother with a parking violation tonight. Come on.”

They jogged down the block, took the steps up through the entrance to Meridian Heights. The lobby was quiet and buzzed with fluorescence. Clay noticed the security guard’s empty desk and chair; Tate had delivered on his promise.

“The elevator, Dimitri. Let’s go.”

They went through the open doors. The light was yellow in there, or it appeared that way, reflecting off the yellow walls, and the car bounced slightly as they stepped inside. Karras pushed the button for the top floor. The doors closed.

“It’s slow,” said Karras as the car ascended to the second floor.

“Counting on that,” said Clay, looking at his watch.

Karras drew the gun from behind his back. He hefted it in his hand.

“Marcus?”

“What?”

“I don’t even know what to do with this.”

“Like Al said, point it and shoot. And don’t be pullin’ that trigger or yanking back on it. Squeeze that trigger, hear?”

“When?”

“I’ll tell you when.”

The elevator came to a stop. Walking out into a gray-carpeted hallway, they came to a door with a flat black sign on it that read, “Roof.” Clay pushed on the door, and Karras followed.

They stood on a landing in a darkened stairwell. The stairwell ran floor to floor, descending to the ground level and beyond to the basement. Up above, on another landing at the end of a short flight of stairs, the door had been opened to the roof. Through the door they saw sparkling fingers of green and red reach out and then fade into the night.

“Up there,” said Clay.

They took the stairs up to the last landing. Clay found a light switch behind the door, flipped it. A forty-watt bulb washed anemic light onto the landing.

The padlock and broken chain lay coiled on the concrete. Clay kicked the chain against the wall.

“Where’s Al?” said Karras.

Clay said, “On the roof.”

A heavy sound echoed in the stairwell from far below, and then the indecipherable voices of two men.

“Get behind the door,” said Clay.

“Marcus,” said Karras. “I’m—”

“I know it, man,” said Clay. Before he extinguished the light he added, “I am, too.”

Ronald Thomas eased up on the accelerator as he neared Meridian Heights on 15th.

“Park this bitch on the street,” said Cooper.

“Right here?”

“Park it.”

Ronald double-parked beside a tricked-out Chevelle, hit the blinkers. Russell dumped a mound of blow onto the crook of his thumb, hit it all at once. He laid out a mound for his brother, and Ronald took it in. Russell wiped blood off his upper lip and stuffed the Baggie in the glove box.

“Y’all ready?” said Cooper.

“Readier than a motherfucker, man,” said Russell. His eyes were jittery and bright.

Cooper said, “Let’s take it to the bridge.”

They climbed out of the Dodge and crossed the street. B. R. Clagget ran alongside Cooper, the sawed-off pressed tightly against his leg. He caught his heel on a step leading into the building, and Cooper grabbed him under the arm to prevent his fall. Clagget felt light as paper in Cooper’s grasp.

“Come along,” said Cooper.

“I ain’t feelin’ so good, Wilton.”

In the fluorescence of the lobby, Clagget looked waxy and gray, the vomit of acne purple on his sunken cheeks.

“Never you mind. Soon as we get out of this town we gonna get you strong again.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, little brother. Tonight.”

Ronald and Russell stepped forward as they came to the open elevator.

“Uh-uh,” said Cooper. “You and your brother take the stairs.”