HIS MOTHER still lived in the house in which he’d been raised, a yellow bungalow with a deep backyard, set on the crest of a hill. Lucas’s father, who knew many contractors, had blown out the back of the house and raised its roof as their family eventually grew to six. The home’s renovation had rendered it architecturally incorrect, but it suited their needs.
Lucas parked and walked toward the house, noting that Leo’s car, a Hyundai something-or-other, was on the street. Two dogs, Cheyenne and Yuma, began to bark exuberantly behind the screen door as Lucas approached. Both were mixed breed, short haired, and on the large side, with tan-yellow coats. Cheyenne had a Lab’s head on a boxer’s body; Yuma was mostly Lab. Eleni Lucas had adopted them at the Humane Society on Georgia at Geranium, against Van’s fake protests. Shilo, now gone, a yellow Lab-pit mix, had been their first. Eleni was the type to bring in anyone, human or animal, who needed a home. Despite his mostly feigned gruff exterior, Van Lucas had been that kind of person, too.
“Out the way, dogs,” said Lucas as he entered the house, nudging Yuma, the younger and more boisterous of the two, aside with his knee. He patted them and rubbed behind their ears as they flanked him, their tails wagging and windmilling as they walked into the small living room. On the mantel above a brick fireplace sat photographs of their large and scattered family: Irene, now an attorney in San Francisco, the Lucases’ oldest, their sole biological child, distant geographically and emotionally; Dimitrius, a longtime drug addict and thief, in and out of lockup, who only called his mother when he needed cash, currently in the wind, location unknown; and Leo and Spero, the two siblings who had stayed nearby. Their photos ranged from toddler to adult: Leo in a basketball uniform, Spero in wrestling singlet, Leo with his students, Spero in his dress blues. Scattered among photos of their children were those of Van and Eleni: shaggy haired and pink-eyed in the seventies; Van leaning on the bed of his Silverado at a job site; the two of them walking arm-in-arm out the doors of St. Sophia after their wedding ceremony, smiling, ducking rice; and the various group family portraits, the frames of the photographs progressively crowded as new babies and dogs arrived, the parents looking increasingly older, tired but happy, an odd-looking bunch to outsiders but perfectly normal to them—two Greek American adults, two black kids, two white kids, and various yellow mutts.
“Everything’s all right now,” said Spero, walking into the kitchen. “I’m here.”
“The prodigal son,” said Leo.
Spero noticed a bunch of white and yellow daisies that Leo, no doubt, had brought lying on the counter. Eleni was standing before the island Van had promised and delivered when he redid the kitchen. On the granite surface was a glass of red wine.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Hi, honey.”
She kissed him on the cheek and they hugged. Eleni was in her early sixties, with dark hair, lively hazel eyes, and a full figure. She had put on ten pounds in her fifties, but it had stopped there. Her neck had begun to turkey. She was a lovely woman, but laugh lines and grief had marked her face, and she looked her age.
“We need a vase for those flowers,” said Eleni.
“I’ll get it,” said Leo. They had only one and he knew where it was. The tallest in the family at six-foot-one, Leo was the go-to guy for items placed on the cabinet’s top shelf.
“You boys want a beer?” said Eleni.
“I’m all right for now,” said Spero.
“I got that Stella you like.”
“All right.”
“Leo?” said Eleni.
“He’d prefer a microbrew,” said Spero.
“Screw you, malaka.”
“Leonidas,” said Eleni.
Malaka meant “jerkoff.” It was a noun and oddly enough was used as a term of endearment for Greeks.
“I’ll have a Stella, Mom,” said Leo.
She got them a couple of beers out of the side-by-side and popped the caps. They could have gotten the beer themselves, but it pleased their Greek mother to serve them. By the time she handed them the bottles, they were commenting on each other’s sartorial choices, an inevitable progression of their conversation.
“You didn’t have to dress up for Mom,” said Leo.
Spero was in his usual 501s, low black Adidas Forums on his feet. He pinched a piece of his long-sleeve Bud Ekins T and held it out. “Johnson Motors,” he said, a bit hurt. “Special order out of California.”
“Look more like General Motors to me. You wear that to the factory? When you’re carryin your lunch pail?”
“Least I’m not wearing the tablecloth from an Italian restaurant,” said Spero.
“It’s gingham, Spero.” Leo was particular about his clothing. He favored Hickey Freeman suits and Brooks Brothers casual when he could afford it. He was impeccably groomed and, with liquid brown eyes and an easy smile, handsome as a movie star.
“Last time I saw one of those, it had spaghetti sauce on it.”
“You’re confusing my shirt with your undershirt.”
“Are you two hungry?” said Eleni. “Or do you want to wait?”
“What are we havin, Ma?”
“Kota me manestra,” said Eleni.
“I’m ready now,” said Leo.
“Set the table, then,” said Eleni. Before the words finished leaving her mouth, her sons had begun to mobilize.
THEY ATE dinner at a glass-top table on the screened-in porch out back. Golden time had come and gone and dusk had arrived. Eleni had lit candles and the dogs slept beneath the table. The diners were high above the yard at tree level, and branches and leaves brushed at the screen. A half mile over the District line and they were in a canopy of green.
The table was heavy with food. In the center sat a whole chicken roasted with garlic and lemon on a bed of orzo in tomato sauce, a large bowl of salad, bread, and a plate of tarama, olives, and feta cheese.
Eleni poured herself another glass of wine. Spero and Leo were still working on their first beers.
“Pass me that manestra,” said Leo.
“Again?” said Spero.
“I can’t stop eating it, man.”
“Fas na pachinis,” said Eleni.
“He’s already grown, Ma,” said Spero, passing the orzo to Leo. “He’s not gonna get taller if he eats more, he’s just gonna get fat.”
“Do you see any fat on me?” said Leo. “Do you?”
“A little in your peesheenaw,” said Spero. He was speaking of Leo’s behind.
“You were givin it a good inspection, huh?”
“You can’t help but see it. It’s like a billboard.”
“That’s all muscle back there,” said Leo. “That’s why I can’t wear those skinny Levi’s like you do. I got a man’s build.”
“Your father used to tell me to buy you Lees,” said Eleni, looking at Leo. “And he’d say, get Levi’s for Spero.”
“Lees had more room in the back,” said Spero helpfully. “To accommodate your manly build.”
“In the front, too,” said Leo.
“Stop it,” said Eleni. “More salata, Spero?”
“Entaxi,” said Spero, telling her that he was fine.
They spoke a combination of Greek and English when they were home. It made their mother happy. Neither Spero nor Leo was Greek by blood, but, somewhat defiantly, they considered themselves to be honorary Greeks. Both were Orthodox, raised in the church. Of the four Lucas children, they were the ones who had attended Greek school, an after-public-school program, when they were young, which they loathed at the time but which paid off with dividends later on. Both had played basketball in the Greek Orthodox Youth of America league as well. Spero had been a wrestler primarily but was a strong athlete and had held his own on the courts. Leo had been a standout point guard in high school, and in the church league he tore it up. He was thirty years old, and it had been twelve years since he had last played GOYA, but in the Baltimore-Washington corridor Greek guys of his generation, even those who had cursed him at one time,
and a few who had muttered racial epithets under their breath at him, now spoke of Mavro Leo with reverence.
“Your sister called me,” said Eleni.
“Epitelos,” said Spero. It meant, roughly, that it was about time.
“What’d she want?” said Leo.
“Just to catch up,” said Eleni, noticing the look between Leo and Spero. Irene, the eldest of the siblings, rarely called home and visited even less frequently. She had made her break from the family long ago and had not looked back. As for Dimitrius, their older brother, Eleni knew not to mention his name in front of her younger sons. Leo in particular had no love for his older brother, whom he simply called the Degenerate, and couldn’t forgive the stress he had put on their parents. Leo didn’t care about his whereabouts or how he was doing. Eleni, of course, had forgiven Dimitrius for everything and would have embraced him without reservation if he were to walk through the front door. She didn’t speak on Dimitrius to Spero and Leo, but he was still in her thoughts constantly, and she prayed for him every day.
“What’s goin on with Irene?” said Spero, not much caring, appeasing his mother.
“She just won a case. Some corporate thing.”
“Big money,” said Leo.
“I suppose.” Eleni had a sip of wine, looked at the glass, and killed what was left. “How’s work going, Leo?”
“Good,” said Leo. “I got this class, all boys. I’m really enjoying it, and I think they are, too.” He looked at Spero. “You’re coming to visit, right?”
“For career day?”
“We don’t call it that. I bring in people who have had success, from different backgrounds, to show the boys their options. You got a story, man.”
“I’ll come in if you want me to.” Spero pushed his plate away. “What are they reading in your class, The Scarlet Letter, somethin like that?”
“We’re finishing up an Elmore Leonard,” said Leo.
“Which one?”
“Unknown Man #89.”
“Good one.”
“Hell, yeah.”
“You can do that?”
“I gotta clear it, but I can teach pretty much any book I want.”
“You’re enjoying it,” said Eleni.
“I am,” said Leo. “I found my calling.”
“Better watch out for the big boss,” said Spero. “That superintendent gets a wild hair up her ass and you might be out on the street.”
“She’s not gonna fire me, man,” said Leo. “I do my job.”
“What about you, Spero?” said Eleni, her eyes slightly unfocused. “How’s things?”
“I’m busy.”
“Working on anything in particular?”
“Nothing serious,” said Spero, not wishing to worry his mother. “A little bit of this and that.”
THE MEN had cleared the table and were sitting back out on the porch. Eleni was in the kitchen washing dishes, nipping at another glass of wine. Dark had come to the backyard, the lights from the candles moving across their faces with the passing breeze.
“So who was that woman at your apartment when I called?” said Spero.
“Girl name Kyra. She’s all right.”
“Stray cat or house cat?”
“Stray.”
“What about that teacher at your school?”
“We still hang out,” said Leo. “You seein that lawyer?”
“She’s not a lawyer yet. I like her.”
“How much?”
“We’re having a nice time.” Spero looked through the open French doors of the screened porch to the kitchen. “Mom’s hitting it pretty good tonight.”
“She’s happy we’re here.”
“You think it’s that? That this is a special night for her and she’s having an extra couple of glasses to celebrate? Or do you think that it’s like that every night for her?”
“I don’t know,” said Leo. “Gotta be hard for her to navigate her life without Dad. To figure out where it’s going next. I think you oughtta, you know, lighten up some. Let her flounder a little if that’s what she needs to do. If that means an extra glass of wine or two a night, so be it.”
“If Dad was here, the TV would be on right now. Mom would be with him, watching one of his westerns or karate movies, keeping him company. Even though she had no interest at all.”
“Chinese Connection,” said Leo. “That was one he liked.”
“Pop loved that fight in the yard between Bruce Lee and Robert Baker.”
“He was into Baker. Maybe ’cause he looked a little like him.”
“But the best fight scene was the locker room fight in Game of Death,” said Lucas. “Bob Wall played Carl Miller, remember?”
“That picture was some bullshit, though,” said Leo. “Bruce Lee was dead when they put that together. Matter of fact, they cut in doubles for most of that movie, man. That’s Scott Baio, or whatever his name is, fightin in that locker room scene. It sure ain’t Bruce.”
“Yuen Biao,” said Lucas. “I’m sayin, that was Dad’s favorite fight because of what Bruce says after he wastes the guy: ‘You lose, Carl Miller.’ ”
Leo chuckled. “That’s right.”
“Pop would say that to us when we were playing hoops in the driveway. After he’d score or block our shots. ‘You lose, Carl Miller.’ ”
“I remember.”
Spero folded his hands across his midsection. “I went and saw him the other day.”
“Yeah?”
“I go by there pretty often.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m still…”
“What?”
“I still struggle with it, man.”
“I know you do.”
“Him being there and all.”
“I know.”
“All last winter, when we got those big snows, and I’d think of him buried under it. Frozen. Or when it rains real hard, and I know the ground is full of water…”
“Spero.”
“I see him, Leo. Inside that dark box.”
“Stop.”
“You think I’m nuts.”
“No. But you gotta get right with this.”
“You never go to the cemetery, do you?”
“I haven’t been since the funeral,” said Leo.
“Well, I didn’t get to go to his funeral,” said Spero. “I was in Iraq, remember?”
“Wasn’t any way for you to get back. Me and him talked about it. He understood.”
“Maybe that’s why I keep visiting him. I didn’t get to say good-bye.”
“Look,” said Leo. “Do you know why I don’t go to Glenwood?”
“I think so.”
“Damn right you do. You been hearing Father John and Father Steve preach about it our whole lives. The reason I don’t go to that graveyard is because Dad’s not there. I don’t stress on him being cold or wet, or his state of decomposition, because that is not my father in that grave. That’s just a shell. He went from this good life to a glorious life. Hear?”
“If you say so.”
“You can’t be beating up on yourself for not being here when he was dying. Dad was proud of you, man.”
“I hope so,” said Spero, a catch in his voice.
“And you can’t undo his death, any more than you can shake the grief out of Mom. You’re always trying to fix shit, Spero. Like when you enlisted in the Marine Corps, and I asked you why. You said, ‘I’ve got to do something.’ ”
“I felt the need to.”
“But this is not that. And it’s not one of your cases that you treat like a puzzle to solve. You can’t draw a diagram in that book of yours and fix our mother or your guilt. It’s not something you can win. You need to let it work its way out.”
“Okay, Leo. Okay.”
Cheyenne came back out on the porch, got under the table, and dropped to the wood floor, resting against Spero’s feet.
“You know that thing I took on?” said Spero.
“You mean the weed dealer?�
�
“The guys who worked for him had that package delivered to a home on a street right across from your school.”
“On Clifton?”
“Twelfth.”
“Odd place for them to do it,” said Leo. “All that law around.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“How old are those guys?”
“Round twenty, I guess,” said Spero.
“There you go,” said Leo.
“What?”
“You’re looking for logic,” said Leo. “They’re still kids.”
FIVE
IN THE morning, Lucas drew a crude sketch in his notebook of the eighteen residences on the 2500 block of 12th Street, Northwest. The row houses were depicted as simple adjoining squares in which he wrote address numbers, leaving room for the names of the owners.
He left his apartment, got into his Jeep, and went up to the Shepherd Park library on Georgia. The computers there were occupied by surfers who did not look as if they would be relinquishing their spots any time soon, so he drove to the nearest big-box office supply store and paid a rental fee for the use of a PC. He typically did the bulk of his investigative work on his laptop at home, using programs like People Finder, but he was about to use a public site and didn’t want to leave an electronic trail.
In a private stall, he got to work. He went to the D.C. government website, which was helpfully located under dc.gov. Above a blank box was the question, “What can we help you find?” and in the box Lucas typed, “research real property” and hit “enter.” This took him to the Real Property Tax Database Search. In the search box on that page he typed in the address on 12th Street to which the package of marijuana had been shipped. He got the name of the owner, the lot number, the current assessed value of the property, the last sale date, and the last sale price. The owner’s name was Lisa Weitzman. Lucas guessed that a person with the surname Weitzman would not be black, though it was possible, or Hispanic, which was even less likely. The last sale date of the property, 2008, told him that she was a newer resident and, in keeping with the recent history of the rapidly gentrified neighborhood, probably on the young side, and white. The assessed value of the house was currently a hundred thousand dollars below her purchase price; she had bought at the height of the market, before property values dipped. What the database did not tell him was whether she lived there; it listed owners, not tenants. But the data was valuable and had been easy to obtain.
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