The Way Home

by George Pelecanos

“What, then?”

  “Maybe they went out together and were spending the money. Maybe they ran their mouths off at a club or during a card game. Lawrence could have been braggin on what he had. Or someone thought the cash was Ben’s and tried to take him off.”

  “That’s thin.”

  “Shit, Ali, I don’t know what I’m talkin about. I’m sayin there might be some kind of connection.”

  “You’re speculating.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you need to talk to Lawrence. I know you don’t like to, but there it is. And if Lawrence does know something, he needs to tell it to the law.”

  “Right.”

  Ali looked at his friend. “What else you got on your mind?”

  “I don’t know,” said Chris. “It’s like a finger is tapping the side of my head, trying to remind me that… I know something, Ali. Damn if I can remember it.”

  “You will.”

  They came off the Beltway and headed down Colesville Road toward the District line, traffic gathering thickly around them. Oddly, the congestion made them both more comfortable.

  “Any plans for Ben’s funeral?” said Ali.

  “My father is taking care of it,” said Chris. “When the police release the body, my dad is gonna have Ben cremated over at Rapp. He’s getting him a spot at Rock Creek Cemetery.”

  “That’s where Ben got took, right?”

  “Yeah. My father spoke to that homicide detective, and she said that the Rock Creek security guard recalled an old black sedan leaving out the place at the end of the night. He didn’t happen to see if Ben was inside it. He didn’t say that he found it suspicious at the time. He just remembered it ’cause it was the last car out.”

  “Safe to say that it started there, though.”

  “But it wouldn’t have changed Ben’s opinion of the cemetery. That was his spot. It’s where he would have wanted to be buried.”

  “I thought you had to be rich or connected to get put in that place,” said Ali.

  “So did I. But my father looked into it and found something that was available. Like anything else, all it takes is money. It’s not gonna be a fancy monument or in the prime section of the grounds. It’ll prob’ly be a small marker, something like that. Important thing is, Ben will be there.”

  “That can’t be cheap.”

  “It’s thousands.”

  “Your father’s a good man,” said Ali.

  “He’s like most people,” said Chris. “He’s trying to be good, and most times he is.”

  “Like you.”

  “But he wanted me to be better than him. Turns out I was human, just like him.”

  “That’s behind y’all.”

  “It is for me.”

  “YOU GONNA lie there all day?” said Marquis Gilman.

  “I might,” said Lawrence Newhouse. He was on his single bed, on his back, in the room he shared with Terrence and Loquatia. Marquis had entered the room, held aside the privacy sheet, and stood at the foot of Lawrence’s bed.

  “Let’s go shoot around some.”

  “Nah, I’m too tired.”

  Marquis could see that Lawrence’s eyes were pink. He hated to think that his uncle had been crying.

  “Mama told me ’bout your friend.”

  “Uh.”

  “You know who did the thing?”

  “No.”

  “Whoever did it needs to be got.”

  Lawrence turned his head sharply toward Marquis. “That ain’t for you to speak on, boy.”

  Marquis looked down at his Nikes. “I didn’t mean nothin.”

  Lawrence’s eyes softened. “This is on me.”

  “You not workin today?”

  “I’m done with it.”

  “ ’Cause I could help you.”

  “I don’t want you washin cars. You better than that. I’m still tryin to get you hooked up with my mans. You could learn the carpet trade, ’stead of doin mule stuff.”

  “I’m sayin, I can work.”

  “Go on, Marquis. Go play ball.”

  Marquis left the room.

  Lawrence Newhouse hadn’t washed and detailed one car since he’d taken the money. The young man he worked with, Deon Miller, was upset with him, because together they’d built up a nice little business. But he couldn’t tell Deon why he’d lost his ambition. He’d known Deon since he was a kid, growing up at Parkchester, and smoking weed one day on Stevens Road, they’d made grandiose plans about this thing they were going to do, starting small and ending, in their minds, with a string of locations in Southeast and PG. They’d be known as the entrepreneurs who owned the spots to get the nicest cars in D.C. cleaned and shined. They’d be to cars what Murray was to steaks.

  It hadn’t turned out so big, but they’d done all right.

  Lawrence and Deon took their business to the car owners. They used grocery carts they’d stolen from the Giant, and stocked them with everything needed to impress. Lawrence would go to the big auto parts store, buy their cheap house brands of liquid detergent, wax, wheel cleaner, and tire shine, and pour them into empty bottles of recognizable brand names, like Armor All and Black Magic, that he’d found in the trash. They called their business Elite Shine. If they had a sign, it would have read, “Only the finest materials used to detail the very finest cars.” Lawrence had thought of that when he was high.

  They were getting a rep around Southeast. Seeing the same customers getting their cars done. What they called “repeat clientele.” So it was natural that, just as they were beginning to lift off, Deon would be disturbed and disappointed when Lawrence told him that he didn’t want to work no more.

  “What, you just gonna give up on everything we built up?” said Deon.

  Lawrence said, “I’m retired,” and left it at that.

  That was before Ben got done. Now that he was gone, nothing mattered. Not even the money.

  Lawrence draped his forearm over his eyes. He was sweating and he could smell his own stink.

  Why would someone do his boy like that?

  Why? was the first question. Then came, Who?

  Lawrence burned to know.

  CHRIS FLYNN returned to his apartment, put his shoes neatly under his bed, changed his clothes, and went to sleep. When he woke, the bedroom had darkened. He went to the window and opened the blinds and saw that it was night. He had slept heavily for several hours and could not recall if he had dreamed.

  Chris phoned Katherine. She asked if he wanted company, and he said that he preferred to be alone. It was not that he did not want to see her. He knew that he would not be good with anyone tonight.

  “I’m worried about you,” said Katherine.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” said Chris.

  He showered, microwaved a Celeste pizza, and ate it standing up. He thought of smoking some marijuana he kept in his nightstand but decided against it. His head would be up for a while, but then he’d get to that overthinking phase, and he didn’t want that. He grabbed a few bottles of Budweiser out of the refrigerator and put them in a six-pack-sized cooler, along with some ice. He dropped his cell into the pocket of his shorts and left his apartment.

  Out on the front porch of the bungalow, Andy Ladas, the black-haired, middle-aged tenant of the three-family home, was sitting in a high-backed chair, drinking an Anchor Steam and smoking a Winston. Beside him was a steel stand-up ashtray of the type once common in barbershops. This was Ladas’s position and activity for a couple of hours every night.

  “Hey, Andy.”

  “Chris.”

  “We alone?”

  “The kids got a gig,” said Ladas. He was referring to the musician couple, Tina and Doug Gibson, who had the top floor. They were older than Chris but did not look it.

  “Case you fall asleep with that cigarette in your hand and catch fire, I’ll be out back.”

  The house was on a corner of the street, at an intersection featuring a four-way stop that was frequently ignored. There was a police station n
earby, and it seemed the main offenders were cops. They were the most aggressive speeders, too. Neighborhood activists had petitioned for road humps to slow the cruisers down, which had improved things slightly.

  Chris walked through the side yard to the back, where he put down the cooler and took a seat in a green metal rocking chair beside a brick grill. The yard went deep and it had been landscaped by the Gibsons and maintained by all the tenants. It was a nice spot, and he frequently sat here on summer nights. With a view unencumbered by the branches of trees overhead, he could look up at the stars. The sky was clear, and the moon cast a pearl glow on the property.

  Chris drank a beer. He thought of Ben and the day at Pine Ridge, and as the alcohol kissed him he felt his shoulders relax. He tossed the first bottle into the grass and reached into the cooler for another. He twisted off its top and emptied its neck.

  Chris heard a vehicle come to a stop and looked to his right. An old black sedan had parked on the street and its engine died.

  Chris reached into his pocket, retrieved his cell, and flipped it open, its buttons and screen illuminated. Because he was of a generation that was dexterous with keyboards, he quickly found the contact he was searching for.

  Two men, one large and one small, got out of the car, crossed the street, and walked toward him in the yard. Chris studied them and continued to text with his fingers.

  He was not thinking of police. He was a boy, and he was calling his father.

  He typed the words I’m at home.

  And: Signal 13.

  TWENTY-THREE

  THE LARGE man wore a windbreaker over a T-shirt and jeans. The small man wore black. They stood before Chris Flynn, still seated in his chair. Chris had slipped his cell back into his pocket. He held a beer bottle loosely in his right hand.

  “Get up,” said Sonny. “Let’s take a ride.”

  Chris slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “We need to have a talk.”

  “We’re talking now.”

  “Not here,” said Sonny.

  Chris’s eyes disconnected from Sonny’s. He drank slowly from his bottle of beer.

  “Get up,” said Wayne.

  Chris looked at him blankly. Wayne’s brush mustache seemed to spring from inside his nostrils and lay beneath a flat nose in a deeply lined, imploding face. He appeared to be rotting. His wiry arms were dominated by ink.

  “What do you want?” said Chris, returning his gaze to the big man with the walrus whiskers and high cheekbones.

  “Somethin that’s mine,” said Sonny.

  “What would that be?”

  “Try to tell me you don’t know.”

  “I’m not playing this game,” said Chris.

  “You will.”

  “You’re trespassing.”

  “Fuck you, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

  Chris looked at him with lazy green eyes.

  The big man held one hand out to Chris and turned it into the shine of moonlight. Chris saw a tattoo on the crook of it.

  “You know what this is?” said Sonny.

  “Prison ink,” said Chris.

  “What, specific?”

  “It’s a four-leaf clover.”

  Sonny breathed out heavily in exasperation. Chris thought he saw the little one smile.

  “It’s a shamrock,” said Sonny Wade. “You ride with the rock, means you’re part of a special club. You know what that club is?”

  “The dick suck club,” said Chris.

  Wayne grinned and giggled. Sonny’s smile showed perfect ugly teeth, gray in the light.

  A car drove by and they all went silent.

  “Let’s just get this done,” said Sonny, and he reached into his windbreaker.

  “I wouldn’t,” said Chris. “Whatever you got inside that jacket, you pull it out, it’s a mistake.”

  Sonny kept his hand where it was but made no move to pull his gun. “I said, let’s walk.”

  “I’m not goin anywhere with you.”

  “How ’bout I just murder your ass right here?”

  “You’ll lose what you’re after.”

  “Chris Carpet,” said Wayne. “Boy thinks he’s a real tough nut.”

  Chris felt the blood leave his face.

  “Shut up, stupid,” said Sonny.

  A Montgomery County police cruiser drove by on the road beside the house. No one spoke, and the car passed from sight. Sonny’s black eyes flickered and he moved his hand. Chris saw the grip of a pistol inch out from the jacket.

  “There a problem here?”

  Andy Ladas emerged from the shadows of the side yard and stood well back from the two men. In his hand was a flipped-open cell.

  “Chris,” said Andy. “Is there a problem?”

  “Is there?” said Chris, staring into Sonny’s eyes.

  Sonny’s hand came empty out of his jacket and he dropped it to his side. He looked at Wayne and nodded shortly.

  Sonny looked down at Chris. “See you around, fella.”

  Sonny walked out of the yard, his little partner creeping along beside him. Chris heard car doors open and slam, and the turn of an engine. He heard the creak of worn shocks and watched the old black sedan roll down the street.

  “How long were you back there, Andy?”

  “I came off the porch soon as I seen those two walk back into the yard. Those guys didn’t look right.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Most of it. I was about to call nine-one-one.”

  “Wasn’t any need for that. But thanks.” Chris stood from his chair and killed the beer left in the bottle. He tossed it on the ground and noticed that his hand was shaking. He picked up the cooler and gripped its handle tight.

  “You all right?” said Ladas.

  “Yeah,” said Chris. “When my dad comes, don’t speak on any particulars. Just tell him I’m inside.”

  He walked toward the bungalow, using his damp T-shirt to wipe away the sweat that had broken on his face.

  * * *

  THOMAS FLYNN arrived shortly thereafter and parked Amanda’s SUV sloppily on the road, one set of tires up on the curb. He jogged across the yard to the front porch of the bungalow, where Andy Ladas sat, working on another beer and a smoke. Flynn was winded and his color was up. His shirttails were out, covering the .38 he had holstered at the small of his back.

  “Is Chris all right?”

  “Yes,” said Ladas.

  “What’s happening here?”

  “Couple of guys were talkin to Chris outside.” Ladas cut his eyes away from Flynn’s. “That’s all I know. They’re gone and he’s fine.”

  Flynn went into the house. He stepped to the door of Chris’s apartment and turned the knob without knocking. It was a small place consisting of a bedroom, living room, kitchenette, and head. From behind the closed bathroom door he could hear the run of a shower. Flynn had a seat in a cushiony chair. He looked up at the crowded bookshelves. On the small table beside him lay a bookmarked copy of Wartime by Paul Fussell.

  The shower shut off. Soon Chris stepped out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist.

  “Dad.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “I’m good.”

  “You’re so good, why’d you send me that code?”

  “Can I dry my hair off and put some pants on?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “There’s beer in the refrigerator, you want one.”

  Flynn found a bottle of Budweiser and uncapped it while Chris changed. He drank off a good piece of it standing up and finished it sitting in the same chair.

  He’s taking his time, thought Flynn. He’s figuring out his story and his lies.

  Flynn went back to the refrigerator and got another beer. He was drinking it when Chris stepped barefoot into the room, wearing jeans and a wife beater. His hair had been towel dried and left uncombed. The look on his face was clever and annoyed, as it had been when he was a teen. As if he was expecting a tongue-lashing from
his father, was prepared to take it, and would give up nothing in return.

  “Well?” said Flynn.

  Chris pushed hair back behind his ears. “Couple of dudes came by to speak with me about somethin. I thought there was gonna be trouble, but I was wrong. I apologize for bothering you.”

  “What did they want?”

  “I owe them money,” said Chris. “I get into these card games sometimes. Texas hold ’em, like you see on ESPN. Only these are played in basements around town. I was into those two for a coupla thousand dollars.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It was a card debt.”

  “No, it wasn’t. You’re lying. Don’t forget who you’re talking to, son. I had years and years of experience watching you lie to me. You don’t look any different to me right now than you did when you were sixteen.”

  “I’m telling you how it was. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Say the truth. You sent me that signal. If it was nothing, you could have handled it yourself. If you needed just a little help you could have called the police. Shit, the station house is right up the street.”

  “I wouldn’t call the police,” said Chris.

  “I forgot,” said Flynn. “You don’t talk to the po-leece.”

  “That’s not necessary,” said Chris, and he left the room to get himself a beer.

  When he returned, his father was staring down at his shoes.

  “I’m sorry,” said Flynn. “I was out of line.”

  Chris dragged a chair beside his father and had a seat. Flynn popped the knuckles of his left hand with his right.

  “Calm down, Dad.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know I’m tryin.”

  “I do.”

  “I go to work every day. I pretty much play by the rules. But you know, some things, some of the bad habits I picked up along the way, and especially the experience of being locked up—”

  “I know. It’s hard to shake.”

  “Me and Ali went out to Pine Ridge today. Ali had some work stuff to take care of out there, and I joined him. Bein back in my unit, looking into my cell, it hit me kinda hard. It’s tough to get that monster off your back. Wasn’t easy for Ben, either.”

  “You telling me that you and Ben slipped back into some criminal thing?”

  “No. I already told you; Ben didn’t do anything wrong.”