“That’s it?”
“Work and family.”
“No dreams?”
“I thought I wanted to write a book, once. And I tried it, quietly.” Alex bit on his lip. “I’ve never told anyone this. Never even told my wife. I got a few pages down on paper and I knew, reading it over, that I didn’t have the talent for it. You gotta admit who you are, right? You’ve got to be realistic.”
“So you’re sayin that you’re happy in your work.”
“Not exactly. I wouldn’t say happy. Resigned to it. I mean, what else am I gonna do? I didn’t graduate from college. I know how to run a small operation, but other than that I have no skills.” Alex shifted his weight in the seat. “Anyway. I guess I’m gonna find out what else is out there for me. I plan on handing over the reins of the coffee shop to my older son sometime soon.”
“The nice-looking young man I saw in the store?”
“Yeah, him.”
Alex hadn’t told Vicki yet. He hadn’t told Johnny. This was the first time he’d said it aloud, and it surprised him. He had no close male friends. He didn’t know why he was telling Raymond Monroe these things, except for the fact that he was comfortable with him. The man was easy to talk to.
“We’re near James’s job,” said Monroe. “He’s got a little apartment around here, too.”
Monroe cut the wheel. They were in Park View, between 13th and Georgia, going east on a side street. Monroe pulled the Pontiac to the curb, near a break in an alley, and let the car idle.
“Why are we stopping here?”
“I want to talk to you before we see James. The garage where he works is just down that alley.”
“But this is all residential.”
“The man who owns the garage got it zoned commercial through a grandfather clause. It’s not much of a shop. Unheated and un-air-conditioned. James only works on old cars’cause that’s the only kinda car he knows how to fix. He never did get updated on the new technology, computer diagnostics and the like. His boss knows he can’t get a job anywhere else and he treats him like it. James doesn’t make much more than minimum wage. But he’s working; that’s the important thing. The man needs to work.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“He still makes all kinds of bad decisions. He drinks too much beer, like our father did, and it alters his judgment. He stayed in contact with Charles Baker. And Charles . . . well, Charles got an influence on him.”
“Where is this going?”
“Charles had James help him write a note to your old friend Peter Whitten. Well, James kinda edited the note, see?”
“What kind of a note?” said Alex, hearing the impatience in his own voice.
“The kind asks for money. Charles wanted Whitten to know that if he didn’t pay, he was going to let that law firm he works at know all about his past. I’m talking about the incident in Heathrow Heights. Matter of fact, Charles had an appointment to meet with Whitten today. I don’t know how that went.”
“This is bullshit. How stupid is Baker? Pete’s not going to give him money to hush up something that happened thirty-five years go. I doubt Pete Whitten even cares if anyone knows about it.”
“I agree. But if Charles gets turned away, he might just come to you next.”
Alex nodded his head rapidly, coming to an understanding of something he did not care for. “You told me you reached out to me for some kind of closure.”
“I did. But now there’s this problem here I’ve got to deal with, too. I’m just being straight with you, man.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to meet my brother. I want you to see what he’s about. Once you do this, you’re gonna know that he’s not wrong. That he deserves a chance out here to find some peace.”
“Speak plainly, Mr. Monroe.”
“If Charles was to come to you and ask the same thing he’s asking of Whitten, I would hope that you wouldn’t go and get the law involved. Because of that note, that would land James right back in prison. And he cannot go back. He’s doing his best to stay right, Alex. He is.”
“You’re forgetting something,” said Alex. “Your brother killed my friend.”
“That’s right. Your friend is dead. Don’t think I’m brushing that aside or that I ever will. What I’m asking is for you to try and forgive.”
Alex looked away. He touched the wedding band on his finger and made a careless hand motion toward the head of the alley.
“We’re here,” said Alex. “Let’s go see your brother.”
“There’s no room in that alley for us to park,” said Monroe. “We’ll walk in.”
After locking the car, Monroe and Alex went down the alley on foot, along row house backyards, some paved, some grass and dirt, passing freestanding garages, shepherd mixes and pits behind chain-link fences, trash cans, and No Trespassing signs. They made a turn at the alley’s T and came to what looked like another residential garage showing an open bay door with a hand-lettered sign nailed above it. Written in red paint that had dripped, it read “Gavin’s Garage.” It looked like one of those Little Rascals signs, a clubhouse thing made by kids.
Inside the garage, crowded with tools and just large enough to hold one car, was a first-series, unrestored, gold-colored Monte Carlo, its hood up, its engine illuminated by a drop lamp whose cord was knotted on the bay door rails running overhead. Beside the Chevy stood a big man with a belly to match his size, in a blue work shirt, matching pants, and thick Vibram-soled shoes. On the shirt, the man’s first name, James, was stitched inside a white oval patch.
Raymond and Alex entered the garage. James Monroe stepped up to meet them. Alex noticed a bit of a limp in James’s slow gait. He had seen it in others who had bum hips.
“James,” said Raymond, “this is Alex Pappas.”
Alex put his hand out. James shook it weakly, looking Alex over with large bloodshot eyes. Alex did not speak, knowing that anything he said would sound trite.
“What are we supposed to do now?” said James to Raymond. “Sit around the campfire and sing a song?”
“Talk a little, is all,” said Raymond.
“I got to get to work on this MC,” said James. “Gavin gonna be in here any minute, asking why it’s not done.”
“Can’t you talk and work?”
“Better than you.”
“Go ahead, then. We won’t bother you.”
“There’s beer in that cooler,” said James, pointing to an ancient green metal Coleman set on the concrete floor. “Get me one, too.”
Raymond went to the Coleman to get his older brother a can of beer. James turned his attention to the car.
Eighteen
WHERE YOUR boy at?” said Charles Baker.
“I don’t know,” said Cody Kruger. “I called the shoe store and they said he left out early. Told them he had a stomachache or sumshit like that. I drove by his mom’s house earlier, but his car wasn’t out front.”
“I phoned his mother myself. She say she don’t know where he at.”
“He’ll turn up.”
“We don’t need his ass anyway.”
“For what?”
“For what we gonna do,” said Baker. “Put that joystick down and let’s talk.”
Kruger was seated on the couch in the apartment, playing The Warriors on Xbox. He liked the video game more than the movie because in the game there was more blood and the heroes could fuck up police. Kruger almost smiled when he heard Mr. Charles call the controller a joystick. But he didn’t smile, and he dropped the controller to the floor.
Baker had been pacing the room. Kruger could see from the tightness in his jaw that he was amped. He’d met a man earlier in the day, and the meet hadn’t gone well. That was all Mr. Charles had said. Cody knew not to push to find out why.
“Let me ask you somethin,” said Baker.
“All right.”
“You satisfied with all this here? All these things you got?”
“I’m doin okay.”
“But you could be doing better.”
“Sure. I plan to.”
“How you gonna get it?”
“Step it up, I guess.”
“How?”
Kruger’s mouth hung open stupidly.
“I’m here to tell you how,” said Baker. “That boy Dominique, the one who sell you your shit. Do you respect him? Is that the kind of man you gonna take orders from and look up to?”
“Not rilly.”
“I wouldn’t, neither. For the life of me, I can’t see why you let him talk to you the way he do. You smarter than him and you stronger than him. Ain’t you, Cody?”
“Yes.”
“What we gonna do is, we gonna pay that little motherfucker a visit. Tell him how things gonna be from here on out. Maybe take some of his shit on consignment, rearrange the terms of the relationship. How’s that sound to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. What are you, Cody?”
“I’m a man.”
“That’s right. Anyone can see that you are. Comes a time, a man got to decide who he is. Either you serve all your life or you become the other kind. My question to you is, you gonna serve bitches like Dominique or are you ready to be a king?”
Baker saw a light come to Kruger’s dull eyes.
“But what about Deon?” said Kruger.
“Fuck Deon, man. That boy got no ambition. But you do.”
Kruger stood, chest out.
“Get that thing,” said Baker. “We gonna need your iron.”
Kruger returned with a Glock 17, the MPD sidearm coveted by many young men in the District who fancied themselves outlaws. Guns were readily available to those who asked around. This one had been straw-purchased at a store on 28 South, between Manassas and Culpeper, in Virginia. It had then been sold to Kruger.
“Let me see that,” said Baker, taking the nine in hand. He checked the serial numbers to be sure that Kruger had not filed them down. It meant extra years if he were to be connected to a gun with shaved numbers. Baker gave the Glock back to Kruger, who slipped it into his dip.
“You ever have need of my gun,” said Kruger, “I keep it in my dresser drawer, underneath my boxers.”
Baker looked at Kruger, wearing his sweatshirt with the hood over his head, as he’d seen it done in videos. He reached out and pulled the hood down.
“You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, now, do you?”
“No, Mr. Charles.”
“You said you knew where Dominique stay at.”
“I do.”
Baker jerked his chin toward the front door. They left the apartment.
JAMES MONROE leaned on a shop rag draped over the lip of the Monte Carlo’s front quarter panel and unscrewed the wing nut atop its air filter. He dropped the nut onto the hat of the filter so he’d know where to find it later on, then pulled the filter up and free and set it aside without disconnecting it from its hose. The old Chevy’s carburetor was now in sight and serviceable.
“What you doing now, James?” said Raymond.
“Gonna adjust the air and fuel mix.”
“You already did the plugs and wires?”
“What do you think? Carb adjustment’s the last thing you do. I been telling you that for thirty-some-odd years.”
“James keeps my Pontiac correct,” said Raymond to Alex. “In exchange, I work on that hip of his.”
“You don’t work on it as good as I work on your vehicle.”
“This garage isn’t exactly the optimum place for man got a hip condition. You’re on your feet too much to begin with. Gavin ought to bring some heat in here, too.”
“I got that space heater,” said James, referring to a small unit, currently unplugged, sitting by the tool bench in the rear of the space.
“If it was worth a damn, you’d have it on.”
“Summer’s comin, anyway.”
“It ain’t here yet.”
Alex and Raymond were standing, as there was no room for chairs in the garage. Alex held a can of beer in hand, nursing it. Darkness had come, and with it the chill of a D.C. evening. It was mid-spring, but temperatures routinely dropped into the forties at night. Alex had erred in forgoing a jacket. He was cold and a bit dizzy. James had ignitioned the Chevy, and the smell of the exhaust was nauseating. Alex didn’t know how James could stand working here in these cramped and unhealthy conditions.
Alex stepped closer to the car. He watched as James attached a vacuum gauge to the intake manifold. His hands were raw and callused, with a dirty Band-Aid wrapped around one index finger.
“You see that Wizards game last night?” said James.
“West Coast games come on too late for me,” said Raymond. “But I read about it in the paper. Gilbert had forty-two. Sonics almost climbed back in it behind Chris Wilcox.”
“Yeah, but Agent Zero put the nail in the coffin with two seconds on the clock. They get Caron Butler back from that injury, they gonna go deep in the playoffs.’Cause when the defense double up on Gilbert, you gonna have two other weapons, Caron and Antawn, out on the perimeter, ready to score.”
“They ain’t going all that deep without a center,” said Raymond.
“Michael Jordan didn’t need an outstanding center to get the championship for the Bulls.”
“Gilbert ain’t Michael.”
“Hand me that ten-inch flat-head, Ray. It’s over there on the bench.”
Raymond went to the tool bench and retrieved a long-shafted flat-head screwdriver with a vinyl handle. James took it and fitted the head into the slot of one of two screws located on the lower face of the carburetor. He turned the screw clockwise until it was tight.
“Takes five outstanding players to win a championship,” said Raymond, intent on making his point.
“Not always,” said James, moving to the second screw and tightening it the same way he had the first. “Course, there was the old Knicks team, so there’s always an exception. The greatest starting five in the history of pro basketball.”
“Clyde Frazier and Earl Monroe,” said Raymond. “The Rolls-Royce backcourt.”
“Willis Reed,” said James, fitting the flat-head back into the slot of the first screw. “Dave DeBusschere.”
“Bill Bradley,” said Alex.
“Princeton boy,” said James, not turning away from his task. “Had that pretty jumper from the corner.”
“Frazier was the key, though,” said Raymond. “He won the ring with Dick Barnett beside him. He didn’t need Earl.”
“How about the seventy-three playoffs against the Lakers?” said James. “Jesus worked some miracles in that series.”
“Please,” said Raymond. “Clyde ran the offense and played tremendous D. He hawked that ball. You know this.”
“If you say,” said James. He began to reloosen the carburetor’s screws.
“Me and my brother been having this argument our whole lives,” said Raymond, smiling to himself. Alex saw his smile fade as they heard footsteps.
A security light came on outside, illuminating the alley. A short balding bantamweight with large ears under patches of kinky gray hair entered the garage. He quick-stepped past Raymond and Alex without acknowledging either of them, placed his hands on his hips, and stood next to the car. He looked like a child beside James.
“Is it done?” said the man.
“I’m close, Mr. Gavin,” said James. He was now slowly turning the screws counterclockwise.
“I told Mr. Court it would be ready by now.”
“Court said his gas mileage was off. New points and plugs alone are not gonna fix that. I gotta adjust the mix.”
“Just get it done, James. I’m not paying you to entertain company in here. Court’s on his way to pick up his car. I need it to be ready. Not tomorrow. Now.”
“It’ll be ready, Mr. Gavin.”
Gavin walked out without further comment. For several moments there was only the sound of the running
car in the garage. Alex was embarrassed for James Monroe.
“Two and a half,” said Raymond, breaking the tension. “Right, James?”
“That’s right.” He had turned the screws back two and one half times, and was now adjusting them in quarter-turn increments while listening to the engine.
“Mighty Mouse was a little short and to the point, wasn’t he?” said Raymond.
“He short,” said James with a chuckle. “Ain’t nobody gonna dispute that.”
“He got no reason to talk to you like that, either.”
“That’s his nature,” said James. “God made him little, and now he’s angry at me. Anyway, it’s work. It isn’t supposed to be easy or fun.”
As James turned the carburetor screw, the engine sputtered.
“Too far,” said Raymond.
“Right,” said James. He readjusted the screw, and the engine began to run smoothly. He tinkered with it a little bit more, and it ran smoother still. “It’s singin now.”
“I don’t hear nothin,” said Raymond.
“Exactly,” said James.
James took a long swig of beer. He put the can down, removed the vacuum gauge from the intake manifold, and reached for the air filter. He began to fit it back atop the carb.
“You hear Luther Ingram passed?” said James.
“ ‘If loving you is wrong,’ ” said Raymond, “ ‘I don’t want to be right.’ ”
“ ‘If being right means being without you,’ ” said James, “ ‘I’d rather be wrong than right.’ ”
“Straight-up beautiful,” said Raymond. “Nineteen seventy-three.”
“It was seventy-two, stupid.”
“Why you always got to teach me?”
“I’m just sayin.”
“It was one of those cheatin-is-good songs that were popular back then. Remember?”
“ ‘Me and Mrs. Jones,’ ” said James.
“Billy Paul,” said Alex. “That was seventy-two as well.”
James was replacing the wing nut on the air filter. He stopped for a moment, turned his head slightly, and looked at Alex out of the corner of his eye.
“My father had a radio in the coffee shop when I was kid,” said Alex. “He kept the dial on WOL. For the help.”
The Turnaround Page 17