“How’s Dominique?” said Markos.
“Stayin at my parents’ for the time being. He don’t want to be at his apartment right now. He might be out for good. I don’t know.”
“We can get someone else to move weight for us.”
“I agree.”
“Question is, what are we gonna do about our problem?”
“The old man damn near ass-raped my kid brother. The white boy held a gun on him and watched.”
“ ‘Damn near’ ain’t rape.”
“That’s a hair so fine you can’t split it. Tell that shit to Dominique.”
“What about the other one they were in with?”
“Deon? Dominique says he wasn’t involved. We been tryin to reach him to confirm that, but he’s not taking his calls. That cell probably ringin at the bottom of the Anacostia River right now. If he’s smart, he dumped it on the way out of town. But I’m not worried about him. It’s the other two.”
“Comes back to the original question: what are we gonna do?”
Markos dragged on his cigar and looked at his friend. Both of them were tough and skilled fighters who in their youth had regularly taken home trophies from the Capitol Classic, the annual martial-arts tournament held at the old D.C. Convention Center. They had never run from any type of physical challenge or confrontation. But this was different, a step they had yet to take. Neither of them saw it as a moral decision. They simply loved their lifestyle and did not want to endanger it with the possibility of prison.
“I talked to Alan,” said Calvin. Alan was in security management at a club they frequented. He had a personal history that connected him to the underworld of the city to the north.
“And he said what?”
“He said these boys would take a lethal injection before they gave us up. That promise and the way they carry it is how they grow their business.”
“Is this what you want to do?”
“Don’t put it all on me,” said Calvin. “I need you to say you good with this, too.”
Markos nodded at the RAZR lying on the table. “Make the call.”
Calvin flipped open his cell.
“HOW LONG we gonna sit here?” said Cody Kruger.
“Not too long, I expect,” said Charles Baker.
“You know this is his house?”
“The people-find site brought me here. There were three Alexander Pappases in the area, but only one the right age. And this is near where he grew up at. Got to be him.”
“Okay, but why you think he’s gonna come outside?”
“Because I’m smart,” said Baker. “Tomorrow is trash pickup day in Montgomery County. You see all those cans and recycling bins out by the curb?”
Kruger said, “Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Alex Pappas ain’t brought his out yet. But he will. All these suburbanites do it the night before, so they don’t have to fuck with it in the morning.”
They had been on the street for an hour or so. Because no one was walking through the clean middle-class neighborhood and many of the homes had gone dark, it seemed very late. Rain had fallen, and in its aftermath the streetlamps were haloed with rainbows and mist.
“Why don’t you just go and knock on the man’s door?”
“’Cause I could pull a trespassing charge,” said Baker patiently. “I get to him out on the street, that’s public property.”
A car rolled down the road behind them, its headlights sweeping the interior of the Honda. Baker and Kruger watched it pass and slow down, then come to a stop at the curb in front of the Pappas residence. It was a light blue Acura coupe, well maintained; a woman’s car, thought Baker, until a nicely dressed young man began to step out of the driver’s side.
“Stay here,” said Baker, seeing it all at once, moving quickly because that was how a decisive man ought to. It had to be the man’s son, and that was good. Deliver a message to the boy and you’d send a message to the man real clear. Do what I’m asking because I can get to your family. I can and will.
Baker stepped down the street as the young man, looked to be in his middle twenties, locked the car with one of those gizmos he held in his hand. He was aware of Baker coming up on him, and he tried not to act frightened. He looked Baker in the eye and nodded a greeting but kept moving around the car in an effort to get up on the sidewalk and into his house.
“Hold up a minute, young man,” said Baker, blocking his path, careful not to touch him or get too close.
“Yes?” said John Pappas in a friendly but guarded manner.
“Is this the Pappas residence right here?”
“Yes. I live here. What can I do for you?”
What can I do for you? Baker almost laughed. The young man taking a real firm tone now, like he was gonna defend the castle and shit. Trying to be something he was not. Baker studied him, trim and decked out in nice clothes, the black shirt worn tails out the way all these stylish young men liked to do. Baker looked at John Pappas and in his mind he saw the word, flashing like a sign outside a bar that was named Prey.
“Just give me a minute of your time,” said Baker. “Okay?”
ALEX PAPPAS was lying in bed beside his sleeping wife, waiting for Johnny to come home, when he heard the sound of his Acura coming to a stop. Then he heard two car doors slamming shut, one after the other. And soon after that, voices. Alex got out of bed. Johnny never brought anyone home late at night, men friends or women. He was respectful that way.
Through the bedroom window that fronted the house, Alex saw Johnny in the street, standing close to an older black man. The two of them were talking. The black man was smiling and Johnny was not. Two houses down, an old Honda was parked and idling, smoke coming from its tailpipe. It looked like a young white man was under the wheel.
Alex quickly put on jeans and tied a pair of New Balance sneakers onto his feet. Because he kept no guns or weapons of any kind in the house, he grabbed the heavy, long-handled Mag-Lite he kept beside the bed, ignoring Vicki, who had woken and was asking, “What’s wrong?” and “Alex, what’s wrong?”
He passed Gus’s bedroom and went down the stairs.
“YOU SAY you’re his friend?”
“Oh, I’m not claiming that we’re friends, exactly,” said Baker. “More like acquaintances.”
“Excuse me,” said John. “I really have to get inside.”
He tried to step around Baker, but Baker moved in front of him.
“I ain’t done,” said Baker. He put his index finger to the corner of his eye and pulled down. “I gave that to your daddy. That’s right. Me.”
John narrowed his eyes and felt warmth come to his face. “Make your point.”
“Ho, look at you,” said Baker with a chuckle. “You got your little fists in a ball and your cheeks is pink, just like Raggedy Andy. You ain’t gonna hurt me, are you?”
“Get out of here.”
“Okay.” Baker laughed. “I will. But not because a fellow like you told me to. Just tell your old man I came by. Just tell him, fifty thousand dollars. That’s all he needs to know. I’ll contact him next and make the arrangements. He calls the law, you’re the one who’s gonna suffer. You hear me, pretty? Tell him.”
Baker began to walk toward the Honda. He heard the door to the house open, a commanding voice and rapid footsteps on concrete, and he kept pace and got to the Honda’s passenger side, turned and smiled at the shirtless middle-aged man who was running toward him with eyes on fire and something like a steel club in his hand. Baker opened the door and dropped into the seat.
“Go, boy,” he said. Kruger gunned it off the curb.
Alex Pappas broke into a sprint. He ran alongside the Honda, and it passed him, and he continued to chase it, knowing he could never catch it.
“Stay away from my family!” shouted Alex.
The Honda turned the corner and was gone. Alex slowed down and came to a stop in the middle of the street. He bent over and put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. His heart was be
ating rubbery in his chest.
“Dad,” said John, standing behind him. “Dad, it’s all right.”
Alex stood and turned. John had his cell phone out and was making a call. Alex reached out and took it from his hand.
“Don’t,” said Alex. “No police.”
“What, are you kidding?”
“I’ll explain. Come on, let’s go inside.”
They moved toward their home. Alex put his arm around his son as they walked.
“You okay, Dad?”
“Yes. Did he say his name?”
“He said that he was the man who gave you your eye.”
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No.” John looked at the Mag-Lite and smiled with affection at his father. “What were you going to do with that?”
“Damn if I know. I didn’t have a plan. I saw him out here with you and I just grabbed it and ran.”
Vicki was waiting for them at the front door.
IT WAS very late when Raymond got the call on his cell. He was at his mother’s place, seated in his father’s old recliner, watching television and not watching it, as someone does when his thoughts are intense. The phone rang in his pocket, and he answered it and heard Alex Pappas’s voice. Gone was the gentle tone he had come to like and grow comfortable with in the past couple of days.
Alex described the visit from Charles Baker, his attempt at extortion, and his conversation with John.
“He was talking to my son, right outside my home,” said Alex. “Where my wife sleeps. Do you understand, Ray? He came to my home and threatened my son.”
“I do understand,” said Raymond. “Did you —”
“No. I didn’t call the police. But next time I will. I need to be clear with you on that.”
“I got it,” said Raymond. “Thank you, Alex. Thank you for thinking of my brother.”
“You’ve gotta do something about this,” said Alex, the anger gone out of him.
“I will,” said Raymond.
He next phoned James, now at his apartment on Fairmont.
“Where does Charles Baker stay?” said Raymond.
“Why?”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know exactly. He’s in a group home on Delafield. One of those places for men on paper. Said he’s in a house on the thirteen hundred block, in Northwest.”
Raymond ended the call abruptly. He got up out of the recliner and went down to the cellar, quietly, so as not to wake his mother. There, on a workbench, he found his father’s tools in a steel box. Ernest Monroe, the bus mechanic, had kept them orderly and clean. Since his father’s death, Raymond had used them infrequently and left them in their proper sections, as his father would have wished.
Ernest had never kept a gun in the house. He said it was dangerous and unnecessary, that with boys around, it would just be a temptation that would lead to tragedy. But he had modified certain tools, and shown them to his sons, in the event that the family was in need of protection. One of them was a heavy-shafted flat-head machinist’s screwdriver whose tip Ernest had bench-ground to a point.
Raymond lifted the screwdriver from the box.
Twenty-three
ON HIS way to work, Alex Pappas often topped off the tank of his Cherokee at the gas station on Piney Branch Road. This served two purposes. The gas was relatively cheap at this particular outlet, and if he desired, he could check on his investment property, situated directly behind the station, while he was there.
It was not smart to have unrented property, as the absence of a tenant left the owner vulnerable to vandals and possibly even squatters. But Alex did not have much cause to worry, as his property was in a decent neighborhood and was visible from a heavily traveled road. Also, it was well fortified by design, solid brick with no windows. The electric company had built the substation with the intent of blending it in, as much as possible, with the rest of the neighborhood.
Still, as secure as the building was, he needed to find someone to lease it, if only to get Vicki off his back. She was right, of course. She was almost always right when it came to money.
Alex was pondering this, looking at his building as he set the pump’s nozzle into his vehicle. He could see the wide, corrugated bay door that fronted the property, and the small parking lot, which the Iranian, the last tenant, had enlarged at his own expense to accommodate his flooring and carpet customers.
When the tank was full, Alex drove around to the front of the building and parked. From the glove box he got his Craftsman measuring tape and a set of keys holding one that operated the bay door.
Later, he drove down Piney Branch Road, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Piney Branch became 13th, and farther along he turned onto New Hampshire Avenue and headed toward Dupont Circle. It was the same route he had taken for over thirty years. Most days, his mind was focused on day-to-day minutiae and the mundane. But not today.
RAYMOND MONROE found his mother in the living room, watching a morning news show on the television. He held his overnight bag in his hand.
“I’m off, Mama.”
“To work?”
“Yes.”
“I heard you talking to those people at the hospital on your phone. Something about you had an appointment.”
“Yeah, I got something I need to take care of. I was just telling them I was gonna be in late.”
“And I can see that you won’t be coming home tonight.”
“I’m staying with Kendall and her son.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“I know it. You’re like that Energizer bunny.”
“That winds down, too, eventually.” Almeda Monroe looked up at her son, her beautiful eyes set deep in a face plowed by time. “Your brother doing okay?”
“He’s fine. Drinks too much beer, but hey.”
“So did your father. If that’s the worst you can say about a man . . .”
“Right.”
“I was married to a good one. And I raised two fine sons. I would say that my life has been a success. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Raymond. He bent down and kissed her. “I’ll call you tonight, hear?”
“Have a blessed day, Raymond.”
Going down the road in his Pontiac, he went by Rodney Draper’s house. Raymond was reminded that he needed to give Rodney a call. He did so as he drove toward Northwest, heading for a street called Delafield.
“HELLO.”
“Can I speak to Alex Pappas, please?”
Alex, standing at the register, looked over his shoulder. John, Darlene, Blanca, Juana, and Rafael were beginning to mobilize for the lunch rush, all of them moving about without being told to, fulfilling the duties of their respective stations.
“Speaking.”
“It’s Rodney Draper. I’m getting back to you.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have, quite frankly, given the circumstances. It was Ray Monroe who asked that I help you. He said that you kept up your end of the bargain, whatever that means. He told me to give you any information you need.”
“I’ve got a pencil.”
The woman’s name was Elaine Patterson. The kids in Heathrow had always called her Miss Elaine. She was in her mideighties now and in poor health. The victim of a stroke, she lived in a nursing home off Layhill Road, past the Glenmont Metro station in Wheaton.
“She’s one of our treasured citizens. Miss Elaine took classes in the one-room schoolhouse, before the courts sent our kids out into the public system. The stroke shut down some of her brain functions and sharpened others. She has very strong memories of the distant past but often can’t remember what she did yesterday. Her speech is halting and she can no longer read or write. I’ve been doing oral history work with her when I find the time.”
“I’ll be mindful of her health. I promise you I won’t stay with her long. Could you let her know I’m coming, so this won’t be a shock?”
“I will.
But I’m not sure what you’re looking for, exactly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Draper. I appreciate the call.”
Alex hung up the phone and turned to find Darlene standing behind him. She was looking at him with her big brown eyes, now heavy with bags. For a moment he saw the girl with the large Afro under the newsboy cap, small decorative mirrors patterned above the visor. He smiled.
“What are you, eavesdropping?”
“Nope. I came down here to tell you we’re eighty-six on the roast beef today.”
“I saw one come in this morning.”
“It smells funny. I wouldn’t serve it to my dog.”
“You need to call the meat man and tell him to get one over here before lunch starts. He’s not gonna like it, but that’s too bad.”
“I was thinking we’d let Johnny do that. Have him experience the conflict you and I deal with every day. He’s gonna have to get used to solving problems like that.”
“Right.”
“What with you disappearing more and more.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You cuttin out early again today, sugar?”
“Matter of fact, I am.”
“You’re not fixin to leave your old friend completely behind, now, are you?”
“Not completely. John’s not ready to take over one hundred percent. But you will be seeing less of me around here, and that means a little more pressure on you. Don’t worry, there’s gonna be a raise in it for you.”
“There you go, spoiling me again.”
“You’re worth it. This place doesn’t function without you.”
“Am I blushing? I feel kinda hot.”
“Stop it,” said Alex. “Go on, get ready for lunch.”
He watched her walk down the rubber mats, twirling a spatula to the music in her head.
RAYMOND MONROE parked the Pontiac in the middle of Delafield Place and studied the block. The majority of the houses here were detached four-square colonials with large front porches showing lacquered white columns, shaded by huge oaks and situated on a gentle grade. It was a lovely street, and Monroe could not see that it would be a viable location for a house of offenders. But as his eyes continued along the block, he noticed the odd houses that were not so fine. Fronted by Formstone rather than wood or vinyl siding, and with weedy, overgrown yards and hoopties parked out front, there were two or three candidates that bore the run-down mark of group homes.
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