Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go

by Pelecanos, George

The weather did not begin to turn until late September. As the days cooled, I rode my bike more frequently and kept the Dodge parked and covered. Mai went off to Germany to visit her family and Anna returned to school. I took on double shifts at the Spot into October, and in that period there was Costa’s funeral and solitary nights and occasionally nights with friends, all of them unmemorable and with the certain sameness that comes with the worn wood and low light of bars and the ritual of drink. My face healed quickly, though when it healed, I noticed that I had aged, the age and a kind of fading in my eyes. My scars had become a part of me now, suggesting neither toughness nor mystery, rarely prompting the interest of acquaintances or the second look from strangers. No one came to me for outside work; I would not have considered it if they had.

  In the days that followed the violence in the warehouse, I looked over my shoulder often and listened for the inevitable knock on my front door. The newspaper and television reports stayed on top of the story for a full week and then the next sensational multiple murder took the warehouse story’s place. It was always in my mind that Boyle and Detective Johnson knew I was connected in some way. But no one came to interview me and no one came to bring me in. And Boyle continued to come in on a regular basis and sit at his bar stool, his draft beer and shot of Jack in front of him, a Marlboro Red burning in the tray.

  Then in late October, on a night when the first biting fall wind had dropped into town, Boyle walked into the Spot at closing time, his bleached-out eyes pink and heavily lidded, drunk as I had seen him in a long while. His shirttail hung down below his tweed sport jacket, and the grip of his Python peeked out of the jacket’s vent. He walked carefully to the bar, had a seat on a stool. I stopped the music on the deck and went down to see him.

  “Closing time, Boyle.”

  “Just one round tonight, Nick, before I go home. You got no problem with that, do you?”

  “Okay.”

  I drew him a beer and set it on a damp coaster while he arranged his deck of Marlboros and pack of matches next to an ashtray. Then I free-poured some Jack Daniel’s into a beveled shot glass. He drank off some of the beer and lit a cigarette. He knocked back half of the shot.

  Darnell’s light switched off as he walked from the kitchen. He buttoned his jacket and looked at Boyle. Boyle’s head was lowered, his eyes dull and pointed at the bar.

  “Hawk’s gonna fly tonight, looks like,” Darnell said. “You drive down, Nick?”

  “Yeah, I got the Dodge out tonight, with the weather and all.”

  “Mind if I catch a ride uptown with you?”

  “Sure, if you can wait.”

  I nodded toward Boyle and Darnell shook his head. “I don’t think so, man. Let me get on out of here. Take it easy, Nick.”

  “Yeah, you, too.”

  Darnell touched his hat in a kind of salute. He walked from the bar. I took a few bottles of beer from the cooler and buried them in the ice chest.

  “God, I am drunk,” Boyle said, pushing his face around with his hand. “Have a drink with me, will ya, Nick?”

  “All right.”

  I opened a bottle of beer and put a shot of Old Grand-Dad next to the bottle. Boyle and I touched glasses and drank. I chased the bourbon with the beer.

  “So,” Boyle said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Well… I shouldn’t be so drunk. But I am. I’ve been driving around all day, and when I was done driving, I hit a couple bars. You know how that goes.”

  “Sure. Where’d you go?”

  “Out in the country. Frederick County.”

  I lit a cigarette and shook out the match. I dropped the match in the ashtray.

  “Out there in the country,” Boyle said, “lookin’ for some answers.”

  “What kind of answers?”

  “It’s this thing with that partner of yours, Jack LaDuke. How he just disappeared after those deaths in that warehouse. And the Samuels murder—I don’t know, it’s just been eatin’ away at me, you know? I mean, I could have just come to you and all that, but, the way you are, I knew you wouldn’t talk.”

  I put my hand up in protest, but Boyle cut me off.

  “Hold on a second, Nick, lemme just go on a little bit.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “So I went to talk to Shareen Lewis. Well, she didn’t say much of anything. But she did tell me the name of the bondsman—I forget his name right now—who turned her on to LaDuke. So I went to this bondsman, see, and he fills me in on some details on this LaDuke character. I finally found his old man out there in the country, but the old man said he hasn’t heard from his son in years. Imagine that, not talkin’ to your own kid for years.”

  “It’s something,” I said.

  “And you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You haven’t heard from him, either.”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Boyle said, “let me just tell you what I think. What I think happened is—and granted, it’s just a theory of mine—I think he checked out in that fire. You remember, fifteen, twenty years back, when all those faggots got caught in that fire down at that movie house, the Cinema Follies? Man, they were just piled up against that locked door. Well, that’s the way it looked the morning after that fire in the warehouse. There was a bunch of ’em, piled against the door. ’Course, some of them had been shot up, and there were a few shot-up ones up on the second floor. And we identified a few of them from prison dentals, that sort of thing. The thing is, I think LaDuke was one of the ones in that pile, one of the ones we couldn’t identify. What do you think?”

  “If he went to that warehouse, he went on his own. I don’t know a thing about it.”

  “Well, anyway, it’s just a guess.” Boyle walked two fingers over the top of his glass. “Pour me another one, will ya?”

  I did it. I dragged on my cigarette and Boyle dragged on his and our smoke turned slowly in the conical light.

  Boyle put his glass down, looked into it thoughtfully. “But,” he said. “But… if LaDuke died in that fire, it doesn’t explain the Samuels murder.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The casings found at the crime scene match the casings found on the second floor of that warehouse. Same gun, Nick. I followed through with ballistics myself. So whoever was in on the warehouse kill also hit Samuels.”

  I finished my bourbon and put one foot up on the ice chest.

  “You know, Nick, we were really close on nailing Samuels, too. I’d say we were one day off. We were working our informants pretty good on the drug angle, man, and we were close. Once we knew he owned both warehouses, after that it was a cinch. But someone just got one step ahead of us. Goddamn, was Johnson pissed off about that. We did find the twenty-two that did Jeter and Lewis, and the man who used it. Guy out of South Baltimore, just like you said. But we’d still like to clean the rest of this thing up. ’Course, all’s we got to do now is find the gun that belongs to those casings.”

  “There you go, Boyle. Find the gun and you’ll have the whole thing wrapped up.”

  “The gun. The gun was a nine-millimeter, like that Browning you carry.” Boyle’s jittery eyes settled on mine. “You still carry that Browning, Nick?”

  “No. I lost it. The thing is, I was just looking for it the other day, to clean it—”

  “Yeah. You probably dropped it in the river or some shit like that, by mistake. Slipped right out of your hands. Funny, you know. If the city could get it together and put up the money to dredge the Anacostia, you wanna know how many cases we could put to bed?”

  “Too bad they can’t get it together.”

  “Yeah. Too bad.” Boyle closed his eyes and emptied his drink. “Well, I better get home. My kids and all that.”

  “I’ll lock up behind you,” I said.

  Boyle held on to the bar and got off his stool. I walked with him to the door. When we got there, he put his back against it and wrapped a meaty hand around my arm. He started to speak but had trouble p
utting the words together, closed his mouth in a frown.

  “You’re drunk, Boyle. You want me to call a cab?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Go home to your kids.”

  “My kids. Yeah, I got my kids.”

  “Go on home.”

  “You know somethin’?” Boyle said. “I feel sorry for you, Nick. I really do. You know… you remember a few years ago, there was this short-eyed motherfucker that was rapin’ those little girls in Northeast? Description on him was he was some variety of spic, a Rican maybe, with a bandanna, the whole brown rig. The shit was on the news every night, man—you gotta remember.”

  “Yeah, I do. They never caught the guy. So what?”

  “I caught him,” Boyle said. “Me and this other cop. We got him in an alley, and he confessed.”

  “Congratulations. Another good collar for you.”

  “You didn’t read about him being caught ’cause we never took him in. I put a bullet in his head that night, Nick. The other cop, he put one in him, too.”

  “Go home,” I said, pulling my arm away. “That’s liquor talk. Save that shit for your buddies at the FOP.”

  “It’s just…” Boyle said. “It’s just that I know what’s in your head right now. The thing is, I got my kids to go home to. I can go home, I can hold them, and for a little while, anyway, it makes everything all right. I got that, Nick. What do you got?”

  I didn’t answer. Instead, I opened the door.

  “Don’t you want to know?” Boyle said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Why hasn’t Johnson pulled me in?”

  “Johnson?” Boyle said, a sad smile forming on his face. “Johnson’s been there, too, that’s why. Johnson was with me when we did that short-eyes. Johnson was the other cop.”

  Boyle stepped through the open door. I closed it and turned the lock.

  I walked back behind the stick and refilled my shot glass. The whiskey was silk; I drank it and smoked a cigarette in the quiet of the bar. The phone rang. I picked it up, the call a misdial. I stared at the receiver in my hand. When I heard the dial tone, I phoned Lyla’s apartment. A man’s voice greeted me on the other end.

  “Is Lyla McCubbin in, please?” I said.

  The man put his hand over the phone but did not cover it all the way. He said, “Hey, Lyla, this guy wants to know if he can speak to a Lyla McCubbin. Sounds like a salesman or something. Want me to just get rid of him?”

  I heard Lyla laugh, recognized the laughter as forced. I hung the receiver in its cradle before she could reply.

  I had another beer, and another after that. By then, it had gotten pretty late. I thought of my cat, out in the weather, hungry and pacing on the stoop. I dimmed the lights and put on a coat, then locked the place and set the alarm. I went out to the street.

  Orange and yellow leaves lifted and tumbled down 8th. I turned my collar up against the wind, walked with my head down, my eyes on the sidewalk.

  I passed the riot gate of the shoe store and neared the alley. From the alley, I heard a voice.

  “Stevonus.”

  I turned around.

  “LaDuke,” I said.

  He stood in the mouth of the alley, his face covered in shadow. But the black pant legs and heavy black oxfords were exposed by the light of the streetlamp above; I knew it was him.

  I walked to the alley and stood a couple of feet back. The smell coming off him was minty, strongly medicinal.

  “Got a cigarette, Nick?”

  “You’re smoking now, huh?”

  “Sure,” he said, a slight lisp to his voice. “Why not?”

  I reached into my coat and shook one out of the deck. He took it and asked me for a light. I struck a match, cupped the flame. He put his hand around mine and pulled it toward him, leaning forward at the same time. I saw his face then as it moved into the light. He watched me carefully as the flame touched the tobacco.

  “Kinda scary, eh, Nick?”

  I took in some breath and tried to smile. “It’s not so bad.”

  “Nobody’s ever gonna call me ‘Pretty Boy’ again, I guess.”

  He was right. No one was going to mistake him for pretty. Whoever had done the work on him had botched the job. His lips were pulled back on one side and stretched open in a ghastly kind of half smile, the gums ruby red and exposed there and glistening with saliva, the saliva dripping over the side of his mouth. Skin had been grafted sloppily along his jawline, unmatched and puckered at the edges, and bluish around the grafted hole in his neck.

  “No, Jack,” I said. “It’s not pretty. But you’re alive.”

  LaDuke took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, the handkerchief damp and gray. He dabbed it on his gums, then shoved it back in his pocket. He dragged on his cigarette.

  “How’d you get out of the warehouse that night?” I said.

  “When I went down into that mess with my gun, we traded shots. But the fire spread real fast, and then those men knew they weren’t going to make it. They ran for the door on the first floor. I guess Sweet had taken the key. Anyway, I kinda woke up, decided that I wanted to live. I booked back up the stairs and ran down that hall. Hell, I was right behind you.”

  “And then?”

  “Shit, man, I don’t know. I was going into shock in a big way. The only thing I thought to do was go to my father. So I drove out to Frederick County. I kept my foot to the floor all the way, and I made it. I don’t know how I made it, but I did.”

  “Your father,” I said, not really wanting to know.

  “Yeah. He did the best he could. Used that horse stitch of his on my face, did some kind of poor man’s graft. Wired my jaw together. The main thing was, he stopped the infection, after a couple of days. I don’t remember much of it.” LaDuke avoided my eyes. “Yeah, my father, he fixed me up.”

  I felt a chill and pulled the lapels of my coat together to the neck. LaDuke retrieved his handkerchief and blotted the spit from his chin.

  “Why’d you come to me tonight?” I said.

  “Your cop friend visited my father today. Thought I might warn you.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  LaDuke said, “You took out Samuels, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about that gun of yours? You get rid of that Browning?”

  “I dumped it over the rail of the Sousa Bridge.”

  “Good. I just wanted you to know that the law was on it.”

  “I got a feeling they’ll be leaving me alone.”

  “That’s good,” LaDuke said. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope thick with bills. “I came to give you this, as well.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Shareen Lewis. My payment for finding her son. Half of it belongs to you.”

  “You keep it. I don’t need it, man. I’m coming into some money, from an inheritance. I’m flush.”

  “Take it.” He pressed the envelope into my hand. “We earned it, you and me.”

  “All right. I know a kid in San Francisco—he could use the money, I guess.”

  And then the half of his face that was not gone twisted back into some sort of smile. “We got ’em, Nick. Didn’t we?”

  “What?”

  “We took those guys off the street. I mean, it’s something. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Jack. It’s something.”

  He dropped the cigarette under his heavy black shoe, crushed it into the concrete, and began to move away. I touched his arm.

  “Where you goin’, Jack?”

  “I don’t know. I gotta go.”

  “How will I find you?”

  “I’ll be around,” he said.

  He turned and walked into the alley. The darkness took him, and he was gone.

  I stood there thinking about Jack LaDuke. I looked into the black maw of the alley and blinked my eyes. LaDuke would be deep in that alley now, dabbing at his face with the damp gray handkerchief, in the dark but not afraid of it, because for him there was not
hing left to fear. Or maybe he was out on the street, staring straight ahead as he walked down the sidewalk, avoiding his reflection in the glass of the storefronts and bars. Wherever he was, I knew he was alone. Like Lyla was alone, and like me. All of us alone, in our own brand of night.

  Leaves blew past my feet and clicked at the bars of the riot gate. I slipped the envelope inside my coat and moved out of the light.

  I walked to the corner, crossed the street, and headed for my Dodge. I touched my key to the lock, but did not fit it. I stepped away and walked back to the Spot.

  Inside, the room was silent, bathed in blue neon. I went behind the bar. I poured myself a bourbon and pulled a bottle of beer from the ice.

  I lit a cigarette. I had my drink.

  This one started at the Spot.

  Reading Group Guide

  DOWN BY THE

  RIVER WHERE

  THE DEAD

  MEN GO

  A novel by

  GEORGE PELECANOS

  George Pelecanos responds to questions

  from his readers

  What do you find to be the hardest and easiest things about writing when you are working on a project?

  Well, the hardest thing is starting the book because I don’t outline my books beforehand. I have to find the story, and the way I find the story is through the development of my characters. And every time I begin a book, I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to succeed. The easiest part is when you hit that point about a quarter of the way through, where your characters actually begin to write the book for you. And then it’s just a matter of sitting down every day and doing the work.

  Do you think a mystery writer can read other mysteries and enjoy them, rather than being a critic or reviewer?

  Sure. I read less mysteries or crime novels than I used to, but the ones that I really like just make me more stoked to do a better job myself. People like Dennis Lehane, Michael Connelly, James Sallis, Craig Holden, and Jack O’Connell make me think that this is the golden age of crime writing.