The Sweet Forever

by George Pelecanos

  “Thank you. Appreciate you lookin’ out for my boy.”

  “Pleasure.”

  Murphy looked past her, into the smoky living room where the Wattstax album was playing on the stereo. The figure of a man quickly crossed the room and ducked out of sight.

  “Everything all right?” said Lula.

  “Yes, ma’am. Was just going to say, might be better if Anthony stays in tonight.”

  “Aw, man,” said Anthony.

  “I don’t let him out alone at night,” said Lula, “if that’s what you think.”

  “Ain’t gonna stay around here all weekend,” said Anthony, “listenin’ to you and your friend argue and—”

  “Anthony!”

  “But Granmom—”

  “Don’t you take a tone with me. Now go on up to your room, son. Go on.”

  Anthony shook his head. “See you, Officer Murphy.”

  “All right, Anthony. You take care.”

  Anthony went inside and up the stairs.

  Lula looked behind her, then back at Murphy. “That all?”

  “Just keep an eye on your grandson, Miss Taylor.”

  Lula narrowed her eyes. “You sayin’ that I don’t?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m not sayin’ that.”

  “ ’Cause I do the best I can. Work a full-time job and pay for his food and shelter and clothing, including that NFL jacket and those fifty-dollar sneakers he likes to wear. Give him plenty of love, too. All of this while that daughter of mine cleans herself up down south. I do the best I can.”

  “Just wanted to mention that it’s gettin’ awful rough out here. Boy his age shouldn’t be runnin’ free.”

  “Good day, officer.”

  Murphy tipped his head and said, “Good day.”

  She closed the door. Murphy walked away.

  Going down the sidewalk, one of the older boys leaning on an old Datsun asked what the Taylor kid had done. Murphy didn’t answer or look the boy’s way. He opened the driver’s-side door and got behind the wheel of the squad car.

  “Still think the kid’s tellin’ the truth?” said Tutt.

  “Yeah,” said Murphy.

  “I’m not so sure. Let’s get to our pay phone. I’ll beep Rogers, see if we can’t find out what went down. Maybe Taylor did talk. You never know.”

  Tutt always called from the same pay phone. He made sure none of the runners used the same one.

  Murphy ignitioned the cruiser.

  Tutt said, “That old man, one who called in the fight? He said Clay had some words with Short Man about stayin’ out of the neighborhood. Tyrell’s not gonna like that.”

  “I expect he won’t.”

  “Well, I always said it was just a matter of time before someone shut Short’s mouth. Only wish it could have been me.”

  “You’ll get your chance, Tutt.”

  “Gonna be my pleasure, too. Anyway, he had it comin’.”

  We all have it coming. It’s a vengeful God gonna make us pay.

  “Come on,” said Tutt, “we gonna sit here idling all day? Or maybe you want to see if one of those geniuses over there wants a ride somewhere, too. Maybe you wanna start one of those, what do you call that, day-care services for all these disadvantaged kids.”

  Tutt high-cackled as Murphy pulled away from the curb.

  “Oh, shit.” Tutt wiped his eyes.

  “You’re cracking yourself up, Tutt.” Murphy hung a left. “Where to?”

  “Head on down to T, partner. Let’s see if we can’t do somethin’ right before we gotta go talk to Tyrell. Maybe run across that kid in the green hat. You know, the one who calls himself Chief.”

  Clarence Tate said, “You should’ve told me, Marcus.”

  “I know it, Clarence. I apologize.”

  “I understand what you’re sayin’, how you thought everything was all right, seeing her out on that street with that cop there and all that. But you should have stopped and checked it out to make sure. Or you should have pulled over and called me up.”

  “I made a judgment call, Clarence. Last night I thought that Tutt, bein’ a cop and all, he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. And I didn’t think it was right to involve the Taylor kid. But after talking to Denice, and just those few minutes I saw of him today… well, if I had known what he was about, I would have done it different. There’s somethin’ wrong with that cop.”

  “There is.”

  “But I wouldn’t be too rough on Denice, Clarence. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, man. Try to remember how you felt with your first love. How nothin’ was gonna stop you from seeing her.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. But it doesn’t make it any easier when it’s your own daughter and you see her goin’ down the wrong road.”

  “Just go easy on her, friend.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Crowd noise surged from the television set up on the desk.

  “Kansas?” said Tate.

  Clay nodded. “They’re takin’ Temple to school.”

  Karras came out of the bathroom. He had been in there for the past ten minutes. Clay and Tate shared a look.

  “I’m outta here, Marcus,” said Karras, speaking rapidly, clapping his hands and rubbing them together with vigor.

  “You call your girl Donna, let her know what went down?”

  “Left a message on her machine. I’m gonna head over to Georgetown for the late rush, then close things out at Dupont with Cheek. I’ll see you there.”

  “Right.”

  “Take care, Clarence.”

  “Professor.”

  Tate waited for Karras to exit the back room.

  “Your boy’s in trouble,” said Tate.

  “Say it again?”

  “He’s deep into that freeze. Everybody in the company knows it. You know it, too, Marcus.”

  Clay nodded. “Been recreational up to now. I’m not sure if it’s a full-blown problem yet.”

  “Anyone doin’ that shit has a problem, you ask me. You can’t tell me any different.”

  “I hear you. Me and Dimitri are due for a talk.”

  “Up to you. Thought I’d point it out.”

  “Clarence?” said Clay.

  They shook hands, and then Tate put his arms around Clay and hugged him.

  “No problem, brother. We’re okay.”

  “Take the rest of the day off, will you?”

  “Planned on it. Gonna go talk to Neecie right now.”

  Clay walked Tate through the sales floor. He watched him get into his Cutlass and drive west.

  Tate’s emotions had built on the ride to their row house; as soon as he stepped into the foyer he began to shout. Denice had been caught off guard and unbalanced, and became defensive immediately. Their brief, volcanic conversation ended with the slamming of a door and Denice crying in her room. Tate went down to the kitchen, leaned against the counter, and drank a beer. The beer took him down a few notches to where he needed to be.

  He went back upstairs. He pushed open Denice’s door. She was sitting on the edge of her bed.

  “Neecie?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Thought maybe you’d like to catch an early movie.”

  She looked up at him. There were dirt tracks running down her face. “I guess that would be all right.”

  “Come here.” They met halfway in the room. He brought her close and held her tight for a long time, stroking her hair. “I love you, honeygirl,” he said.

  Denice began to cry again. Tate cried, too.

  SIXTEEN

  Short Man Monroe walked across the parking lot outside D.C. General. His nose was set, packed, and taped. His eyes were swollen and gorged with blood. Alan Rogers had to move quickly to keep up.

  “Slow down, black.”

  “Fuck slowin’ down,” said Monroe. “Where go our Z?”

  “Round here somewhere.”

  Monroe took two of the codeines the ER doctor had given him, popped them in his mouth, threw his h
ead back and dry-swallowed the pills. He heard a beeper sound.

  “That you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rogers pulled his beeper off his Lees and checked the number.

  “Tutt and Murphy,” said Rogers.

  “Wonder what they want,” said Monroe.

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Don’t call ’em back. They supposed to be freein’ us up to do our business down there. Where the fuck were they when Vietnam came runnin’ down the street?”

  “Doin’ their regular cop work, I expect.”

  “Yeah, well, Tyrell’s gonna hear about this shit, you can believe that.”

  They found the Z. Monroe tossed dollars at the Ethiopian parking attendant, caught rubber leaving the lot.

  “Foreign mothafuckers everywhere you look,” said Monroe.

  “Man was African.”

  “Come over here, takin’ our jobs.”

  “You ain’t lookin’ for no job, Short.”

  “Shut up, man.”

  Monroe pulled over at the first beer market he saw. He went inside and drew a forty of Olde English from the cooler, raised his voice to the Korean woman behind the counter, told her to get him a Maryland phone book. Her husband and Monroe stared at each other while the woman went to the back room. She returned with the phone book. Monroe opened it and found what he wanted while the woman rang the sale.

  “Got the street number of that joint,” said Monroe, back in the car.

  “What joint?” said Rogers.

  “Appliance Installers Unlimited. That’s what that boy said, right?”

  “I guess. What we gonna do now?”

  “Get the ball rollin’,” said Monroe. He twisted the top of the malt liquor bottle and took a long swig.

  “Maybe we ought to call Tutt and Murphy.”

  “Uh-uh,” said Monroe. “We gonna do this mothafucker right.”

  Chink Bennet said, “Shit, Jumbo, why you gotta be makin’ so much noise? Show my girl a little respect.”

  Jumbo Linney was reaching into his party-sized bag of Doritos, bringing out some ranch-flavored chips. The sound of crushed cellophane competed with the grunts, moans, and short breathing of the men jacking off around them.

  “Your girl? She yours now, huh? You think Vanessa know you, Chink? You ain’t had no girl since as far back as I can remember. Last time you had a piece of ass was when your finger broke through the toilet paper while you was givin’ yourself a wipe, ha ha ha.”

  “Ain’t heard that stupid shit since grade school, man.”

  “Grade school be the only place a tiny mug like you would get some play. Remember that group picture they used to take every year when we was in grade school? How they always put the itty-bitty mothafuckers in the front row? They made a new front row for your Tattoo-lookin’ ass.”

  “Quiet down,” said someone behind them.

  “Take a walk,” said someone else from the back of the theater.

  “Who gonna walk me?” shouted Linney. “You?”

  “Talk about it, Jumbo,” said Bennet.

  “Nigga tryin’ to take me for bad.”

  Bennett and Linney sat with two seats between them so no one would think they were punks. The Gayety Theatre was half filled for its Saturday matinee. “Ladies Free with Escort,” the ads always said, but Chink and Jumbo had never seen a woman in the place, except for the hand-job hookers the patrons brought in and the women up on the screen. Vanessa Del Rio was up there now, sitting on some dude’s face.

  “Her Name Is Lisa,” said Bennett with reverence, the way a priest might say “The Song of Bernadette” when asked to name his favorite film. “Why don’t they call it Her Name Is Vanessa, though, Jumbo?”

  “ ’Cause she’s playin’ a character got the name Lisa.”

  “There you go,” said Bennet, pointing at the screen. “She workin’ that mothafucker now, boy.”

  The actress was saying something like, “Oh, your cock is so big,” but Chink Bennet wasn’t listening to her words. He studied her mouth, mostly, his favorite Vanessa body part, though he liked her big titties and the muscle action way up on her thighs. Girl had a nice onion on her, too.

  A guy two rows up gave a horse-shake of his head and pitched forward as he shot off into a dirty sock. Bennet and Linney laughed. The guy got up and left the theater a few minutes later.

  “Hey, Mr. Ed, where you goin’?” said Linney.

  “Movie ain’t over yet!” shouted Bennet.

  “Forgot your Ban-lons and shit!”

  Bennet and Linney touched hands.

  “Vanessa,” said Bennet a little later on. “That there is my girl.”

  “You ask me, I’d like to have me a girl like Karen Johnson.”

  “What, you sayin’ she near as good as Vanessa Del Rio?”

  “Naw, Chink. I’m not talkin’ about the way she looks. I’m talkin’ about what she did for the mayor. Gave up that pussy and supplied him with cocaine any time he wanted, man. Then went to jail for his ass instead of testifyin’.”

  “They say the mayor’s friends paid her off, Jumbo. The ones he gives those contracts to and shit. Gave her some of that hush money you hear about.”

  “Why she did it, I don’t know. But any man could get with a woman who’d do that for him.”

  Chink Bennet stroked his chin. “I had a choice, I’d stay with my girl V, right up there.”

  Out on 9th Street, Bennet and Linney walked toward the Supra.

  “Better get over to Tyrell’s,” said Bennet. “He’ll be lookin’ for us, man.”

  “Make a stop first at the Seven-Eleven, okay? Got my heart set on some nachos, man.”

  “Damn, Jumbo, can’t we ever get in the car and drive without stoppin’ for food?”

  “I guess I just love food the way you love pussy, Chink.” Jumbo side-glanced his friend. “Difference is, I can eat any time I want to.”

  Richard Tutt had an apartment in Silver Spring Towers, just a half mile over the District line on Thayer Avenue. He had stopped at the Safeway across the street on Fenton, bought a few Hungry Man dinners and a box of ice-cream sandwiches, and parked his Bronco in the side lot. He took the elevator up to his place.

  Tutt lived in downtown Silver Spring for its proximity to his work. This was as close as you could get to D.C. without actually having a District address. Tutt would never live in a place where he was in the minority, though sometimes it seemed as if Silver Spring was headed that way, too. Looking down to the street, he could see the spics and the spades, the pun-jabs and the A-rabs, walking up toward the Metro or waiting for Ride On buses, or hauling those two-wheeled carts of theirs up to the grocery store. Tutt was thinking of moving to the country, maybe toward Frederick or out 29, where you could still get a lot of house for the money and some open land. The commute was hell, but at least out there you could wake up in the morning and say hello to your own kind.

  Tutt’s two-bedroom apartment was sparsely furnished, a floor mattress in one bedroom, a This End Up living-room set and a dining-room table from his parents’ old house in the living area. A bench, some free weights, and a floor-to-ceiling mirror sat in the spare bedroom.

  Tutt’s parents were dead. He didn’t have many friends to speak of. He guessed Murphy was his best friend, although Murphy always had some kind of excuse when Tutt suggested they get together outside work. Tutt occasionally saw his sister, who had rowed with one oar in the water since she was a little kid, but only on special holidays and on her birthday. He generally avoided her because her husband, Tutt’s light-in-his-loafers brother-in-law, came with the package.

  Other than his sister, Tutt never brought girls to his apartment. He didn’t like waking up next to a woman he didn’t know, and he especially didn’t like the awkward way it felt after you pulled out and there was nothing more to say.

  Tutt hadn’t had a girlfriend since the tenth grade. Tonight, like most weekend nights, he had no plans.

  Tutt got back in the baby blue
Bronco and drove over to the Erol’s on East-West Highway. He picked out a Death Wish movie he thought he might have rented before, though he couldn’t tell from the box. One of those was interchangeable with the next, and Tutt thought all of them were pretty good. Charlie Bronson wreaking righteous havoc on a bunch of rug-heads and Third World cretins. Nothing better than that.

  He went back to his apartment, did four sets of fifty push-ups, undressed, and picked up a fuck magazine that lay on the floor by his bed. He leafed through the mag and played with himself a little, but he couldn’t make his dick stand up, so he went into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. Tutt dried off and got into a clean pair of acid-washed jeans, microwaved a Salisbury steak platter, and took the dinner and can of Bud Light out to the living room, and set up in front of the tube to watch the flick.

  After dinner he felt kind of tired. He stretched out on the couch and took a nap.

  When he woke up, the movie was over, and the VCR had switched back over to TV. Facts of Life, a show he couldn’t stand, was just coming on. Tutt watched the first few minutes to see if the girls had grown any more tit since the last time he watched, and then he got up, cracked another beer, and went to the window. He looked down to the darkened street and saw that it had begun to rain.

  Saturday night. Tutt could put a nice, fat bankroll in his pocket and go out and blow it if that’s what he wanted. He could go lean against the bar next to a bunch of pretty guys in some club, but someone might ask him to dance, and he couldn’t dance for shit.

  Meeting civilians, it wasn’t his thing.

  He could ask a girl to a restaurant—he could afford any restaurant he wanted, now—but for what, to sit there and listen to some broad run her cocksucker all night? Very, very exciting. He’d rather stick a couple of pennies in his eyes, roll over, and go to sleep.

  Tutt had real money for the first time in his life. But when he thought about it, he realized that the only true pleasure he had was his work.

  He sat down next to a small table set by the window and turned on the police scanner he had mounted on a shelf nearby. He adjusted the frequency, sat back, and sipped his beer.

  Scott ripped the register tape and handed it to Karras. Karras checked it out. The Georgetown store had rung out with pretty sweet Saturday numbers. Marcus would be happy about that.