The Sweet Forever

by George Pelecanos

  He curled his finger inside the trigger guard, pressing his palm tight on the Glock’s grip.

  The young dude said something, and Tyrell said something back. Then Tyrell stepped off, turned his head back, smiled and said, “Ain’t that right, Short?”

  Tyrell’s smile faded as he looked past Monroe.

  Monroe felt sudden pressure on his shoulder, fingers digging deep at the base of his neck.

  “You won’t be needin’ that,” said the voice of Kevin Murphy.

  Monroe lowered the gun.

  Murphy walked by him to the front door. He looked at the white men standing on the porch, a guy in his twenties and some joker wearing shades.

  “Whatever it is,” said Murphy, “we ain’t interested, fellas,” and he closed the door and latched it.

  Tyrell gave Murphy a hard stare.

  Monroe said, “Fuck you do that for, man?”

  “Stupid,” said Murphy. “Y’all ain’t thinkin’.”

  “They had to be cops,” said Tyrell. “You gonna let ’em just walk away? Said they were salesmen, some bullshit story about real estate.”

  “They were salesmen,” said Murphy. “You see those clothes they had on? Ain’t no cop smart enough to think up a perfect disguise like that.”

  “Those were some seriously fucked up vines, cuz,” said Antony Ray.

  “That white boy wearin’ that old jacket?” said Monroe. “He’ll never know how lucky he was today.”

  Nick Stefanos watched his hand shake as he pushed in the dash lighter. He pulled down on the tree and swung a [sym] toward the highway. The Dodge spit gravel coming out of the lot, its rear end swerving as Stefanos gunned it west on 214.

  “Slow down, man.”

  “Fuck slowin’ down.” Stefanos lit his smoke and shot McGinnes a look. “You had to have a look in that house.”

  “You were as curious as I was. Anyway, relax, will ya? We’re here, aren’t we?”

  “Barely. If it wasn’t for that guy with the mustache, we’d still be there on that porch, not knowin’ whether to shit or go blind. If he hadn’t shut the door in our faces—”

  “Yeah, he threw water all over the fire, didn’t he? But why? Funny thing about that guy.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Haven’t figured it out yet.” McGinnes rubbed his chin. “But I do have a hunch.”

  Stefanos slowed down for a red.

  “Nick,” said McGinnes, “we’re not goin’ back to work, are we?”

  “I told Louie we weren’t coming back in.”

  “Why don’t you pull over, then. I want to call Andre about that hunch of mine. And I could really use a beer.”

  “Yeah, I could use one, too.” Stefanos laughed. “Dick Long. Shit, man, how’d you come up with that?”

  “It’s Richard Long to you, Greek.”

  Nick Stefanos saw a market with a pay phone out front. He cut across traffic and pulled into the lot.

  Tutt walked from the kitchen and stopped in front of Kevin Murphy.

  “Where were you?” said Tutt.

  “In the head,” said Murphy.

  “Who were those guys at the front door?”

  “Couple of salesmen. Come on.”

  They went and stood before Tyrell, who had dropped back into his chair.

  “We’re outta here,” said Tutt. “Remember what I said about Golden. Can’t be holdin’ him back there much longer. You understand?”

  “Don’t worry, officer,” said Tyrell. “We gonna wrap everything up by tonight. Right, Antony?”

  Antony Ray said, “Right.”

  “I’ll call you later,” said Tutt. “See how it went with Clay.”

  Tutt eye-swept Monroe before he walked from the house. Murphy chin-nodded Rogers; Rogers looked away.

  Out in the Bronco, Tutt fitted the key into the ignition and looked over at Murphy, settled in the passenger seat and staring straight ahead.

  “You’re pretty cool about all this all of a sudden,” said Tutt. “Big change from last night.”

  “Had to catch my breath is all.”

  “Good you’re keeping your head. Because we’ve got some hard decisions to make, and I mean soon.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tyrell and the rest of them, they’re out of control. What happens when you crawl into bed with a bunch of—”

  “Bunch of what?”

  “Geniuses like them.”

  “So what’re you fixin’ to do, Tutt?”

  “I don’t know yet. Got a general idea, but I gotta think it through. Be ready to move when I get it all together. You gotta tell me that you’re with me, partner. I mean, whatever it is I say, you gotta be there. Are we clear?”

  Murphy gave Tutt an odd smile. “Yes.”

  “I’ll drop you off at your car, then call you later on with the details.”

  “Give me some time,” said Murphy. “There’s a few things I need to do.”

  Tyrell Cleveland punched a number into the phone, waited for the signal. He punched in a new set of numbers and cradled the receiver.

  “Who you callin’?” said Monroe.

  “Tryin’ to beep Chink and Jumbo.”

  “Probably at one of their movies,” said Alan Rogers.

  Tyrell sat low in his chair. He touched a finger to his cheek.

  “You know, Short?” said Tyrell. “Beginning to think you were right about our policemen friends. They’re trouble. Not sure we need ’em anymore.”

  “Tutt,” said Monroe.

  “It’s Murphy I’m thinkin’ of. You see his eyes today? Like one of those church-kneelin’ niggas, gives himself all the way over to God. Man got no fear anymore, he’s capable of anything.”

  The phone rang. Tyrell picked it up. He listened for a moment, said, “Nah,” then slammed the phone down.

  “That our boys?” said Monroe.

  “Wrong number,” said Tyrell, agitation wrinkling his long face. “Chink and Jumbo. Damn, boy, where those simple mothafuckers at?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “That you?” said Chink Bennet, hearing the sound of Jumbo Linney’s beeper.

  “Yeah,” said Linney, taking the beeper off his waist and squinting to read the numbers in the dark theater. “Tyrell and shit.”

  “Let’s don’t answer it just yet.”

  “I hear you, man. Just want to forget about that bullshit for a while.”

  “Jumbo?” said Bennet, staring with disinterest at the close-up of a woman sucking a ten-foot dick.

  “What?”

  “Can’t stop thinkin’ about last night. Way that boy looked with a piece of his head blowed off.”

  “I hear you, Chink. Couldn’t sleep my own self last night.”

  “You think… you think that boy even heard the sound of that gun goin’ off?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Think he saw anything at all? Or was it just, you know, one minute he was cryin’ for his momma and then nothin’? You think it’s like that? Just nothin’?”

  “I don’t know. My aunt used to sing this one gospel song in church, back when she was in the choir? They’d be singin’ about goin’ to the sweet forever, over and over again. All of them gospel ladies looked so happy and shit, singin’ that song.” Linney rubbed his face. “Sounds nice, don’t it?”

  “Anything’d be better than this world we got here.”

  They watched ten more minutes of the feature, Delicious, without speaking. The Sunday crowd at the Casino Royal theater was listless and few in number.

  Bennet said, “You like Desireau Cousteau?”

  “She all right.”

  “She ain’t Vanessa, man.”

  “Heard that.”

  “Come on, Jumbo, let’s go.”

  They found the Supra parked on 14th. Bennet got into the driver’s seat, and Jumbo fitted himself in the passenger bucket. He hit his head on the evergreen deodorizer getting in, and the little tree cutout swung back and forth from the rearview where
it was hung.

  “Guess we better get back to the house,” said Bennet, “get this money in to Ty.” He touched the orange Nike box filled with cash, which he had slipped beneath the seat, making sure it was still there.

  “Yeah,” said Linney, “guess we should.”

  Bennet cranked the Supra and pulled away from the curb. A gold Monte Carlo did the same a hundred feet back.

  Bennet felt better driving, going around the Capitol and taking Maryland Avenue through Northeast, across town to Benning Road. Linney had found an Experience Unlimited tape in the glove box, and they were playing it loud with the windows down. It wasn’t too cold a day; just looking at the sunshine made them feel warm.

  “EU is doin’ it,” said Linney.

  “Bad jam,” said Bennet, touching his friend’s hand.

  Bennet saw a girl in a tight pair of blue jeans walking down the street. He eased off the gas.

  “Hey, check it out, Jumbo, it’s one of them Jordache girls.”

  “Why you slowin’ down, man, you gonna ask her for a date? Better get you a phone book to sit on first, so she can see your little head over the window ledge.”

  Bennet ignored Linney and sang out the open window: “You got the look I want to know bet –tah….”

  The girl rolled her eyes and stopped walking until the Supra had passed.

  “Too early in the day to be talkin’ to the girls,” said Bennet. “ ’Cause you know the freaks come out at night.”

  “Yeah, we’ll come back later when it’s dark, Chink, so I can watch you work your magic.”

  They drove on into the Kingman Park area. Jumbo rubbed his stomach and pointed to a corner market.

  “Hey, pull over, nigga, I need to get me somethin’ to eat.”

  “Shit, Jumbo, ain’t you had enough today? Saw you put down five chili dogs at Ben’s after we collected all that money.”

  “Pull the fuck on over, Chink. Damn.”

  Bennet parked in front of a market with a riot gate pulled halfway down over its front window.

  “They look like they closed,” said Bennet.

  “They ain’t closed yet. Come on, man.”

  “I don’t want nothin’.”

  “Come on.”

  Bennet and Linney went into the store.

  A couple of minutes later the gold Monte Carlo came to a stop behind the Supra. The man behind the wheel cut the engine. He and the man who sat beside him got out of the Chevy and walked toward the market. They pulled black stockings over their faces and drew pistols as they entered the store.

  “Hey, mama san,” said Linney, “where go your sodas?”

  “Soda in back,” said the round-faced Korean woman behind the counter. Her four-year-old son ran a toy car around her feet on the grease-stained tile floor. She and her father watched the fat black man move to the back of the store, also keeping an eye on the little light-skinned man who had walked in with him.

  Through the slats of the riot gate, Bennet saw a gold Monte Carlo ease along the curb and stop behind the Supra. He had a look around the market, noticed the outline of a three-letter logo, long since removed, that had hung at one time on the wall.

  “Hey, Jumbo,” said Bennet. “This here used to be one of those DGA stores they had all over town. Had one near Barry Farms, remember?”

  Linney ambled down the aisle with a bottle of Yoo Hoo in his hand, his hips barely clearing the racks on either side. He snatched a large cellophane bag of pork skins off a shelf without breaking stride.

  “Look at you,” said Bennet, “grazin’ and shit.”

  “Ain’t you gettin’ nothin’?”

  “Wanna stay lean for the girls.”

  “Aw, go ahead with that, nigga.”

  Linney and Bennet stepped up to the counter.

  Two men with stockings over their faces and guns in their hands came charging through the front door.

  “Back the fuck on up!” yelled the lead man, pointing his gun, a revolver with black electrician’s tape wrapped around its grip, at the woman behind the counter.

  Linney and Bennet moved back a step, Linney cradling the pork skins and bottle to his chest. Bennet began to giggle. He did his best to suppress it, but the sound built and echoed in the room.

  The woman picked her boy up and turned her back on the men. The old man raised his hands above his head.

  “Take money!” said the old man. “No shoot!”

  “We ain’t want your got-damn money, Chang. Get y’alls’ asses into that back room. Come on, now, move!”

  The Koreans hurried back to the stockroom. The second gunman went behind the counter and followed them into the back.

  “Fuck you laughin’ at, little man?” said the leader, moving the gun from Linney to Bennet and back again.

  “Can’t help it,” said Bennet, trying to stop laughing, unable to stop. “Ain’t mean nothin’ by it!”

  Linney looked in the leader’s eyes. “Just calm down, brother,” he said.

  “Brother?” said the man. “Nigga, I ain’t got no brother. Had one by the name of Wesley Meadows. You know—Chief. But he got murdered last night, by the two of you.”

  Antoine Meadows yanked his stocking mask up, showed his face.

  “Aw, shit,” said Bennet.

  “We ain’t have nothin’ to do with that!” said Linney.

  “You a lyin’ mothafucker, too,” said Meadows.

  The Yoo Hoo bottle slipped from Linney’s hands and shattered on the tile floor.

  “Chink,” said Linney, moving to the side, his huge torso shielding Bennet.

  Meadows shot Linney through the bag of pork skins; the round blew a hole through his heart.

  Blood Rorschached out into the gun smoke as Linney stumbled back. He took his last sharp breath in pain and surprise, his arms pinwheeling at his sides.

  Chink Bennet backpedaled, tripped, and fell to the ground. Linney came down on top of him, pinning Bennet to the floor.

  Antoine Meadows stepped forward, his gun hand shaking wildly. He looked around the market. He looked out to the street. His eyes were feral and afraid.

  “Look at you. Like some itty-bitty cowboy. Your own horse fell on you and shit! Ought to see how you look now, little man!”

  Chink Bennet couldn’t move his legs. He couldn’t stop laughing. He was laughing, and there were tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Meadows locked back the pistol’s hammer.

  “Why you still laughin’, man? Don’t you know you’re about to die?”

  Bennet watched the hammer drop.

  Bennet wondered, would he hear a sound?

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Hear anything?” said Dimitri Karras.

  “Not a thing,” said Marcus Clay, looking around his empty store.

  “I called the place where Stefanos works. Talked to a guy named Andre. Said they called in, asked a couple of questions. Said they’re not coming back today.”

  “Is Stefanos gonna call me?”

  “He’ll call. But I was thinkin’ I’d drop his money off for him at his grandfather’s place. Wanted to see the old man anyway. I was thinking of him earlier, when I went to see my mom. My father used to work for him, back in the forties. Lunch counter called Nick’s Grill, down on 14th and S.”

  Clay smiled. “I remember that place. Me and George Dozier used to go down there when we were kids, play that pinball machine they had. Always wondered about that cast of characters behind the counter, a couple of Greeks off the boat cooking soul food for the brothers. Matter of fact, the man you’re talkin’ about, he caught me tryin’ to drop a slug in that pinball machine one day. Made me sweep the place out and then he gave me a roll of nickels to play. Combination of tough and kind. Best thing that man could have done for me then.”

  “Feel like taking a ride?”

  “Sure,” said Clay. “Drivin’ me crazy, sittin’ around here with nothin’ to do.”

  Karras parked the BMW at the intersection of 17th and Irving in Mount Ple
asant, and he and Clay walked up 17th, where they cut into an alley. Karras had visited Big Nick Stefanos once since Stefanos had asked him to counsel his grandson ten years back. Karras knew that the residents of the row houses on Irving used the alley as their primary entrance. Four houses deep into the alley, he saw Big Nick’s house.

  Karras knocked on the front door. Through the windows he and Clay saw an old man coming slowly toward them, leaning on a cane. Two locks were undone, and the door swung open.

  “Mr. Stefanos?”

  “Yeah?”

  The old man squinted, his milky, glaucomic eyes staring past Karras’s shoulder. He had lost all of his hair except for a few strays combed across the spotted dome of his scalp. He had lost a few inches of height as well, though none of the immensity of his hands. His thick horn-rimmed glasses hung crookedly on his large nose.

  “Dimitri Karras.”

  The old man showed his wide-open smile. “O yos tou Panayoti Karras?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Pete Karras’s son. Got a friend with me, Mr. Stefanos.”

  “Marcus Clay.” Clay reached out and took the old man’s hand. Stefanos shook it.

  “Ella,” he said, making a come-on gesture with his free hand. “Come on in. I was jus’ makin’ a little cafe.”

  They entered a room that had been a sleeping porch, now finished off with paneled walls. An old couch covered with afghan blankets sat next to a green leather recliner patched with duct tape. The television played on a stand set against the wall. Steve McQueen was engaged in a card game with Eddie Robinson onscreen.

  “Have a seat,” said Stefanos. “You two want coffee?”

  “That would be good,” said Karras as he and Clay took a seat on the couch.

  “Watch a little TV if you want. Playhouse Five, they used to run Randolph Scott Westerns on Sunday afternoons. No more. But McQueen, he’s all right. Makes a pretty good cowboy, too.”

  “We’re okay,” said Karras. “Take your time.”