The Sweet Forever

by George Pelecanos

“Ain’t nothin’. Got it a little while ago at Real Right.”

  “Yeah? How’d that meeting turn out?”

  “Clay and the rest of them, they schooled us, man.”

  “Had no doubt that they would.”

  “Clay knows about you and Tutt. Said something about Tyrell’s sold-out cops back there.”

  “Figured he’d get onto it sooner or later.” Murphy reached across Rogers and opened his door. “Time to go.”

  “Where you headed now?”

  “Got one more stop to make. Then I’m headin’ uptown to meet Tutt.”

  “Murphy?”

  “Go on, boy. You’ll do fine.”

  Alan Rogers got out of the Trans Am and jogged across U street to his car. Murphy watched him drive away.

  Karras and Clay stood behind the cashier’s counter, drinking a couple of beers. Tate and Adamson had each downed a bottle and gone home.

  “Marcus?”

  “What?”

  “Look who’s comin’ our way.”

  Clay watched Kevin Murphy walk toward the front door.

  “Don’t think I want to see him right now,” said Clay.

  “You heard what Donna said about him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe we ought to let him in, see what he has to say.”

  “All right, Dimitri. Go ahead.”

  Karras walked to the door, turned the key in the lock. He stepped aside and let Murphy pass. Murphy nodded at Karras and went straight to the counter, where Clay stood up straight.

  “Marcus.”

  “Murphy.” Clay looked him over. “What you doin’ here?”

  “Came by to give you somethin’.” Murphy glanced over at Karras.

  “You can talk free,” said Clay. “He knows all about you, man. Matter of fact, I was just talkin’ about you to your boss Tyrell. Tellin’ him how I didn’t want to see his pocket-cops around here anymore. I meant it, too.”

  Murphy did not respond.

  “Donna called us a little while ago,” said Karras. “Said you took the money. You told her you were going to trade it for Eddie’s life.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “She also said you gave her five grand out of the twenty-five.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your boss ain’t gonna like that you gave the five away,” said Clay.

  “Wasn’t just the five. I went and gave the rest of it away, too.”

  “So now you got nothin’,” said Clay. “How you gonna make a trade with air?”

  “Figure it out when I get there, I guess.”

  “Just you?”

  “Convinced Alan Rogers to come over to my side. And Tutt.”

  “What, you gonna tell me that Tutt’s found religion, too?”

  “No. But he’s gonna be there with me just the same.”

  “They’ve got guns.”

  “We’ve got guns, too.”

  “Ain’t you done enough damage, Murphy?”

  “I have. Now I’m lookin’ to make some kind of peace with what I’ve done.”

  “What I ought to do,” said Clay, “is call the real police soon as you leave, get them out to that house right quick. Let you ease your conscience some other way than how you’re fixin’ to.”

  “You won’t do that, though.”

  “No?”

  “You told me earlier that you’d give me the rest of the day to sort things out.”

  “That was before I knew who you were.”

  “You gave me your word, Marcus. It means somethin’ to you.”

  Murphy reached behind him, pulled the envelope from his back pocket. He handed it to Clay, who read the writing on the front.

  “George Dozier? What’s this got to do with George?”

  “Just put it in his hands. That’s all I’m askin’. You’ll do that for me, right?”

  Clay and Murphy locked eyes.

  “Thanks, Marcus.”

  “Ain’t no thing.”

  “I best be goin’,” said Murphy.

  “Kevin,” said Clay.

  But Murphy turned and left the store. They watched him pass beneath a streetlamp. They heard the Trans Am’s engine come to life.

  “Kind of hard on him, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  Karras opened the last two Heinekens and put one in Clay’s hand.

  “Cheers, Marcus.”

  “Cheers?” said Clay. “Right.”

  Karras did some paperwork in the office while Clay paced around the store, moving records from one bin to another and back again. When Clay could stand that no longer, he went to the back room and dropped the letter on the desk in front of Karras.

  “Can’t stop thinkin’ about Murphy, Dimitri.”

  “I hear you. I been workin’ on the same purchase order and not gettin’ anywhere for the last half hour.” Karras rested his pen on the desk. “What do you think’s gonna happen to him?”

  “You heard the man. He went to make his peace.”

  “With a gun?”

  “That’s one way.”

  “Ah, shit.” Karras ran a hand through his hair. “Look, you know where he’s goin’, right?”

  “Yeah. Your boy McGinnes gave me Tyrell’s address. Got it written down here somewhere.”

  “Call George, Marcus.”

  “Mitri, I don’t even know what’s in that letter.”

  “Read it, then.”

  “That letter’s sealed, man.”

  Karras picked up the envelope and tore it open. “Here.”

  Clay unfolded the letter. Karras watched his face as he read it.

  “Come on, Marcus, what’s it say?”

  “It’s a confession. Murphy implicates himself and Tutt as willing employees of Tyrell’s drug operation. Puts the finger on Short Man for the murder of Wesley Meadows and James Willets.”

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  Clay looked up. “Guess I’m gonna have to go ahead and break my word.”

  Clay picked up the phone and dialed. Karras listened to him tell George Dozier about a couple of rogue cops who were taking it upon themselves to arrest the killers of Chief Meadows and P-Square Willets, holed up in a house in PG County.

  “It’s goin’ down now, George,” said Clay, and he gave Dozier the address. He cradled the phone.

  “Didn’t hear you mention the part about Murphy and Tutt bein’ on Tyrell’s payroll.”

  “Must have slipped my mind.”

  “Gettin’ forgetful in your old age, Marcus.”

  “Yeah,” said Clay, tearing up the letter and dropping the pieces in the trash. “And clumsy, too.”

  Clay began to punch another number into the phone’s grid.

  “Who you callin’ now?” said Karras.

  “Elaine,” said Clay. “Murphy’s gonna need a good lawyer, he makes it out alive.”

  THIRTY

  Kevin Murphy curbed the Trans Am at Colorado and Longfellow and killed its engine. He got out of the car and crossed the street. The Bronco was idling out front of O’Grady’s. Murphy showed the last stack of bills to Tutt through the driver’s-side window. Tutt nodded. Murphy dropped the pillowcase in the back of the Ford, came back, and got in the passenger seat.

  “Ready, partner?” said Tutt.

  “Yeah. Let’s move.”

  They took 14th Street downtown, turned left on Florida Avenue, went past Gallaudet College and Trinidad, and drove east.

  Murphy told Tutt about Bennet and Linney as they hit Benning Road.

  Tutt said, “That’s a damn shame.”

  The Bronco rolled onto the Allen and Benning Bridges. Murphy cranked his window a quarter turn, the air crisp on his face. The moon reflected pearl off the Anacostia River below.

  “What’s so funny?” said Tutt.

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re smiling.”

  “Was I? Didn’t mean to be. Just thinkin’ back on somethin’.”

  “Must be a good me
mory.”

  “There was this time when I was a boy, I went with this girl to her house. Older girl, used to tease the young boys in the neighborhood. Afterwards, my father found out and made me go to our reverend, tell him what we’d done.”

  Tutt smiled stupidly. “D’you fuck her?”

  “Nah, Tutt, it wasn’t nothin’ like that. It was one of those ‘you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine’ kind of things. Real innocent, lookin’ at it now. But I thought I had committed an awful sin, and it was weighin’ on me hard. The point I’m tryin’ to make is, after I talked to my reverend, I had this, I don’t know, clean feeling, see, like I had got it all out, and there wasn’t nothin’ dirty left inside me. Like everything was in front of me again.”

  “Way you feel tonight, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  Tutt looked over at Murphy. “You’re scarin’ me a little bit, man. We ain’t goin’ to no revival meeting here.”

  “I know where we’re goin’, Tutt.”

  “ ’Cause we gotta be together on this. You gave Rogers the instructions just like we said?”

  “Alan knows what to do.”

  “He brings Golden out, we smoke ’em all at once. Has to be that way, Kev. I’ll do Rogers if you want, ’cause I know it’s gonna be hard for you. And I’ll do Monroe, too. Want to see his face when I wave good-bye to him.”

  “Take your time in there, Tutt.”

  “They’ll live a few minutes longer, long as they don’t fuck with me too much. But I ain’t gonna take any of their insults. You just remember, they’ve all got to be put down.”

  “Like animals.”

  “What?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Afterwards,” said Tutt, “we arrange it so it looks like a hit. Bury our guns somewhere.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Tell you one thing. Someone did us a big favor today, evened the odds when they blew up Chink and Jumbo’s shit. That’s just two less to worry about, right?”

  “Two more dead ones,” said Murphy, looking at Tutt. “It’s a start.”

  “What d’you say?”

  “Heard you tell that joke one night in the FOP bar when you thought I wasn’t listenin’. ‘What do you call a hundred niggers chained to the bottom of the ocean: A start.’ ”

  “Jesus, Murph, you gonna get up on that soapbox again? Thought you and me were square—”

  “Just wanted you to know.”

  “Wanted me to know what?”

  “That I hate you, Richard. Truth is, I always have.”

  “Fine.” Tutt squirmed in his seat, the green dash lights tinted his reddening face. “Long as we got an understanding about tonight.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Murphy, his eyes level and calm. “Everything’s clear.”

  The Bronco crossed the Maryland line.

  Tyrell Cleveland squatted on the hearth and placed a fresh log on the fire. The flames heated his rayon shirt and beaded his forehead with sweat.

  “Damn, cuz,” said Antony Ray. “Don’t need no radiators in this joint, way you keep that bonfire goin’.”

  “Like it, man,” said Tyrell. “Makes me feel good.”

  “How this gin make me feel,” said Short Man Monroe, seated next to Ray at the round wooden table, a plastic cup of Gilbey’s and pineapple held loosely in his hand. “Cash good.”

  “You don’t look so good, black,” said Ray.

  “I’ll take care of my shit tomorrow,” said Monroe, his face ugly, twisted, streaked with dried blood. “Gimme some of that boat, man.”

  Ray handed Monroe a lit joint and dipped his index finger into the coke heaped on the mirror. He rubbed some freeze on his gums. He swallowed half his drink and shook a Newport from the deck. Ray put fire to his smoke.

  Alan Rogers came out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He had tried talking to Eddie, but he wasn’t certain if he had gotten through. Golden’s eyes had crossed in on each other all the way, and he was lying funny on the bed, like one of those retards Rogers had seen once. There were bruises and shit all around his mouth. And Golden’s arm, it looked fucked for real.

  Rogers walked slowly to the living area, where Tyrell stood to his full height.

  “How’s our Golden boy doin’?” said Tyrell.

  “Not so good,” said Rogers, looking at Ray.

  “Did exactly what you said to do,” said Ray, elbowing Monroe, who coughed out a hit of pot treated with Raid.

  “He shouldn’t have lied,” said Tyrell. “You ain’t got no problem with the way we been hostin’ him, do you, Alan?”

  “Nah, Ty,” said Rogers, trying to smile. “You know we all right.”

  “Good. ’Cause you don’t like things around here, you can always think about goin’ somewhere else.”

  “Have to get his ride fixed first,” said Ray.

  “Get that raggedy-ass piece of shit towed off the highway where he left it,” said Monroe, dropping the joint in the ashtray and resting his hand on the grip of his Glock.

  “Go on, boy,” said Ray, motioning toward the dining area. “Make yourself useful and put on some music.”

  “Yeah,” said Monroe, picking up his toothpick off the table and fitting it in the side of his mouth. “And quit actin’ like a bitch.”

  Rogers went back to the stereo, slipped Trouble Funk’s live album out of its sleeve. He placed the record on the platter, dropped the tone arm onto the vinyl, and turned up the volume. The multilayered go-go sound came forward: drums, then bass, then call and response.

  “This shit is live,” said Monroe.

  “All the way live,” said Ray, touching Monroe’s hand.

  Tyrell went to the bay window, looked at the headlights coming down the gravel drive. The Bronco came to a stop within the arc of the porch light.

  “Here come our boys,” said Tyrell.

  Tyrell eyed Tutt and Murphy as they stepped out of the truck. Murphy went around the Bronco, dropped the tailgate, took off his jacket, and threw it in the back. He retrieved a pillowcase and set it on the ground, pulled a double-holster gun belt from the pillowcase, and buckled the belt around his waist.

  “What are they doin’?” said Ray.

  “Officer Murphy’s strappin’ on a couple of revolvers,” said Tyrell. “And now he’s puttin’ on his badge.”

  “Fuck’s he doin’ that for?”

  “I didn’t know better,” said Tyrell, “I’d say he was gettin’ ready to make an arrest.”

  “Fuck you doin’, Murph?” said Tutt, a catch in his voice. “Tyrell’s right there in that window, lookin’ right at us.”

  Murphy did not look up at the house. He buckled the gun belt tightly to his waist and unsnapped the holster straps.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, man!”

  Murphy took his shield from his pocket and pinned it to his polo shirt.

  “Murphy! I asked what you were doin’!”

  “My job.”

  Murphy grabbed the pillowcase off the tailgate and walked toward the house. Tutt fell in beside him.

  “You goin’ in like that?”

  “Yeah,” said Murphy. “And you better do the same. Don’t want to be fumblin’ with your shit if this goes wrong.”

  “But they’ll know.”

  “They’ll know anyway when they see your eager eyes.”

  They took the steps up to the porch.

  Tutt drew his Colt. He pulled back on the receiver and jacked a round into the .45.

  They stopped at the scarred door, bass thumping through the bungalow’s walls.

  Tutt’s face was ashen in the porch light. “They got that music up loud.”

  “Guess we better pound real hard on the door, then.”

  The lights went off inside the house. Murphy’s eyes went serene.

  Murphy balled his fist, rabbit-punched the door three times.

  “I’ll go first,” said Tutt, inhaling deeply.

  “No,” said Murphy as the door began to open
. “Not this time.”

  Tyrell stood in the frame of the bay window. He watched Tutt gesture angrily to Murphy, and then he watched Tutt and Murphy move away from the Bronco and walk toward the house.

  Tyrell turned and nodded at Ray.

  Ray stood up, taking hold of the table for support, dizzy from the gin and the green. He lifted his .38 Bulldog off the table, opened the chamber, spun it, snapped it shut. He fitted the snub-nose in the front of his slacks, the grip and trigger showing just above the waistband, thinking how bad it looked like that. Always did have that fantasy, too, of drawin’ down on a cop. He hotboxed his cigarette and stabbed it savagely into the ashtray.

  Monroe checked the magazine of the Glock, palm-slapped the seventeen-shot load back in the butt. He thumbed off the safety, worked the slide, racked a jacketed round into the chamber, and stepped away from the table.

  Tyrell went to the fireplace, where the Mossberg twelve-gauge leaned barrel up against the bricks. The barrel’s heat shield was cool to the touch. Tyrell wrapped his hand around the wood stock of the pistol grip, racked the pump, eased a double-aught shell into the breech. He laid the shotgun on the table so that its grip cleared the edge.

  “Alan,” said Tyrell, “turn them lights out, man.”

  Rogers extinguished the lights in the room, leaving only the orange strobe of the fire. Monroe fanned out to the right, his finger curled inside the trigger guard of the nine. Ray stood alongside Tyrell.

  They heard a pounding on the door.

  “Go ahead, Alan,” said Tyrell. “Let ’em in.”

  Murphy came through the doorway first, Tutt behind him. Rogers closed the door and stepped back into the darkened room.

  Murphy squinted to adjust his eyes. Monroe was off to the left, hip cocked, an automatic at his side, his face a ruined, rubbery mask. Ray stood beside Tyrell, staring at Murphy and Tutt with murderous, laughing eyes. The trigger of a revolver showed above the belt line at the front of his slacks. Ray looked drunk to Murphy, unsteady on his feet. Or maybe he was cooked on dust; the sweet smell of green hung in the air.

  “Welcome, officers,” said Tyrell, standing a head above them, two feet away from the round table where a pistol-grip shotgun lay.

  The fire threw dancing shadows out beyond the hearth. Tyrell was a black spidery outline, his green eyes wet and luminous in his long pointed face.