The Man Who Came Uptown

by George Pelecanos

  “Where’s the dude who drives the follow car?” said Ward.

  “I don’t know,” said Ornazian. “Whether he’s with them or not, we have to do this tonight. Tomorrow’s Monday. Gustav might start laundering the cash.”

  Cesar put the briefcases in the backseat and got behind the wheel as Gustav climbed up into the passenger seat. The Range Rover pulled off the curb.

  “Cook it,” said Ornazian.

  Michael turned the ignition. He rested his wrist on the transmission arm. “Waitin on your word.”

  “Ease up,” said Ornazian. “We know where they’re going.”

  GUSTAV LIVED at the southern edge of Hyattsville, just above the North Brentwood line, in Maryland. He was west of Rhode Island Avenue, down a road that backed to Northwest Branch parkland. At the head of the street, the pavement had buckled into a V, and Michael negotiated it carefully. At Ornazian’s direction, Michael killed the Impala’s headlamps and rolled slowly alongside Gustav’s property.

  “Keep going,” said Ornazian.

  As he followed the curve in the road, which wound around to the front of the house, Michael saw that the street led to a dead end, where short concrete pylons flanked a bike path leading into the park. The pylons were framed by trash cans on the left and the edge of a wooded area on the right. Michael studied the space on the right and gauged its width.

  “What’s that lead to?”

  “The Northwest Branch trail. Runs along the Anacostia River.”

  “The Anacostia comes all the way out here?”

  “We’re not far from the District. You good?”

  “Yeah.”

  Michael turned the car around and faced it back out toward the highway. He parked along a post-and-board fence that was in disrepair and let the engine run.

  Gustav’s residence was a two-story affair with white plank siding situated on a half an acre of weedy land. Lights were on inside the house. The back of the house held a deck and it gave on to more land running to woods that bordered a soccer field. The Range Rover was parked in the gravel driveway. There were no streetlights. There was only one other house on the street and it was relatively distant and up on a rise.

  Ornazian reached up and disabled the dome light. He turned toward Michael. “I’m gonna give you a two-way.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you need to contact us, use the radio, not your phone. Call me Number One if you want to address me. Don’t use my name.”

  “Go it.”

  “Pop that lid.”

  Ornazian and Ward got out of the car and went to the open trunk. Ward bent in low and, with a mini Maglite in his mouth, unzipped the duffel bags. They slipped nitrile gloves onto their hands, and then they tooled up, Ward with his Remington shotgun and Glock 17, Ornazian with the .38. Ward stuffed various sizes of plastic cuffs and a Buck knife into his jacket pocket while Ornazian grabbed a set of two-way Motorola radios. Last, they fitted stockings over their faces. Ward closed the trunk’s lid.

  Ornazian went to the open driver’s-side window of the Impala and handed Michael a radio. He spoke softly. “Use channel eleven.”

  Ornazian nodded at Ward over the roof. They went to the fence and walked into the yard through a space where a board had fallen, then over to the rear deck. Ornazian got down and crawled under it, through gas cans, empty beer cans, and brown leaves, and came out on the other side. Now Ward and Ornazian flanked the deck, both in a crouch.

  Ward looked into the double glass doors at the rear of the house. The bodyguard, Cesar, was holding a tumbler of something amber over ice, absently watching a soccer game on a wide-screen TV. His back was to the doors. Gustav was not in sight.

  Ward stood up to his full height and moved around the corner of the deck, deliberately triggering the exterior security lamp mounted on the second floor of the house. Light flooded the yard and Ward immediately crouched back down. They waited and listened and soon heard the unlocking of the back doors. Then the sound of heavy footsteps on the deck. Then the rack of a slide.

  Ward stood, pumped a round into the Remington, and pointed its muzzle at Cesar. Cesar held a semiautomatic in his right hand.

  Ornazian came into the light, snicked back the hammer of the revolver, and trained it on Cesar. Cesar heard the trigger lock back but he did not look at Ornazian or react.

  “Drop it,” said Ward.

  Cesar, expressionless, raised his gun and trained it on Ward. Ward made a step forward but otherwise did not flinch.

  “How about I murder you?” said Cesar.

  “How ’bout we murder each other?” said Ward.

  The three of them stood in the harsh yellow light of the floodlamp. Time passed.

  “Why have you come?” said Cesar.

  “We’re here to rob your boss,” said Ward.

  Cesar considered this.

  “Is not my money,” Cesar said. He lowered his gun and placed it on the deck.

  AS THEY went into the house, they heard Gustav calling out for Cesar. Cesar looked back at the armed men behind him. Ornazian put his finger to his lips and Ward made a motion with his chin. They were telling Cesar not to speak and to keep moving forward.

  He led them past a kitchen, where there were chairs set around an oval table. Then the three of them went down a hall to an open bedroom door. They entered the room all at once and Gustav rose from the bed, startled. The briefcases were atop the bed.

  Gustav looked angrily at Cesar, who maintained his unemotional expression.

  “What is this?” said Gustav.

  “I ain’t tell you to speak,” said Ward.

  Gustav cursed creatively in Spanish. Something about shitting in their mothers’ milk.

  Ward, who understood a good deal of Spanish, thought it was a curious comment but let it pass. He glanced at Ornazian. “Go to the kitchen and bring back a couple of those chairs.”

  Ornazian left the room. Ward held the shotgun on Cesar, which was an insult to Gustav, telling him he was not a threat. With his left hand Ward pulled back his jacket to show them the grip of his Glock.

  Ornazian returned with the chairs and set them at the foot of the bed. They were ladder-back in design, constructed of metal and tubular steel.

  “Sit down,” said Ward to Cesar.

  Cesar sat. As Ornazian covered them with his revolver, Ward used large plastic cuffs to bind Cesar’s feet and smaller ties to secure his hands behind the chair. Cesar did not resist.

  When he was done, Ward said to Gustav, “Strip.”

  “Eh?”

  “Take your clothes off, fat man. Everything.”

  Gustav reddened but took off his clothing piece by piece, folding each item neatly and placing it on the shag-carpeted floor. He stood naked before them. He was misshapen, with saddlebag boobs and a stomach that fell in waves over his groin.

  “Damn,” said Ward. “You are one fucked-up-lookin individual. Where’d you get them girl-titties at? I mean, you look like a man with your clothes on, but shit…”

  Ward continued along those lines, breaking Gustav down, commenting on his uncut penis, its lack of size, and his generally revolting appearance. Then he tied him to the second chair the same way he had bound Cesar. Ornazian hadn’t uttered a word. The psych game was Ward’s specialty and he was doing fine.

  After Gustav had been secured, Ornazian opened the briefcases and inspected their contents. Both were filled with rubber-banded cash, but the amount seemed unremarkable. Twenties, mostly, with a smattering of fives and tens. Ornazian shut the lids.

  “Where’s the rest of it?” said Ward.

  “Huh?” said Gustav.

  “High-rollin pimp like you, I know you have a stash.”

  Gustav stared straight ahead.

  “Never mind,” said Ward. “We’ll find it our own selves.”

  Ornazian and Ward tossed the bedroom sloppily. They checked every drawer. Ward used his Buck knife to slash open the mattress and box spring, then swept everything off the dresser top
because it felt good. Finally, Ornazian checked the closet. Behind the hung-up clothing was a safe set in the wall. It was the type found in a hotel. There were decaled instructions on its face.

  “Well,” said Ward.

  Gustav hocked on the carpet.

  “It’s your shag,” said Ward. “Spit on it, you got a mind to.”

  “Give us the combination,” said Ornazian.

  When Gustav said nothing, Ward said to Ornazian, “Try the usual.”

  Ornazian began entering the most common four-digit combinations into the pad of the safe. Starting with 1-1-1-1, moving on to 2-2-2-2, and so forth. When he got past 9-9-9-9, with no result, he went with the tried-and-true 1-2-3-4.

  “Nothing,” said Ornazian. Beneath his stocking mask, his face was damp with sweat. All of them were perspiring profusely now. The room stank of it.

  “What’s your birthday, Goo-stav?” said Ward.

  Gustav did not reply.

  Ward went to the clothing pile, kicked it apart, and picked up Gustav’s pants. He lifted his wallet out of the back pocket and opened it. He extracted the cash in the wallet and stuffed the bills in his own pocket. Then he slipped Gustav’s driver’s license out and read it.

  “December seventeenth, 1974,” said Ward. “Try seventeen seventy-four.”

  Ornazian punched the numbers into the grid but the safe did not open.

  “Nope,” he said.

  “Okay, try twelve seventy-four. One-two-seven-four.”

  Ornazian entered this combination and a green light glowed on the face of the safe. Its door sprang open.

  Gustav muttered something unintelligible as Ornazian reached into the safe and extracted several banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He made a couple of trips to the bed to fit the newfound cash in with the old. He snapped the briefcases shut.

  “Chinga tu hermana,” said Gustav, tears of anger in his eyes.

  “Why’d you have to say that?” said Ward. He reversed his grip on the shotgun and with great force pushed its butt into Gustav’s chest. The chair tipped back and Gustav crashed to the floor. His hands, bound behind him, were crushed by his own weight. Gustav cried out.

  Cesar looked up at Ward. “Nos encontraremos otra vez.”

  “Maybe,” said Ward. “But not tonight.”

  They left the house the way they’d come. The security light activated as they stepped out onto the deck. Ward kicked Cesar’s gun over the edge before he took the steps down to the yard. Then they crossed the yard and passed through the space in the fence. Michael popped the trunk’s lid as he saw them approach the car. They dumped their weapons, gear, and the briefcases into the trunk, then their stocking masks and gloves. They closed the trunk and got into the Impala, Ornazian in the front bucket, Ward on the back bench.

  “Let’s go,” said Ornazian.

  Just as he spoke, a car turned right off of Rhode Island Avenue and stopped at the head of the street, before the buckle in the road. The driver hit his high beams, blowing his headlights fully into their eyes.

  “It’s a Mustang,” said Michael. He drew his seat belt across his lap and seated it in the latch.

  “The follow car,” said Ward.

  “He’s not moving,” said Michael.

  “Go,” said Ornazian.

  Michael put the transmission arm in reverse, placed his hand on the top of Ornazian’s bucket, and turned his head to look behind him. He hit the gas. The Impala slid into the curve but Michael corrected and headed for the concrete pylons. As he did, Ornazian saw the Mustang accelerate and hit the V in the buckled road. The beams of the Ford’s headlights went down and then up into the sky as the car dropped into the V and shot back out of it.

  “Watch those barriers,” said Ward, but Michael had swerved to the left of them, crossing the narrow area of brush that bordered the woods. He drove in reverse down the path along the soccer field, and when he came to the T of it, he swung the wheel, braked, and slammed the shifter down into drive. Headlights off, he headed down the wide asphalt path. He climbed a steep hill, accelerating rapidly. They could not see over the hill’s crest.

  “Hey,” said Ward. “Slow down.”

  In his rearview, Michael could see the Mustang in pursuit. He did not slow down. At the top of the hill the Impala caught air as all four wheels left the earth, and for a moment they were staring down the other side of the hill as they descended, and when they hit the pavement, a steep ravine to their left, they were jostled wildly and nearly slid off the edge, but Michael, two hands on the wheel, steadied the car. At the bottom of the hill the land leveled and Michael pinned the pedal, negotiating the slight curves artfully. He looked again into his rearview mirror. The Mustang had gone over the crest of the hill, hit air, and come down sloppily. It slid over the edge of the ravine and came to a stop by the rocky bulkhead at the water’s edge.

  “He’s done,” said Michael.

  Michael eased off the gas pedal. They rolled on the path beside the river, the moonlight shimmering bright on its water. Soon they came to a road and a parking lot. There were more pylons ahead and Michael jumped off the path and into the lot, then took the road. He turned on his headlights.

  “The next traffic light is Hamilton,” said Ornazian. “Take a left onto that and then continue on to Queens Chapel Road. It becomes Michigan Avenue.”

  “I know where we’re at,” said Michael.

  From the backseat, Ward began to laugh. Ornazian turned around and smiled. They dapped fists.

  “What did Cesar say to you before we left?” said Ornazian.

  “He said we’d meet again.”

  The men grew quiet. As they crossed over into the District, Thaddeus Ward closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  Nineteen

  HE HAD clocked out, and the weather had broken to warm, so Michael decided to sit outside the restaurant at one of those picnic tables on the patio and read his book before he walked home. He had started in on Northline, the novel Anna had bought for him at the store on Georgia Ave. There were a few customers out here, young folks, mostly, who had come by for happy hour, and though they were not particularly boisterous, he found a table away from them where he could read in peace.

  At first, Michael hadn’t thought this book was to his liking. In the very first chapter, a drunk girl named Allison Johnson has unloving sex with a drug addict named Jimmy Bodie in the bathroom stall of a casino out in Las Vegas. She passes out while they’re making it, falls down, and cuts her head. All right, thought Michael, that’s just the start of the book. That’s to show that the girl has hit bottom and has learned something. Now things are gonna get brighter. But the girl doesn’t learn.

  This Bodie dude, a speed freak and all-around loser, comes by her mother’s house a couple of days later and begs Allison to forgive him for doing her dirty. And instead of throwing him out, she gives him another chance. They go out to the desert to one of those new-Nazi parties and get all fucked up again on drugs and alcohol, and then she sees Bodie running his hands up inside the skirt of another girl. Michael thinking, If Allison Johnson is just going to keep being a drunk and keep being a punching bag for this dude, I don’t know if I want to keep reading. He was beginning to wonder why Anna liked the book so much.

  But then, in a chapter called “T. J. Watson,” an old trucker by that name picks Allison up by the side of the road and drives her back toward Vegas in his rig. She breaks down and cries, confessing that she’s pregnant with Bodie’s child. T. J. Watson comforts her. Talks to her about choices, and the accidental death of his son, and the love he still shares with his wife after so many years. He tells her about the value of moving forward in life and the moments of beauty that are there if a person can only see them. For Michael, at that point, the book changed. He knew that, in the story, things were going to get much darker for Allison before they got better. But there would be moments of humanity too.

  “Mind if join you, young fella?”

  Michael looked up. Gerard, the
middle-aged mailman, was by his table, standing straight and fit. He was still in his uniform.

  “Have a seat.”

  Gerard signaled a waiter and ordered a draft beer, then sat across from Michael on the bench.

  “I’ve seen you twice here now,” said Gerard. “This where you hang out?”

  “I work here. I’m down in the kitchen.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Good. I like to work, just like you.”

  A car with D.C. plates but flying the Dallas Cowboy flags went past them on Eleventh. The blue star was decaled on its rear window.

  “I hate to see that,” said Michael.

  “I do too. But to understand it, you gotta know your history.”

  “I know the Redskins were the last team to integrate in the NFL, if that’s what you mean. My mother told me that. Until they put Bobby Mitchell on the squad. Right?”

  Gerard nodded. “That was the early sixties. There’s more to it, though. The owner, George Preston Marshall, had always resisted the integration of the Redskins. He said it was because his fans in the South wouldn’t accept it. See, the Skins were the southernmost team in the NFL at the time, and Marshall owned the radio stations down there where the games were broadcast. He claimed it was an economic thing. But Marshall was straight-up racist too. He just didn’t want any black football players on his team. You know the Redskins fight song, where everyone sings that line ‘Fight for old D.C.’? It used to be ‘Fight for old Dixie.’ That’s how blatant that bullshit was. Black folks picketed, and a sportswriter at the Post, Shirley Povich, wrote a rack of articles against the segregation on the team. When other squads who had black athletes on their rosters played Washington, they wanted to shove it up our asses. So there were a lot of angry folks, but Marshall stood his ground. Then, when he went to get the long-term lease for the new D.C. stadium, he met his Waterloo. President Kennedy sent his interior secretary, Udall was his name, over to speak to Marshall and tell him what time it was. No integration, no thirty-year lease on your stadium.”