The Cut (Spero Lucas) (18 page)

“Simon and Garfunkel,” said Lucas.

“Whichever one got the fucked-up hair.”

“What do you think Ricardo is?”

“You mean, is he mixed? Shit, I don’t know
what
he is.”

“On the force they used to call him Rooster.”

“I see it,” said Marquis.

The envelope Ricardo carried bulged with weight. He popped the trunk on his car and dropped the envelope inside. Closed the lid, got into his Lincoln, and started it up.

“What you suppose that was?” said Marquis. “Paperwork, somethin?”

“He doesn’t look like much of a businessman to me,” said Lucas. “Could be cash.”

“Car like that,” said Marquis, “he’s gonna be easy to tail.”

“So let him get far ahead,” said Lucas. “And remember, he’s ex-police. He notices things.”

“Right.”

Ricardo stopped at the nearby Safeway for a Starbucks coffee, then drove south on Georgia. Lucas and Marquis took turns as the lead tail and kept well back. Mobile surveillance was easier on heavily trafficked streets than it was on side streets, and Ricardo did not stray. Down in Park View he stopped on the Avenue and went into a well-known establishment that featured pole-and-freak-dancing onstage.

“He’s goin in that titty bar,” said Marquis, driving past it.

“Might be in there for a beer or two,” said Lucas, behind him. “I could use some lunch.”

“Already?”

“We better fuel up. You know that place I like down here?”

“Got that sign, with the trout jumpin out water, a hook in its mouth. That one?”

“Yep. Get two fish sandwiches. Extra hot sauce on mine. I’ll park on Georgia and keep an eye on the club.”

They ate their sandwiches in their respective vehicles. Ricardo did not emerge from the club. Marquis told Lucas that he needed to piss, and Lucas said to go ahead, that he would use his bottle if he needed to and stay where he was. Marquis got out of the Buick and crossed Georgia, holding
out his palm in a halt gesture to the oncoming traffic as he limped deeply over the asphalt and then the sidewalk, heading toward a gas station that had a restroom. He stopped to talk to a man outside a liquor store, a man he surely didn’t know, a conversation that had probably started over spare change and had gone on to involve the Wizards and the Redskins and would eventually lead to God and church and some message involving a blessed day.

Lucas felt a rush of affection, watching his friend. Dipping down the sidewalk, trying to get from A to B. He’d be walking on a titanium shin pole and plastic knee for the rest of his life. But always positive, because Marquis looked for the good. A man with faith.

RICARDO CAME
out of the bar around one o’clock in the afternoon and drove east, taking Irving Street to Michigan Avenue, then South Dakota Avenue to Bladensburg Road. Again, major roads, but with frequent stoplights, so they had to be cautious. Marquis offered to take the lead, reasoning that Ricardo would be less likely to notice a youngish black man driving a ubiquitous SUV in the city. Eventually they all appeared to be coming to some sort of destination in Maryland, out there near the Peace Cross, where Ricardo turned off Annapolis Road and headed into a commercial and industrial strip in Edmonston.

“Let him go,” said Lucas, who knew the area from his frequent bike rides up along the nearby Northwest Branch trail. “That’s Tanglewood at the end and nothing much else. He’s got to be stopping. Bunch of little streets back there, but we can always make his Lincoln.”

“Copy that,” said Marquis.

They drove for a bit, then cut back on 450 and went down the road where Ricardo had turned, staying several car lengths from each other. Lucas in his GMC had taken the lead. They went by several fenced-in businesses. On the road itself Lucas noted that there were signs prohibiting stopping and parking. They did not see the Lincoln, and began to hit the side roads, the U, V, and W streets, the high forties on the cross. Finally, near a dead end, Lucas neared a business with a big sign that said Mobley Detailing, and he saw the white Mark V in its lot, young guys shining up a car, Ricardo idling, waiting to enter a cinder-block building before one of several bay doors that was coming up on its track, and Lucas said, “Go back.” He and Marquis both reversed, swung around in driveways, and drove back to a place where there was something like a turnaround. They got nose to ass in their vehicles like police and talked to each other through open windows.

“Stay here,” said Lucas. “I’m gonna walk down there and take a couple of photos.”

“Seems kind of reckless to me.”

“Parking on that road’s illegal; we’d stick out. And I don’t like that dead end.”

“Whatever you say, cowboy.”

Lucas found a spot to park the GMC, removed his headset, and got out of the vehicle. He nodded at Marquis and began to walk down the road. He looked like a working-class guy in his Dickies shirt and pants, young dude, short hair, nothing about him standing out among other guys who looked like him here, going about their blue-collar business
in Edmonston. A jellybean Ford F-150 came up on him and passed, raising dust. There was no one else walking on the road, but that was all right. He pulled his iPhone from his pants pocket and touched the camera app, readying the device. He went by an auto body shop and was about fifty yards away from Mobley Detailing when he heard the rumble of a V-8 approaching from behind. As he turned his head there was a black Cadillac Escalade beside him, come to a crawl, and his stomach flipped as he locked eyes for a moment with the man behind the wheel, who was a younger version of Ricardo Holley. The Escalade accelerated and turned into the lot of the detail shop. Lucas spun around and walked back, his face flushed.

“Stupid,” he said, and repeated it, muttering as he quick-stepped down the road.

Marquis watched him approach, knew at once that something was wrong. He waited for Lucas to come up to the Buick.

“What happened?”

“I was burned,” said Lucas.

“You sure?”

“Ricardo’s son Larry.”

“The police officer?”

“He stopped right beside me and looked straight into my eyes. I’m certain he knows who I am. He drove past me in his squad car last week when I was surveilling a house on Twelfth. Got my plate numbers, most likely. Him and whoever he’s in with probably know where I live.”

“What now?”

“I blew it,” said Lucas. “Let’s go.”

LARRY HOLLEY
had been let into the cinder-block building by Beano Mobley, who told him that his father was waiting for him in the office. Earl Nance and Bernard White were standing by their Tahoe, parked beside the Lincoln in the bay. Nance was smoking a cigarette, grinning at Larry as he approached. Larry did not acknowledge either of them as he went back to the office and knocked on the door. It opened, and Ricardo Holley stepped aside to let his son pass.

“Son,” said Ricardo, regarding his offspring in his off-brand jeans, white T, and billowing windbreaker. The boy had no style.

“We got a problem,” said Larry.

“Come on in and set.”

Ricardo limped across the office and had a seat behind his desk. Behind him, the gun case and the door that led to the second office. There was cash money on the desk, stacks of it in twenties, tens, and fives. Larry eyed it warily.

“I said have a seat.”

“I’ll stand.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Thought you said we were done with those two.”

“Nance and White? I said we were done with ’em for
now
. Anyway, they’re here for the same reason you are.” Ricardo’s eyes went to the money, then back to Larry. “To get paid.”

“I thought they
been
paid.”

“You know I like to parse it out a little bit at a time. Y’all might go on a spendin spree, attract some unwanted attention. I wouldn’t like that.”

“You’re actin like you’re the bank.”

“I am.”

“What about the rest of it?”

“What’s left is safe at my spot. You don’t need to worry. It’ll come to you eventually. Your father ain’t gonna let you starve.”

“
Now
you’re my father,” said Larry.

Ricardo smiled. “You said you had a problem.”

“
We
do,” said Larry. “It’s that Lucas dude. The one who’s been camped out on Twelfth? I just saw him walkin down the road, not far from this shop.”

If Ricardo was shaken he did not show it. “So?”

“What you mean,
so?
”

“What’s he gonna do? He’s not police.
You
are. You see what I’m sayin?” Ricardo gestured with his hand as if he were shooing away a fly. “I don’t want you to worry over this. You ran his plates.
You
gave me his address. You did your thing and now I know where to find him. Let me take care of it.”

“I told you, I don’t want no more violence.”

“Neither do I. I was thinking of setting up a meet. Whatever Lucas is looking for, it’s got to involve money. That’s true for every man, right? You of all people should know.” Ricardo picked up a rubber-banded stack of cash and tossed it forward on the desk so that it landed within reach of Larry. “Speaking of which.”

Larry hesitated. He picked up the cash and shoved it inside his windbreaker.

“Buy something for yourself,” said Ricardo. “Maybe some new vines.”

Larry looked at Ricardo, Bama material, wearing all black in the middle of the day, rayon shirt and slacks, looking like Zorro, telling him how to dress.

“Somethin funny?” said Ricardo.

“Nothin is,” said Larry.

“You were grinnin.”

“Don’t lie to me again,” said Larry. He walked from the room, closing the door behind him.

“Mother
fuck
you,” said Ricardo, staring at the door. The light had left his eyes.

LUCAS AND
Marquis dropped the rentals off at the lot on Sligo Avenue, then went to their own vehicles, parked near a corner Spanish market. Lucas took the radio and headset from Marquis, stowed it in the back of the Jeep, and pulled two water bottles from the cargo area. He handed one to Marquis. The two of them stood in the street and drank deeply.

“What’s our next move?” said Marquis, wiping off his chin.

“You’re out,” said Lucas. “I don’t like where this is going, and I don’t want you involved with it anymore. I’ll settle up with you for today when I get my cut.”

“That’s not why I asked. I know you’re good for the money. I’m worried about you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“No doubt. But that look you got right now? I seen that in your eyes before. April twenty-six, two thousand and four, to be exact. In those houses on the edge of the Jolan graveyard.”

Lucas nodded. “That was some day.”

“The hajjis was comin in by taxicab and flatbed trucks. Must have been hundreds of ’em, wearing them checkerboard scarves.”

“Kaffiyehs,” said Lucas.

“You took point. I see that flashlight attached to the barrel of your M-Sixteen. I see you leading the way into those dark rooms, and the muzzle flash of those AKs, the walls just shredding from the rounds. I still dream all that.”

And I see you sparing no one, thought Marquis. Emptying your mag into the heads and chests of the ones you put down. But then we all did that. When you kill a man twice, you know he can’t get up and shoot at you again.

“It was somethin,” said Lucas.

“All those bullshit movies about adrenaline-junkie soldiers and marines? I never served with anyone like that.”

“Neither did I.”

“It wasn’t about thrill seekers. It was about emotion. We had a bond, man.”

“We still do.”

“But you can’t say more than one or two words about it.”

“What’s to say? We don’t have to talk about it, because both of us were there. To try and talk about it with someone who wasn’t there… what’s the point?”

“So, again,” said Marquis, “what are you fixin to do?”

“I’m going back to that detailing shop on my bike. I can slip in there easier on two wheels. Take some photos, shit like that.”

“You don’t have your squad anymore.”

“I won’t take any unnecessary chances,” said Lucas. “I want to live.”

Marquis held out his hand. “Two-One, Luke.”

“Two-One.”

They tapped fists.

L
UCAS CHANGED
into black shorts, padded in the seat and lined with spandex leggings, a gray poly shirt that wicked, and gray shoes with steel-shanked soles. He carried his bike, an aluminum frame, gray Trek, down the stairs of his apartment and out to his Jeep. He dropped the back bench and slid the bike into the Cherokee, then checked to make sure he had his gloves, sunglasses, helmet, and phone.

He drove out to Hyattsville, Maryland, via Queens Chapel Road and Hamilton Street, and stopped in the lot of the 38th Street Park, through which ran the paved Northwest Branch trail. He got onto his bike and pedaled southeast, staying in the middle gears, through open fields, past woods, across Rhode Island Avenue, and finally across Alternate Route 1, navigating through fast vehicular traffic. He dipped down onto Tanglewood Drive, entered the industrial district of Edmonston, and cruised at a steady pace.