The Turnaround (21 page)

“Just pray that your son comes back whole.”

“I do. When your boy’s over there it’s all you can think of.” Monroe looked at Pappas. “I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s okay,” said Alex. “Your boy’s in Afghanistan, right?”

“He’s at the Korengal Outpost. They call it the KOP. You heard of it?”

“I haven’t.”

“Basically, it’s a fortified camp surrounded by rough terrain and the enemy. The Taliban, namely. About as dangerous an environment as you can be in. Kenji’s light infantry. Which means he’s mostly out on foot patrol, carrying an M4 and looking for hostiles.”

“Do you hear from him much?”

“When he’s in the camp. They got a couple of laptops, and he sends me e-mails when he can. If the bad weather rolls in, the signal, or whatever you call it, goes on the fritz. He’s pretty good about staying in contact. But I haven’t had mail from him in a while. I’m guessing he’s out on patrol.”

Alex nodded. He remembered those long periods when he hadn’t been in contact with Gus. During that time, Alex had lost sleep, weight, and hair. He and Vicki had stopped making love. He’d been constantly aggravated with Johnny and often short of temper with customers and the help.

“I’m talking your ear off about my son,” said Monroe. “Where was
your
boy serving?”

“Gus was in the Anbar Province, west of Baghdad. He was nineteen years old.”

They drove through the Arkansas Avenue intersection and went up a long grade.

“What happened to your brother?” said Alex.

“What
happened
to him?” Monroe shook his head. “Not much good.”

“How long was he in prison?”

“James did the full ten years for the shooting and then some. He didn’t handle it well on the inside. He got challenged and he took the challenge, if you know what I mean. He got in fights. Finally, he stabbed a dude with a triangle made out of plastic. I don’t know how or why it went down. I imagine he got pushed to the wall,’cause he wouldn’t have initiated it on his own. James is not the violent kind. I know what you’re thinking, but he’s not. Anyway, he did it, and he paid. It was twenty years before he came out.”

“And then?”

“Then he hooked up with Charles Baker, and things kept getting worse. You remember Charles.”

“Yeah.”

“Charles is trouble. Always was. He had been in and out himself, in Jessup mostly, and prison just made him worse. He and James got to gaming, kiting checks and the like. Then Charles got James involved in a burglary thing, breaking into houses in Potomac and Rockville during the daytime while folks were at work. Fella name of Lamar Mays was with’em. James was the lookout and driver, since he was always good with cars. Charles thought their action was foolproof. They timed themselves in the houses, in and out quick, hit the bedrooms only, picked the Jewish names out of the phone book, Charles thinking that the Jews like to keep their money and jewelry close at hand. But Charles was wrong, like he always been wrong. They got caught. And Lamar, stupid as he was, had a gun on him when the police arrested them. What with the charges heaped on top of charges, and his record, James drew another big sentence.”

“He’s been out how long?”

“Couple, three years now.”

“And Baker?”

“He’s out, too.”

“I don’t get it. What you’ve been telling me is, your brother is basically good. So why would he keep going down the road with a guy like Baker?”

“It’s way too complicated to explain tonight,” said Monroe. “What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s it
been
like for you? Your life.”

“Normal, I guess,” said Alex. “My dad died when I was nineteen. I took over the business and I’m still there.”

“That’s it?”

“Work and family.”

“No dreams?”

“I thought I wanted to write a book, once. And I tried it, quietly.” Alex bit on his lip. “I’ve never told anyone this. Never even told my wife. I got a few pages down on paper and I knew, reading it over, that I didn’t have the talent for it. You gotta admit who you are, right? You’ve got to be realistic.”

“So you’re sayin that you’re happy in your work.”

“Not exactly. I wouldn’t say happy. Resigned to it. I mean, what else am I gonna do? I didn’t graduate from college. I know how to run a small operation, but other than that I have no skills.” Alex shifted his weight in the seat. “Anyway. I guess I’m gonna find out what else is out there for me. I plan on handing over the reins of the coffee shop to my older son sometime soon.”

“The nice-looking young man I saw in the store?”

“Yeah, him.”

Alex hadn’t told Vicki yet. He hadn’t told Johnny. This was the first time he’d said it aloud, and it surprised him. He had no close male friends. He didn’t know why he was telling Raymond Monroe these things, except for the fact that he was comfortable with him. The man was easy to talk to.

“We’re near James’s job,” said Monroe. “He’s got a little apartment around here, too.”

Monroe cut the wheel. They were in Park View, between 13th and Georgia, going east on a side street. Monroe pulled the Pontiac to the curb, near a break in an alley, and let the car idle.

“Why are we stopping here?”

“I want to talk to you before we see James. The garage where he works is just down that alley.”

“But this is all residential.”

“The man who owns the garage got it zoned commercial through a grandfather clause. It’s not much of a shop. Unheated and un-air-conditioned. James only works on old cars’cause that’s the only kinda car he knows how to fix. He never did get updated on the new technology, computer diagnostics and the like. His boss knows he can’t get a job anywhere else and he treats him like it. James doesn’t make much more than minimum wage. But he’s working; that’s the important thing. The man needs to work.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“He still makes all kinds of bad decisions. He drinks too much beer, like our father did, and it alters his judgment. He stayed in contact with Charles Baker. And Charles . . . well, Charles got an influence on him.”

“Where is this going?”

“Charles had James help him write a note to your old friend Peter Whitten. Well, James kinda
edited
the note, see?”

“What kind of a
note?
” said Alex, hearing the impatience in his own voice.

“The kind asks for money. Charles wanted Whitten to know that if he didn’t pay, he was going to let that law firm he works at know all about his past. I’m talking about the incident in Heathrow Heights. Matter of fact, Charles had an appointment to meet with Whitten today. I don’t know how that went.”

“This is
bull
shit. How stupid is Baker? Pete’s not going to give him money to hush up something that happened thirty-five years go. I doubt Pete Whitten even cares if anyone knows about it.”

“I agree. But if Charles gets turned away, he might just come to you next.”

Alex nodded his head rapidly, coming to an understanding of something he did not care for. “You told me you reached out to me for some kind of closure.”

“I did. But now there’s this problem here I’ve got to deal with, too. I’m just being straight with you, man.”

“What do you
want?
”

“I want you to meet my brother. I want you to see what he’s about. Once you do this, you’re gonna know that he’s not wrong. That he deserves a chance out here to find some peace.”

“Speak plainly, Mr. Monroe.”

“If Charles was to come to you and ask the same thing he’s asking of Whitten, I would hope that you wouldn’t go and get the law involved. Because of that note, that would land James right back in prison. And he cannot go back. He’s doing his best to stay right, Alex. He
is
.”

“You’re forgetting something,” said Alex. “Your brother killed my friend.”

“That’s right. Your friend is dead. Don’t think I’m brushing that aside or that I ever will. What I’m asking is for you to try and forgive.”

Alex looked away. He touched the wedding band on his finger and made a careless hand motion toward the head of the alley.

“We’re here,” said Alex. “Let’s go see your brother.”

“There’s no room in that alley for us to park,” said Monroe. “We’ll walk in.”

After locking the car, Monroe and Alex went down the alley on foot, along row house backyards, some paved, some grass and dirt, passing freestanding garages, shepherd mixes and pits behind chain-link fences, trash cans, and No Trespassing signs. They made a turn at the alley’s T and came to what looked like another residential garage showing an open bay door with a hand-lettered sign nailed above it. Written in red paint that had dripped, it read “Gavin’s Garage.” It looked like one of those Little Rascals signs, a clubhouse thing made by kids.

Inside the garage, crowded with tools and just large enough to hold one car, was a first-series, unrestored, gold-colored Monte Carlo, its hood up, its engine illuminated by a drop lamp whose cord was knotted on the bay door rails running overhead. Beside the Chevy stood a big man with a belly to match his size, in a blue work shirt, matching pants, and thick Vibram-soled shoes. On the shirt, the man’s first name, James, was stitched inside a white oval patch.

Raymond and Alex entered the garage. James Monroe stepped up to meet them. Alex noticed a bit of a limp in James’s slow gait. He had seen it in others who had bum hips.

“James,” said Raymond, “this is Alex Pappas.”

Alex put his hand out. James shook it weakly, looking Alex over with large bloodshot eyes. Alex did not speak, knowing that anything he said would sound trite.

“What are we supposed to do now?” said James to Raymond. “Sit around the campfire and sing a song?”

“Talk a little, is all,” said Raymond.

“I got to get to work on this MC,” said James. “Gavin gonna be in here any minute, asking why it’s not done.”

“Can’t you talk and work?”

“Better than you.”

“Go ahead, then. We won’t bother you.”

“There’s beer in that cooler,” said James, pointing to an ancient green metal Coleman set on the concrete floor. “Get me one, too.”

Raymond went to the Coleman to get his older brother a can of beer. James turned his attention to the car.

Eighteen

W
HERE YOUR boy at?” said Charles Baker.

“I don’t know,” said Cody Kruger. “I called the shoe store and they said he left out early. Told them he had a stomachache or sumshit like that. I drove by his mom’s house earlier, but his car wasn’t out front.”

“I phoned his mother myself. She say she don’t know where he at.”

“He’ll turn up.”

“We don’t need his ass anyway.”

“For what?”

“For what we gonna do,” said Baker. “Put that joystick down and let’s talk.”

Kruger was seated on the couch in the apartment, playing The Warriors on Xbox. He liked the video game more than the movie because in the game there was more blood and the heroes could fuck up police. Kruger almost smiled when he heard Mr. Charles call the controller a joystick. But he didn’t smile, and he dropped the controller to the floor.

Baker had been pacing the room. Kruger could see from the tightness in his jaw that he was amped. He’d met a man earlier in the day, and the meet hadn’t gone well. That was all Mr. Charles had said. Cody knew not to push to find out why.

“Let me ask you somethin,” said Baker.

“All right.”

“You satisfied with all this here? All these things you got?”

“I’m doin okay.”

“But you could be doing better.”

“Sure. I plan to.”

“How you gonna get it?”

“Step it up, I guess.”

“How?”

Kruger’s mouth hung open stupidly.

“I’m here to tell you how,” said Baker. “That boy Dominique, the one who sell you your shit. Do you respect him? Is that the kind of man you gonna take orders from and look up to?”

“Not rilly.”

“I wouldn’t, neither. For the life of me, I can’t see why you let him talk to you the way he do. You smarter than him and you stronger than him.
Ain’t
you, Cody?”

“Yes.”

“What we gonna do is, we gonna pay that little motherfucker a visit. Tell him how things gonna be from here on out. Maybe take some of his shit on consignment, rearrange the terms of the relationship. How’s that sound to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t
know
. What are you, Cody?”

“I’m a man.”

“That’s right. Anyone can see that you are. Comes a time, a man got to decide who he is. Either you serve all your life or you become the other kind. My question to you is, you gonna serve bitches like Dominique or are you ready to be a king?”

Baker saw a light come to Kruger’s dull eyes.

“But what about Deon?” said Kruger.

“
Fuck
Deon, man. That boy got no ambition. But you do.”

Kruger stood, chest out.

“Get that thing,” said Baker. “We gonna need your iron.”

Kruger returned with a Glock 17, the MPD sidearm coveted by many young men in the District who fancied themselves outlaws. Guns were readily available to those who asked around. This one had been straw-purchased at a store on 28 South, between Manassas and Culpeper, in Virginia. It had then been sold to Kruger.

“Let me see that,” said Baker, taking the nine in hand. He checked the serial numbers to be sure that Kruger had not filed them down. It meant extra years if he were to be connected to a gun with shaved numbers. Baker gave the Glock back to Kruger, who slipped it into his dip.

“You ever have need of my gun,” said Kruger, “I keep it in my dresser drawer, underneath my boxers.”

Baker looked at Kruger, wearing his sweatshirt with the hood over his head, as he’d seen it done in videos. He reached out and pulled the hood down.

“You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, now, do you?”

“No, Mr. Charles.”

“You said you knew where Dominique stay at.”

“I do.”

Baker jerked his chin toward the front door. They left the apartment.

JAMES MONROE leaned on a shop rag draped over the lip of the Monte Carlo’s front quarter panel and unscrewed the wing nut atop its air filter. He dropped the nut onto the hat of the filter so he’d know where to find it later on, then pulled the filter up and free and set it aside without disconnecting it from its hose. The old Chevy’s carburetor was now in sight and serviceable.