The Turnaround (26 page)

“Why?”

“To talk to her, I suppose. I’m guessing he’s looking to put all this to rest.”

“What did you tell Rod?”

“I told him to wait.”

“Ray . . .”

“What?”

“Charles Baker contacted me today. He was looking for a ride out to Pappas’s house. Wanted me with him, he said. He didn’t say why.”

“Did Charles say how it went with Whitten?”

“He didn’t.”

“That means it went wrong. And now he’s gonna try and shake down Pappas. This time it’s not gonna be over lunch in some fancy restaurant. This time Charles gonna do it his old way.”

“Well, I told him I wouldn’t do it,” said James. “I told him this ain’t none of my business.”

“It is if Charles hurts that man or his family. It is to me if he keeps trying to pull my brother down into the dirt.”

“Charles can’t help what he is.”

“Plenty of folks had bad childhoods. They found ways to carry it.”

“He never killed anybody,” said James.

“No,” said Raymond, meeting his brother’s stare. “He never did that.”

“Let me get back to this water pump.”

“Go ahead,” said Raymond Monroe.

CALVIN DIXON and his friend Markos sat on plush chairs in the living room of Calvin’s luxurious condominium, located on V Street, behind the Lincoln Theater, in the heart of Shaw. They were smoking cigars and drinking single-barrel bourbons, neat with waters back, the bottle set between them on a table made of iron and glass. They had everything young men could want: women, money, good looks, vehicles that went fast. But on this night they did not look happy.

“Did you make the call?” said Markos, a handsome young man with his father’s Ethiopian skin tone and his mother’s leonine features.

“I was waiting to talk to you,” said Calvin, a bigger, cut, more rugged version of Dominique.

“You want some more water? I’m about to get some.”

“Sure.”

Markos rose and went to the open kitchen, equipped with a Wolf cooktop and wall oven, an ASKO dishwasher, and a Sub-Zero side-by-side. He poured filtered water into two glasses from a dispenser built into a marble countertop and brought the glasses back to the table. He used his hand to retrieve ice from a bucket and dropped cubes into the water.

Calvin poured more bourbon from a numbered bottle of Blanton’s. They tapped tumblers and drank.

“How you like that stick?” said Markos, referring to the Padrón cigar Calvin was drawing on.

“Nice,” said Calvin. “The sixty-four got the twenty-three beat, you ask me.”

A woman opened the bedroom door and stood in the frame. She was very young, black haired, and supercharged, a mix of Bolivia and Africa. Her breasts strained the fabric of her button-down shirt, and her ass was the inverted heart so many times invoked but rarely realized. Her name was Rita. Calvin had retired her from a haircutting salon in Wheaton after she had given him a shampoo and scalp massage.

“Did you call me?” said Rita to Calvin.

“Nah, baby. Let us have some privacy for a little while longer, okay?”

She pouted for a moment, then went back into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

“Girl must have thought we said her name,” said Calvin.

“I asked you ’bout your stick,” said Markos. “I didn’t say ‘trick.’ ”

Calvin smiled a little, taking no offense. Rita was gorgeous, and a slut. They both felt the same way about women, even each other’s occasional girlfriends.

“How’s Dominique?” said Markos.

“Stayin at my parents’ for the time being. He don’t want to be at his apartment right now. He might be out for good. I don’t know.”

“We can get someone else to move weight for us.”

“I agree.”

“Question is, what are we gonna do about our problem?”

“The old man damn near ass-raped my kid brother. The white boy held a gun on him and watched.”

“ ‘Damn near’ ain’t rape.”

“That’s a hair so fine you can’t split it. Tell that shit to Dominique.”

“What about the other one they were in with?”

“Deon? Dominique says he wasn’t involved. We been tryin to reach him to confirm that, but he’s not taking his calls. That cell probably ringin at the bottom of the Anacostia River right now. If he’s smart, he dumped it on the way out of town. But I’m not worried about him. It’s the other two.”

“Comes back to the original question: what are we gonna do?”

Markos dragged on his cigar and looked at his friend. Both of them were tough and skilled fighters who in their youth had regularly taken home trophies from the Capitol Classic, the annual martial-arts tournament held at the old D.C. Convention Center. They had never run from any type of physical challenge or confrontation. But this was different, a step they had yet to take. Neither of them saw it as a moral decision. They simply loved their lifestyle and did not want to endanger it with the possibility of prison.

“I talked to Alan,” said Calvin. Alan was in security management at a club they frequented. He had a personal history that connected him to the underworld of the city to the north.

“And he said what?”

“He said these boys would take a lethal injection before they gave us up. That promise and the way they carry it is how they grow their business.”

“Is this what you want to do?”

“Don’t put it all on me,” said Calvin. “I need you to say you good with this, too.”

Markos nodded at the RAZR lying on the table. “Make the call.”

Calvin flipped open his cell.

“HOW LONG we gonna sit here?” said Cody Kruger.

“Not too long, I expect,” said Charles Baker.

“You know this is his house?”

“The people-find site brought me here. There were three Alexander Pappases in the area, but only one the right age. And this is near where he grew up at. Got to be him.”

“Okay, but why you think he’s gonna come outside?”

“Because I’m smart,” said Baker. “Tomorrow is trash pickup day in Montgomery County. You see all those cans and recycling bins out by the curb?”

Kruger said, “Uh-huh.”

“Mr. Alex Pappas ain’t brought his out yet. But he will. All these suburbanites do it the night before, so they don’t have to fuck with it in the morning.”

They had been on the street for an hour or so. Because no one was walking through the clean middle-class neighborhood and many of the homes had gone dark, it seemed very late. Rain had fallen, and in its aftermath the streetlamps were haloed with rainbows and mist.

“Why don’t you just go and knock on the man’s door?”

“’Cause I could pull a trespassing charge,” said Baker patiently. “I get to him out on the street, that’s public property.”

A car rolled down the road behind them, its headlights sweeping the interior of the Honda. Baker and Kruger watched it pass and slow down, then come to a stop at the curb in front of the Pappas residence. It was a light blue Acura coupe, well maintained; a woman’s car, thought Baker, until a nicely dressed young man began to step out of the driver’s side.

“Stay here,” said Baker, seeing it all at once, moving quickly because that was how a decisive man ought to. It had to be the man’s son, and that was good. Deliver a message to the boy and you’d send a message to the man real clear. Do what I’m asking because I can get to your family. I can and will.

Baker stepped down the street as the young man, looked to be in his middle twenties, locked the car with one of those gizmos he held in his hand. He was aware of Baker coming up on him, and he tried not to act frightened. He looked Baker in the eye and nodded a greeting but kept moving around the car in an effort to get up on the sidewalk and into his house.

“Hold up a minute, young man,” said Baker, blocking his path, careful not to touch him or get too close.

“Yes?” said John Pappas in a friendly but guarded manner.

“Is this the Pappas residence right here?”

“Yes. I live here. What can I do for you?”

What can I do for you?
Baker almost laughed. The young man taking a real firm tone now, like he was gonna defend the castle and shit. Trying to be something he was not. Baker studied him, trim and decked out in nice clothes, the black shirt worn tails out the way all these stylish young men liked to do. Baker looked at John Pappas and in his mind he saw the word, flashing like a sign outside a bar that was named
Prey.

“Just give me a minute of your time,” said Baker. “Okay?”

ALEX PAPPAS was lying in bed beside his sleeping wife, waiting for Johnny to come home, when he heard the sound of his Acura coming to a stop. Then he heard two car doors slamming shut, one after the other. And soon after that, voices. Alex got out of bed. Johnny never brought anyone home late at night, men friends or women. He was respectful that way.

Through the bedroom window that fronted the house, Alex saw Johnny in the street, standing close to an older black man. The two of them were talking. The black man was smiling and Johnny was not. Two houses down, an old Honda was parked and idling, smoke coming from its tailpipe. It looked like a young white man was under the wheel.

Alex quickly put on jeans and tied a pair of New Balance sneakers onto his feet. Because he kept no guns or weapons of any kind in the house, he grabbed the heavy, long-handled Mag-Lite he kept beside the bed, ignoring Vicki, who had woken and was asking, “What’s wrong?” and “Alex, what’s
wrong?
”

He passed Gus’s bedroom and went down the stairs.

“YOU SAY you’re his friend?”

“Oh, I’m not claiming that we’re friends, exactly,” said Baker. “More like acquaintances.”

“Excuse me,” said John. “I really have to get inside.”

He tried to step around Baker, but Baker moved in front of him.

“I ain’t done,” said Baker. He put his index finger to the corner of his eye and pulled down. “I gave that to your daddy. That’s right. Me.”

John narrowed his eyes and felt warmth come to his face. “Make your point.”

“Ho, look at you,” said Baker with a chuckle. “You got your little fists in a ball and your cheeks is pink, just like Raggedy Andy. You ain’t gonna hurt me, are you?”

“Get out of here.”

“Okay.” Baker laughed. “I will. But not because a fellow like you told me to. Just tell your old man I came by. Just tell him, fifty thousand dollars. That’s all he needs to know. I’ll contact him next and make the arrangements. He calls the law, you’re the one who’s gonna suffer. You hear me, pretty?
Tell
him.”

Baker began to walk toward the Honda. He heard the door to the house open, a commanding voice and rapid footsteps on concrete, and he kept pace and got to the Honda’s passenger side, turned and smiled at the shirtless middle-aged man who was running toward him with eyes on fire and something like a steel club in his hand. Baker opened the door and dropped into the seat.

“Go, boy,” he said. Kruger gunned it off the curb.

Alex Pappas broke into a sprint. He ran alongside the Honda, and it passed him, and he continued to chase it, knowing he could never catch it.

“Stay away from my family!” shouted Alex.

The Honda turned the corner and was gone. Alex slowed down and came to a stop in the middle of the street. He bent over and put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. His heart was beating rubbery in his chest.

“Dad,” said John, standing behind him. “Dad, it’s all right.”

Alex stood and turned. John had his cell phone out and was making a call. Alex reached out and took it from his hand.

“Don’t,” said Alex. “No police.”

“What, are you kidding?”

“I’ll explain. Come on, let’s go inside.”

They moved toward their home. Alex put his arm around his son as they walked.

“You okay, Dad?”

“Yes. Did he say his name?”

“He said that he was the man who gave you your eye.”

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No.” John looked at the Mag-Lite and smiled with affection at his father. “What were you going to do with that?”

“Damn if I know. I didn’t have a plan. I saw him out here with you and I just grabbed it and ran.”

Vicki was waiting for them at the front door.

IT WAS very late when Raymond got the call on his cell. He was at his mother’s place, seated in his father’s old recliner, watching television and not watching it, as someone does when his thoughts are intense. The phone rang in his pocket, and he answered it and heard Alex Pappas’s voice. Gone was the gentle tone he had come to like and grow comfortable with in the past couple of days.

Alex described the visit from Charles Baker, his attempt at extortion, and his conversation with John.

“He was talking to my son, right outside my home,” said Alex. “Where my wife sleeps. Do you understand, Ray? He came to my home and threatened my son.”

“I do understand,” said Raymond. “Did you —”

“No. I didn’t call the police. But next time I will. I need to be clear with you on that.”

“I got it,” said Raymond. “Thank you, Alex. Thank you for thinking of my brother.”

“You’ve gotta do something about this,” said Alex, the anger gone out of him.

“I will,” said Raymond.

He next phoned James, now at his apartment on Fairmont.

“Where does Charles Baker stay?” said Raymond.

“Why?”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know exactly. He’s in a group home on Delafield. One of those places for men on paper. Said he’s in a house on the thirteen hundred block, in Northwest.”

Raymond ended the call abruptly. He got up out of the recliner and went down to the cellar, quietly, so as not to wake his mother. There, on a workbench, he found his father’s tools in a steel box. Ernest Monroe, the bus mechanic, had kept them orderly and clean. Since his father’s death, Raymond had used them infrequently and left them in their proper sections, as his father would have wished.

Ernest had never kept a gun in the house. He said it was dangerous and unnecessary, that with boys around, it would just be a temptation that would lead to tragedy. But he had modified certain tools, and shown them to his sons, in the event that the family was in need of protection. One of them was a heavy-shafted flat-head machinist’s screwdriver whose tip Ernest had bench-ground to a point.