“No.”
“But it will.”
“Maybe.” She reached across the table, put her hand over his, and squeezed it. “It doesn’t bother me tonight.”
Lucas signaled the waitress.
Tavon Lynch and Edwin Davis drove east over the Benning Bridge in Tavon’s SS, passing streetlamps haloed in mist. The Anacostia River flowed darkly beneath them. They were headed toward central Northeast, a part of the city that was largely unfamiliar to them. A Backyard CD, a live at the Tradewinds thing with Big G on vocals, was playing low in the car. As Tavon accelerated, the young men felt the buzz and rumble of the Impala’s twin pipes.
“Why’d you have to tell him ’bout the package?” said Edwin.
“We’re gonna have to tell Anwan,” said Tavon. “And then he’s gonna put Spero on this one, too. Might as well be up front about it from now.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Lucas.”
“He don’t seem like the type to give up.” Edwin rubbed at the whiskers on his chin. “You tell them about him?”
“No need to jam him up. He ain’t gonna find anything anyway.”
“Had the feeling he was gonna sit out there on Twelfth Street all day.”
“Man keeps hard at it,” said Tavon. “Got to give him that.”
Tavon admired Lucas’s work ethic. He believed that he, Tavon, was of the same stripe. He and his boy Edwin were young, but they had been on it for a while.
Tavon had grown up in Chillum, the youngest of a large family, now scattered. He was closest with his eldest brother, Samuel, who had done time in his youth but was now living straight. Edwin was from a smaller family that lived in an apartment in West Hyattsville. Edwin saw his father occasionally and of late had begun to reestablish a relationship with him; Tavon had no relationship with his father at all. Both of them had graduated from Northwestern High School, where Len Bias had played, on Adelphi Road.
They were into watching sports on TV and playing video games, but mostly they loved nightlife. Tavon caught reggae at the Crossroads and dancehall at TNT and Mirage Hall, and hung out with Edwin at the go-go and hip-hop clubs in the city and in Prince George’s County. The Ibex had been shuttered long ago, and so had the Black Hole, but shows were live in places like Legend on Naylor Road, Icon in Waldorf, the Scene, D.C. Star off Bladensburg, and 24. Tavon and Edwin beat their feet to Reaction, TOB, Backyard, Junk Yard, old bands like EU with Sugar Bear at Haydee’s, and up-and-comers like ABM. They tipped the doormen, the bouncers, and the men guarding the parking lots, and soon they were in the VIP rooms for free and never had to be on the lower floors with those who stood in line. They met a promoter named Princess Lady who got them started on her street team, passing out flyers for a flat fee of thirty dollars a night, then they graduated into real promotion money, creating a guest list for the door that brought in three to five dollars a head. They made up stage names, Young Tay and E-Rolla. They always looked fresh.
In the VIP loft of one of the big clubs off New York Avenue they met Anwan Hawkins, who most everyone knew by sight. He was approachable, an older man who didn’t have to front or act hard because he wasn’t trying to get somewhere; he was there. After several nights partying with Anwan, they began to do a little work for him on the side, keeping their promotion enterprise going all the while. Anwan moved them up quick and kept them busy, and the weed work overtook the promotion stuff and made it seem less important. Soon they were Anwan’s seconds and they let their show business aspirations die.
Thing of it was, they weren’t making all that much money. Only Anwan was bringing it in big. But the life was exciting, for a while.
The two of them still lived with their mothers. Edwin tended to lead a secret life and never did talk to his mom much; Tavon was close to his. She was excited for him when he first began to bring in dollars, and encouraged his entrepreneurial spirit. Then she found a scale in his room and tiny plastic bags, a ledger book with figures and names. He continued to tell his mother he was working on his music, but she could read the lie in his eyes.
“Why they pick this part of town?” said Edwin, as they turned left onto Minnesota Avenue, passing fast-food chains, Chinese grease pits, pawnshops, high-priced convenience markets, and high-fee check-cashing establishments, the kind of places that kept folks unhealthy, broke, and low.
“Said they was gonna be over here tonight on other business,” said Tavon. “They didn’t feel like crossing back and uptown just to pay up. Said if we wanted our piece we’d have to go where they decided to meet.”
“I don’t like being off our turf,” said Edwin.
“I don’t either,” said Tavon. “But I like the way money feel in my hands.”
Tavon drove a couple of blocks farther and hung a right onto Hayes Street. They went up a rise, crossing 42nd, and there the street ended dark in a court bordered by what looked like a stand of trees and dirt through which ran a narrow creek.
“You sure?” said Edwin.
“This is where he said to come.”
Tavon cruised slowly around the semicircle of the court and curbed the Impala, its nose pointed back to the west. He killed the engine. Edwin looked around, at the wooded area on their right, at the little bit of light that reflected off the creek, past the trees to the houses and apartments they had back up there on Hunt Place. It was quiet.
“Man, I know what this place is,” said Edwin. “One of my uncles used to live over by the Mayfair units, and he would talk about it. This is part of Watts Branch.”
“So?”
“They be murderin motherfuckers back in here.”
“Not anymore. Your uncle’s name must be Fred Sanford, ’cause that was an old man talking about things that happened a long time ago. Neighborhood people cleaned things up back here, Edwin. Got all kinds of government money to do it.”
“For real?”
“I read on it, man.”
An MPD squad car came slowly up the street. Thirty yards below them, on the rise, it swung to the curb. The driver cut his lights but kept the engine running.
“Here we go,” said Edwin.
Another car, a black Chevy Tahoe with factory rims, came up the rise. It swung around the court and stopped behind the Impala. The driver of the Tahoe cut the engine and killed the lights. The driver of the squad car lit his headlamps and turned around in the street.
“He supposed to stay,” said Edwin. “Right?”
Tavon squinted, looking hard at the patrol car. His eyes went to the cell phone in his hand. He pondered the situation for a moment. He went to messages, found the recipient he was looking for, and typed in four numbers. He sent a text and slipped the phone into the pocket of his jeans.
Tavon checked the side-view mirror and watched the driver of the Tahoe get out of the SUV. Then in the rearview he saw another man step out of the passenger side. This man held a shoe box close to his side. The two of them walked toward the SS.
Lucas and Constance were making it with great enthusiasm, Gregory Isaacs’s Soon Forward playing loudly in the bedroom, when Lucas’s iPhone began to buzz on his nightstand. Neither of them heard a thing.
Tavon and Edwin sat in the front seat of the Impala, waiting for the men. Tavon’s eyes were moving between the two mirrors.
“That our man?” said Edwin.
“Yeah,” said Tavon. “He brought that white dude with him, too.”
“Why?”
“You holdin that kind of money, guess you need an extra man to guard it.”
“What you gonna do with yours, man?”
“Buy things,” said Tavon, as the men neared their car.
