but he felt her tense beneath him, and when she made it, Lucas let go and shot a hot river.
They lay there quietly, the sex smell heavy in the room. She liked him to linger. When she was ready she pushed at him a little and she made a small sound when he pulled out. She rolled off the mattress and stood. He watched her cross the room slowly, deliberately, so he could take her in. She was proud of her body and rightly so. He listened to her in the bathroom, washing herself, and then the sound of water drumming in the sink. Thinking, This is what I dreamed of when I was overseas: a nice big comfortable bed in a place of my own, money in my pocket, good-looking young women to laugh with, sometimes just to fuck, sometimes to make love to. God, what more do you need?
Fifteen minutes later, she was dressed and by the front door. He was beside her, shirtless and shoeless, in his 501s.
“You could stay,” said Lucas.
“I want to wake up in my own place. I have class in the morning and then I’m doing some work for Tom.”
“I feel used.”
“No, you don’t. You’re happy and grateful.” She touched his chest, lifted his crucifix, and handled the pendant of blue glass and silver that hung beside it on his chain. “What is this?”
“A mati. It means ‘eye.’ ”
“Like an evil eye?”
“The opposite. It reflects evil back on the onlooker.”
“I’m evil.” She moved her hand to one of his nipples and pinched it.
Lucas smiled. “Don’t I know it.”
“I hope we didn’t wake up the woman downstairs,” said Constance.
“She lived here with her husband for over fifty years. I reckon they christened every room in this house, one time or another. Miss Lee understands that I’m a healthy young man.”
“I’ll say.”
He walked her down the stairs that led to the separate entrance to his place. He had the entire second floor of a four-square colonial on the corner of Emerson and Piney Branch Road, in 16th Street Heights. This wasn’t the Piney Branch that ran deep into Maryland, a street commuters knew well, but rather a short stretch of road running from Buchanan up to Colorado Avenue, in a country-style atmosphere of quiet lanes and alleys that felt bucolic and was only fifteen minutes north of the White House and deep downtown. A brief bike ride down Colorado to Blagden could take Lucas into Rock Creek Park. Nearby 13th Street was within pedaling distance of the places he needed to go. He had lucked into the spot when Miss Lee, a septuagenarian with a prunish face, a thin cap of cottony hair, and beautiful and wily black eyes, had advertised the apartment the old-fashioned way, with a handbill stapled to a telephone pole. He spotted it one day while cruising through the neighborhood on his Trek. When she interviewed him, she explained that the house was paid for, that she didn’t need a tenant for the rent money and was only looking to feel secure with someone in the house. He mentioned that he was a veteran and a marine, and that, coupled with the fact that he repeatedly addressed her as Miss Lee and not by her Christian name, Willie Mae, closed the deal. Given the size of the place, the low rent, and the location, he knew he’d scored.
“Come back,” said Lucas to Constance, outside the first-floor door to his apartment.
“I will.”
He kissed her and watched her go to her car, a ’99 Civic that might as well have had “student” imprinted on its plates. When she was safely in and her engine had turned over, he went back inside. He had things to do in the next couple of days before he went to visit Anwan Hawkins. For one, he needed to get to the library, check out the newspaper morgue material on the man, and gather any intel on him from Petersen. He also had plans to meet his brother for dinner, down around U. Visit some of the soldiers up at Walter Reed, drop off some books. And he needed to get by his mother’s house in Silver Spring to cut her grass. Matter of fact, he thought as he went up the stairs, I should call Mom soon as I get in my room.
Tell her I love her, tell her good night.
On detail maps it was identified as the D.C. Central Detention Facility, but locals-citizens, inmates, and law alike-called it the D.C. Jail. The holding facility sat at 19th and D, in the Southeast quadrant of the city, on acreage that included the old D.C. General Hospital and RFK Stadium. The jail complex was large, ugly, and bleak. Inmates liked to say that they lived on waterfront property, as several of the east-facing cells gave to a view of the Anacostia River.
In the security area, Lucas signed the book, gave up his driver’s license in exchange for a pass, went through a metal detector, and was patted down and wanded. He was the only male visitor who wasn’t obviously an attorney or some kind of police. Mothers, grandmothers, aunts, girlfriends, and one nun waited in line. The younger women were led into a closed room where they were instructed to shake out their bras. One woman, wearing shorts and a scoop-necked shirt showing ample cleavage, a double violation of the dress code, was turned away. She exited loudly.
Now Lucas sat on a plastic chair in the visiting room, among women visiting men and several guards. Across from him, behind glass, sat Anwan Hawkins, wearing orange. Hawkins was very tall, lean, and freakishly broad shouldered. He was in his thirties. His long braids framed a chiseled face. One of his front teeth had been capped in gold. His facial hair was haphazardly arranged and ungroomed. It stayed where it grew.
They were speaking into telephones. Though they were spitting distance from each other, the telephone connection made them sound continents apart.
“Thank you for helping my son,” said Hawkins, his voice low and husky.
“I did my job.”
“Mr. Petersen said you do it well.”
“He must like my work. He keeps me around.”
Hawkins appraised him. “You look like you can handle yourself out there.”
“I just try to show people respect.”
“I feel the same way.” Hawkins dipped his head. “My man said you fought in the Middle East.”
“I was there.”
“You kill anyone?”
Lucas did not reply.
“Okay, then,” said Hawkins. “I understand.”
Lucas waited.
“My son David is no gangster,” said Hawkins. “Nothin like that. What he did, taking that vehicle, that was just a crime of opportunity right there.”
“It seemed that way to me.”
“Incarceration wouldn’t have taught David nothin he didn’t already know. He was raised right.”
“By you?”
“His mother did all the heavy lifting. I’m not proud of that. I never intended to have a baby and not be there in his life. I wanted my marriage to last. But sometimes a man and a woman just can’t make it.” Hawkins chucked his chin up in Lucas’s direction. “You married?”
“No.”
“His mother and I don’t stay together, but I always gave her support. I feel like, now, it’s extra important that I get out of here, so I can be there for him, to set the right example.”
“I can’t help you there, Mr. Hawkins.”
“I got the best criminal lawyer in town. I don’t need more legal help.”
“Well?”
“You wanna get to it.”
“We only have a half hour. We’ve burnt a piece of it already.”
“How you say your name, exactly?”
“Spero.”
“ Spee -row. We gonna speak freely, right?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Petersen told you about my charges.”
“He didn’t have to. You were involved with one of the largest marijuana seizures in D.C. history. I read about
