date.
They were in the original dining room of the recently expanded Mourayo, a Greek restaurant on the west side of Connecticut Avenue, above Dupont Circle. Lucas and Constance sat at a deuce by the opened front windows. The oppressive humidity of deep summer had not yet arrived, and a breeze came off the block. The sidewalks were heavy with foot traffic in this upscale neighborhood of retail, restaurants, and bars on the Avenue, old luxury row homes of brick and stone on the side streets. A mix of straight and gay, business suits and freaks. It had always been lively and offbeat here at night.
The dining room was airy, with warm wood trim, white walls, and hardwood floors. The busboys wore sailor shirts and fisherman caps. Lucas was wearing a fitted Boss summer shirt with vertical blue and white stripes.
“You blend in with that shirt,” said Constance. “It looks like the Greek flag.”
“I took a risk,” said Lucas. “And as for you…”
“Please.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
They had started with marinated anchovies, grilled octopus with a fava bean puree, sesame encrusted haloumi cheese with grapes, and a salad voskou, heavy on tomatoes, feta, peppers, and red onions. They were sharing a bottle of Boutari red, slightly chilled. The restaurant’s owner came by and poured a few inches of wine into their glasses.
“Everything all right, Spero?”
“Poli orayo,” said Lucas.
“Kali oraxi,” said Natalie before moving on to another table.
“This is nice,” said Constance after Natalie had gone away.
“Wait’ll you taste the fish.”
A short while later, the waiter brought Constance a whole branzino baked in salt and filleted it tableside. Lucas was having soutzoukakia , meatballs stewed in tomato sauce and served over rice.
“God,” said Constance after taking a bite, “I’m glad I made that phone call for you.”
“I am, too.”
“It must have panned out for you.”
“It did.”
“You’re in that mode tonight. It’s like you hit the number or something.”
“A ship came in,” said Lucas.
They ate their meal. She talked about her initial intent to pursue a graduate degree in education and her decision to go to law school instead. She told him he would make a good high school coach, and he said it was too late for that.
“Tom told me your brother’s a teacher,” said Constance.
“Yeah, Leo’s over at Cardozo,” said Lucas. “He’s doing good work.”
“You’ve got other siblings, right?”
“Allegedly. My sister’s an attorney in California. We don’t hear from her much. Got a brother named Dimitrius I haven’t seen in years. He’s in jail somewhere for all I know.”
“Your family sounds fractured.”
“Somewhat.”
“Is it-”
“Because the kids were adopted?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Irene wasn’t adopted. My mom had a rough pregnancy with her and was advised not to have any more kids. So my folks built the family another way. I don’t know what Irene’s malfunction was. She was always unhappy. Dimitrius, I look at him basically as being defective. Those two were older than me and Leo, and when they left home it all got better.”
“The pressure was off. I had an older sister who put my parents through the wringer. When she went off to college, it was like the clouds broke over our house. Everyone was relieved.”
“You’d like my mom,” said Lucas, softening. “And my father was…”
Constance set her fork down on the plate. “I know you miss him.”
He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. “You about ready?”
“Yes.”
Lucas paid for the meal in cash.
At night, most of the Edmonston commercial district was church quiet. Back in the corner of the small street that dead-ended at the elevated railroad tracks, the lot of Mobley Detailing was lit by a single floodlight centered over its bay doors. The fenced gate to the driveway entrance was closed and locked.
Inside the building, parked in the bays, were Beano Mobley’s DTS, Ricardo Holley’s Mark V, and a gray Ford Expedition that Bernard White was renting. The Tahoe that he and Earl Nance had driven, registered in Nance’s name, had been impounded on Georgia Avenue after Nance’s murder. White had been questioned by homicide detectives at the car dealership service department where he and Nance worked. The detectives were apparently satisfied with his answers, as they had not returned.
Further inside, in the main office, Ricardo Holley sat behind his desk, wearing the same purple shirt and triple-pleat black slacks he had put on that morning. The clothing and Holley stank of perspiration.
Mobley and White were also in the room. Mobley was perched on the edge of Holley’s desk, a stub of a dead cigar between his fingers. White was on the couch, depressing it. All of them smelled of alcohol. They had been at the hard liquor for a couple of hours. They had drinks in their hands now.
“The man must have known I’d be gone,” said Holley.
“Someone followed you more than one time,” said Mobley. “They knew your routine.”
“So there had to be two of them,” said White. “One to keep an eye on you and one to toss your house.”
It came to Holley then that the short muscled-up redneck who’d backed into his Lincoln at the stoplight might have been both the tail and the decoy. He had a soldier’s haircut. He could have been in on it with Lucas. But Holley couldn’t remember much about the dude except that he drove a Ford truck. This inability to recall the details frustrated him. He shouldn’t have drunk so much so fast. He couldn’t seem to focus. He noticed that his glass was empty and he got up out of his chair and limped across the room to the cart. He poured four fingers of off-brand scotch out of the Johnnie Walker black bottle. He inspected the level in his glass and poured some more.
“We sure it was Lucas?” said Mobley.
“Goddamn right I’m sure,” said Holley, his face twisted. “Who else it’s gonna be?”
“I’m just askin,” said Mobley, who seemed to grow calmer and more reasonable the more he drank.
Holley went back to his chair and settled in.
“I know you’re angry,” said Mobley.
“ Shit. He trashed the bedroom where I sleep. He busted up this real nice painting I had, too. I feel like I was… What’s that word, Bernard?”
“Violated,” said Bernard White helpfully.
“Yeah, like some pork got pounded up in my ass.”
“We did try to murder him,” said Mobley.
“What’s your point?”
“He came back at us. You can almost understand it. Got his little bit of revenge and got the money he was after, too.” Mobley looked at Holley meaningfully. “And you know we gonna get some of that back eventually.”
Holley drank scotch and placed the tumbler on the table. “Say what you tryin to say, Beano.”
“This is over if we decide it’s over,” said Mobley. “Lucas got no cause to bother us no more. If you want to keep going with this weed thing, we can. There’s money to be made, quietly, if we go back to our business and forget about Lucas and what got done.”
“I can’t forget,” said Holley.
“Neither can I,” said White.
“All right, then,” said Mobley. He relit the cigar, got the draw going, and tossed the spent match into a tire ashtray set on the desk. He stood to his full five foot six inches and walked to the corner of the room, where the smoke would not bother Holley or White. “Let’s be smart about this. Take the emotion out of it.”
