neighborhood, face a new challenge, interact with strangers, faculty and students alike, people he wasn’t sure he could trust. And the aspect of it that he could not even admit to himself: he was afraid to fail.
Ernest had this dream of making movies, but how could he ever make it real? How could a dude from D.C. who had never been out of the city, except to go to amusement parks and such, how could he make that leap from stoop boy to someone who worked in a fast and glamorous business, an industry, one of polish and glamour, personal assistants, conference calls? His dreams were his everything. If he were to lose them, if he were to know for certain that these dreams were never going to be realized, what would he have left?
Ernest went down the dark interior stairwell of his school, the stone steps beneath him worn in the centers from almost a century of use. He passed through the lobby, where the police and security were stationed, and exited the building. Out in the sunlight, he walked toward 12th.
It’s just a few people who work in that business get to direct, thought Ernest. They got carpenters, folks who set up the lights, location scouts… I could do something like that. But I bet those folks don’t have that cinema knowledge I do. I know how to look at a film. I like to read about movies, and I like to talk about ’em, too. I could teach.
He realized he was talking to himself and he stopped. Up ahead, a small, strong, older guy was getting out of a big Ford SUV.
Ernest wouldn’t mind standing in front of a classroom, turning students on to film. He was still learning. He had been reading the thick biography that Spero had given him. He was in the middle of the chapter on the making of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, which in Italy was called Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo. He liked those kinds of facts. Ernest felt this was Mr. Sergio Leone’s masterpiece. He was especially into that scene toward the end where the Eastwood character performs an act of kindness for a dying Confederate soldier and gives him a last smoke. There was hardly any dialogue in that scene. What Leone put into the shot, what he left out of it, the framing, the acting, the beautiful music, were all in harmony. That scene right there, Ernest got chills when he watched it. He had bought the soundtrack off a U.K. website using his mother’s credit card, and when it arrived at his house he saw that it had the song titles listed in Italian. He had asked his teacher what “Morte di un soldato” meant, and Mr. Lucas told him it meant “death of a soldier,” and Ernest knew that he had bought the right CD. If he became a teacher someday, he would show the students the film and then play the cues from the soundtrack for them as well. That perfect blend of image and sound.
“Ernest Lindsay,” said the short man who had gotten out of the big SUV. He stood before Ernest now, blocking his way. He had an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth. He wore a jacket in the heat. His hand was in the jacket pocket.
Ernest nodded. He couldn’t even raise spit.
Mobley made an eye motion toward the back door of the SUV. “Get in the back, son.”
Ernest’s head moved birdlike as he glanced around the street. Mobley stepped forward, pulled his hand from his jacket, and pressed the barrel of a revolver hard against Ernest’s stomach.
“You’ll be all right if you do it,” said Mobley, his breath foul. “Otherwise… Look, I’ll just go ahead and shoot you right here. I don’t even care.”
Ernest got into the backseat of the Ford. Mobley slid in beside him.
The big man in the driver’s seat said, “You know he’s got a cell.”
A few minutes later, going north on 11th, Mobley tossed Ernest’s cell phone out the window. Ernest heard it break into pieces as it hit the street.
TWENTY-ONE
Loquacia Hawkins lived with her son, David, in a clapboard colonial on Quintana Place in Manor Park. It was not far from the community garden on 9th and the Fourth District police station, where huge radio towers landmarked the neighborhood and loomed over the landscape. David and his friend Duron had stolen the Denali on Peabody, in the shadow of the towers.
Lucas parked his Jeep on Quintana and grabbed a black Patagonia pack off the seat beside him. He slung the pack over his shoulder and walked down the sidewalk, glancing at the parked vehicles, looking for a law car and seeing none. He noticed a shiny Range Rover HSE, black with sand leather interior and spoke alloy wheels. It looked brand-new. No city dweller needed an eighty-thousand-dollar luxury off-road vehicle like this one, but it was beautifully designed and crafted, and Lucas admired it as he passed.
He stepped up onto the porch of the colonial and knocked on the front door. Soon the door opened, and a tall, handsome woman, strong boned and well proportioned, stood in the frame. She was in her thirties, had liquid ebony eyes and smile lines parenthesizing her mouth. She wore indigo jeans, ankle-strap shoes, a faintly patterned cream-colored shirt that looked expensive, and a small crucifix on a simple gold chain.
“Loquacia Hawkins?”
“I’m Loquacia.”
“Spero Lucas. I have something for you.”
“Come in.”
Lucas stepped into a foyer that opened into a kitchen and family room. Both held nice furniture, built-in appliances, and custom cabinetry. The latest wide-screen technology hung on the family room wall. The house was not new, but its interior spoke of money.
“Is your son here?” said Lucas.
“No, he’s out.”
He handed her his backpack. “Here you go.”
She took it by its strap. “Should I-”
“Yes. Count it out so there’s no misunderstanding.”
He followed her into the kitchen. She extracted a manila envelope from the pack, which contained cash held together by rubber bands. She removed the bands and counted the bills out carefully on the granite counter. When she was done she counted the money again and said, “Fifty-four thousand.”
“Then we’re good,” said Lucas.
He and Loquacia shook hands.
Lucas walked to the front door, stepped outside, and stood on the porch. When he turned to say good-bye she was next to him.
“I want to thank you,” she said.
“Just honoring my agreement,” said Lucas.
“I’m not talking about what you brought me today. I’m speaking on what you did for my son.”
“I caught a little luck,” said Lucas.
“You and that jury gave him another chance. I don’t want to say he made a mistake, because what he did, he committed a crime. But he saw how it tore me up, and he knows he did wrong. David learned. He’s not gonna go there again.”
“They’re kids. They stumble.”
“Yes, they do.”
“If Tom Petersen’s successful, David will have his father back in his life again.”
“We don’t need Anwan,” she said, her tone suddenly grim. “Me and David are doing just fine.”
I’ll say, thought Lucas. He nodded toward the new SUV parked in front of her house.
“Is that your Range Rover?”
“It is.”
“How do you like it?”
“It’s real nice,” she said.
Their eyes locked and she held his gaze. Maybe he’d make another comment about her expensive new vehicle, or the clothes she wore. Her furniture, her richly appointed kitchen.
But Lucas wasn’t about to judge her. If her hands were unclean, then his were, too.
“Have a good one,” said Loquacia.
“You do the same.”
