the house, checked the lock, and left a light on for Johnny, who was at a movie with a friend. Upstairs, he passed Gus’s room but did not go inside.
Alex had convinced himself that Gus’s death had been random. On the last day of Gus’s life, the driver of the Humvee he was riding in had taken one road rather than another, and on the road he’d taken was a makeshift bomb hidden underneath debris. Did God send the driver of the Humvee down that road? Alex could not believe this. God gave us life; after that, he neither protected nor harmed us. We were on our own. But what about sin? There had to be punishment for sin.
Alex could have gotten out of the Torino that day. Alex could have demanded that Billy stop the car. He knew that what they were about to do was wrong. He’d let it happen. Because of his inaction, many lives had been broken. Two young men had gone to prison. Billy was dead. Gus was dead, too.
Alex undressed and got into bed. Vicki stirred beside him. Alex touched his hand to her shoulder and squeezed it.
“Vicki?”
“What?” she said, her eyes still closed.
“I’m going to call that man,” said Alex.
“Go to sleep.”
Alex extinguished the bedside light. But he didn’t go to sleep.
Fifteen
James Monroe’s apartment was very small. Its single main room held a double bed, a cheap dresser, a couple of chairs, a television set on a stand, and a compact stereo on a wire cart. Monroe could barely turn around in the kitchen. When he sat on the toilet in the bathroom, he had to keep his arms in tight or they would touch the walls.
James Monroe and Charles Baker sat close to each other in the room’s two chairs. Both of them were drinking beer. Monroe was watching television, and Baker was talking.
Monroe did not particularly care for the show they were watching. It was the autopsy series set in Miami, and he didn’t believe one thing about it. But it was easier to watch the show than give his full attention to Baker.
“Now Red gonna shoot someone,” said Baker. “In his designer suit and sunglasses. You know that’s some bullshit, too.”
“What is?”
“I’m talkin about crime scene investigators drawing their guns out and shootin people. You know that shit don’t never happen. Even real police don’t pull their guns out, most times. But Red here, he kills a motherfucker with his gun every week. With that pretty head of hair he got, blowin in the breeze.”
From one of the many books Monroe had read in prison, he remembered a passage about American television shows that dealt with crime. The author said that it was a “fascistic genre” because in these shows the criminals were always apprehended, and the police and prosecutors always won. The shows were warning the citizens, in effect, to stay in line. That if they dared to break the law, they would be caught and put in jail. Monroe had chuckled a little when he’d read it. People wanted to be reassured that their lives were safe. These television writers were just making money by feeding citizens the lies they craved.
“Hmph,” said Monroe.
“That all you got to say?”
“I’m tryin to watch this.”
“What about the other thing?”
“What thing is that?”
“What I been tellin you about. My date.”
Baker had come to tell Monroe about the lunch appointment he had made with Peter Whitten the next day. Monroe had just shaken his head a little and kept his eyes unexpressive and focused on the TV.
“Well?”
Monroe swigged from his can of beer.
“I need you, man,” said Baker. “Need you to come with me. You don’t have to say nothin; just sit there beside me and be big. Send a message to this man so that I don’t have to threaten him direct. He’ll see it. He got to.”
Monroe wiped something from the corner of his eye.
“Man’s got money,” said Baker. “We could get some of it. It’s due us, understand? I’m gonna be generous and give you a piece of it for coming along. Not half or nothing like that, but somethin. After that, I’m gonna put my finger on the other one. Just go ahead and do him the same way. You know they got to be carrying guilt. In the newspaper, Mr. Whitten was braggin on how he’s a great friend to the Negro. Well, I’m gonna give him an opportunity to show it. If he doesn’t, he got to know, I’m gonna burn his reputation down.”
“No,” said Monroe.
“What?”
“I don’t want any part of it.”
“You in it already.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Your handwriting’s on the original letter. How you gonna say you not in?”
It was true. James had marked up the first draft of the letter, composed with pen on paper, after being prodded by Charles. Because James had been drinking too much beer that night, was exercising alcohol judgment, and hadn’t thought the ramifications through. Because Charles was too stupid to write the letter, legibly, grammatically, and without spelling mistakes, himself. Because James had just wanted Charles out of his apartment and it seemed the only way to get him to leave. He never thought Baker would deliver it. He thought Baker had been talking his usual brand of shit.
He’d had a problem with saying no to Charles since the incident. It had brought him all kinds of trouble. Once, it had led him back to prison.
“I don’t want any part of it,” repeated Monroe.
“I guess you don’t want money, either.”
“I work for my money.”
“In a cold garage.”
“Wherever. I work.”
Baker got up out of his chair. He paced the room in a small arc. He grew tired of it and pointed a finger at the face of Monroe. “You owe me.”
Monroe rose and stood to his full height. His eyes narrowed, and Baker dropped his hand to his side.
“Look, man. I’m only sayin -”
“ That’s past, ” said Monroe. He paused to slow his breathing some. When he spoke again, his voice was low and controlled. “Listen. You and me, we are over fifty years old.”
“That’s what I’m talkin about. Time’s getting short.”
“It’s time we learned. Be thankful for this opportunity we got to start new.”
“What I got to be thankful for? My stinkin-ass job?”
“Damn right. I go to work every day and I’m glad to have it. Happy to rent this apartment that I can walk out of any time I please. Gaming people, doing dirt… that train left the station a long time ago, for me.”
“Not for me,” said Baker. “I can’t make it any other way.”
Monroe looked into Baker’s hard hazel eyes and saw that it was so.
“Those white boys fucked up our lives,” said Baker.
“I said no.”
“Don’t make a mistake. I still got the letter written with your hand.”
“I didn’t write a letter. I made a few marks and corrections because what you wrote was all messed up and damn near unreadable. I was just trying to teach you somethin. I did n’t think you were dumb enough to send it off. I was just doing you a favor.”
