“If Charles was to come to you and ask the same thing he’s asking of Whitten, I would hope that you wouldn’t go and get the law involved. Because of that note, that would land James right back in prison. And he cannot go back. He’s doing his best to stay right, Alex. He is.”
“You’re forgetting something,” said Alex. “Your brother killed my friend.”
“That’s right. Your friend is dead. Don’t think I’m brushing that aside or that I ever will. What I’m asking is for you to try and forgive.”
Alex looked away. He touched the wedding band on his finger and made a careless hand motion toward the head of the alley.
“We’re here,” said Alex. “Let’s go see your brother.”
“There’s no room in that alley for us to park,” said Monroe. “We’ll walk in.”
After locking the car, Monroe and Alex went down the alley on foot, along row house backyards, some paved, some grass and dirt, passing freestanding garages, shepherd mixes and pits behind chain-link fences, trash cans, and No Trespassing signs. They made a turn at the alley’s T and came to what looked like another residential garage showing an open bay door with a hand-lettered sign nailed above it. Written in red paint that had dripped, it read “Gavin’s Garage.” It looked like one of those Little Rascals signs, a clubhouse thing made by kids.
Inside the garage, crowded with tools and just large enough to hold one car, was a first-series, unrestored, gold-colored Monte Carlo, its hood up, its engine illuminated by a drop lamp whose cord was knotted on the bay door rails running overhead. Beside the Chevy stood a big man with a belly to match his size, in a blue work shirt, matching pants, and thick Vibram-soled shoes. On the shirt, the man’s first name, James, was stitched inside a white oval patch.
Raymond and Alex entered the garage. James Monroe stepped up to meet them. Alex noticed a bit of a limp in James’s slow gait. He had seen it in others who had bum hips.
“James,” said Raymond, “this is Alex Pappas.”
Alex put his hand out. James shook it weakly, looking Alex over with large bloodshot eyes. Alex did not speak, knowing that anything he said would sound trite.
“What are we supposed to do now?” said James to Raymond. “Sit around the campfire and sing a song?”
“Talk a little, is all,” said Raymond.
“I got to get to work on this MC,” said James. “Gavin gonna be in here any minute, asking why it’s not done.”
“Can’t you talk and work?”
“Better than you.”
“Go ahead, then. We won’t bother you.”
“There’s beer in that cooler,” said James, pointing to an ancient green metal Coleman set on the concrete floor. “Get me one, too.”
Raymond went to the Coleman to get his older brother a can of beer. James turned his attention to the car.
Eighteen
'Where your boy at?” said Charles Baker.
“I don’t know,” said Cody Kruger. “I called the shoe store and they said he left out early. Told them he had a stomachache or sumshit like that. I drove by his mom’s house earlier, but his car wasn’t out front.”
“I phoned his mother myself. She say she don’t know where he at.”
“He’ll turn up.”
“We don’t need his ass anyway.”
“For what?”
“For what we gonna do,” said Baker. “Put that joystick down and let’s talk.”
Kruger was seated on the couch in the apartment, playing The Warriors on Xbox. He liked the video game more than the movie because in the game there was more blood and the heroes could fuck up police. Kruger almost smiled when he heard Mr. Charles call the controller a joystick. But he didn’t smile, and he dropped the controller to the floor.
Baker had been pacing the room. Kruger could see from the tightness in his jaw that he was amped. He’d met a man earlier in the day, and the meet hadn’t gone well. That was all Mr. Charles had said. Cody knew not to push to find out why.
“Let me ask you somethin,” said Baker.
“All right.”
“You satisfied with all this here? All these things you got?”
“I’m doin okay.”
“But you could be doing better.”
“Sure. I plan to.”
“How you gonna get it?”
“Step it up, I guess.”
“How?”
Kruger’s mouth hung open stupidly.
“I’m here to tell you how,” said Baker. “That boy Dominique, the one who sell you your shit. Do you respect him? Is that the kind of man you gonna take orders from and look up to?”
“Not rilly.”
“I wouldn’t, neither. For the life of me, I can’t see why you let him talk to you the way he do. You smarter than him and you stronger than him. Ain’t you, Cody?”
“Yes.”
“What we gonna do is, we gonna pay that little motherfucker a visit. Tell him how things gonna be from here on out. Maybe take some of his shit on consignment, rearrange the terms of the relationship. How’s that sound to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. What are you, Cody?”
“I’m a man.”
“That’s right. Anyone can see that you are. Comes a time, a man got to decide who he is. Either you serve all your life or you become the other kind. My question to you is, you gonna serve bitches like Dominique or are you ready to be a king?”
Baker saw a light come to Kruger’s dull eyes.
“But what about Deon?” said Kruger.
“ Fuck Deon, man. That boy got no ambition. But you do.”
Kruger stood, chest out.
“Get that thing,” said Baker. “We gonna need your iron.”
Kruger returned with a Glock 17, the MPD sidearm coveted by many young men in the District who fancied themselves outlaws. Guns were readily available to those who asked around. This one had been straw-purchased at a store on 28 South, between Manassas and Culpeper, in Virginia. It had then been sold to Kruger.
“Let me see that,” said Baker, taking the nine in hand. He checked the serial numbers to be sure that Kruger had not filed them down. It meant extra years if he were to be connected to a gun with shaved numbers. Baker gave the Glock back to Kruger, who slipped it into his dip.
“You ever have need of my gun,” said Kruger, “I keep it in my dresser drawer, underneath my boxers.”
Baker looked at Kruger, wearing his sweatshirt with the hood over his head, as he’d seen it done in videos. He reached out and pulled the hood down.
“You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, now, do you?”
“No, Mr. Charles.”
“You said you knew where Dominique stay at.”
