“You say this is your hobby?” said McCoy.
“I run a business that was first owned by my father. I just like to talk to people, immigrants and their ancestors, who have had similar family businesses. Those kinds of places are going away, you know.”
“As are most of the things we hold fondly in our memories,” said McCoy. “You must have a passion for history.”
“Not really,” said Alex. “Let’s just say I’m interested in the past.”
Deon Brown closed the trunk of his Mercury and parked in the alley behind Peabody Street, tight alongside the fence bordering his mother’s row house. He had retrieved the clothing he needed, his shaving gear and toiletries, his Paxil, a bag of weed, all of his money, the title to his car, and the few special items from his childhood that he could fit into the duffel bag he had purchased from the surplus store in Wheaton. He had quit his job at the shoe store in the Westfield Mall. He had just stowed his things in the back of the car and he was ready to go. But he needed to talk to his mother first.
Deon’s cell had been ringing all day and most of last night, but he had not answered it. He had allowed the calls, from Cody and Dominique Dixon, to go to his voice mail. From listening to the messages, Deon had managed to construct a disturbing scenario. Cody Kruger and Charles Baker had robbed Dominique of his product and were clumsily attempting to take over his business. Though Cody had not said as much, he indicated that he had some good news for Deon and that Deon should call or come by the apartment as soon as possible to get the news personally. “I need you to be here, dawg,” said Cody. Deon had the impression that Cody had summoned him to his spot because he didn’t want to be alone with Baker, who had certainly set the plan in motion. There was a kind of desperation in Cody’s voice that Deon had not heard before. Cody had done a bold thing and was boosted by it, but he also seemed to know that he had fucked up.
The messages from Dominique confirmed this. Dominique said that Baker and Kruger had taken him off at the point of a knife and gun. Dominique, with barely controlled rage, said that he and his brother wanted to see Deon right away. That Deon needed to answer his phone. That if he did not respond, Dominique and his brother would have to assume that Deon was in on the plan.
Toward the end of the day, Deon had turned off his cell and thrown it down a storm drain on Quackenbos Street. He’d buy another disposable on his way out of town.
A light went on in his mother’s kitchen. She had just gotten in from work. She liked to make herself a snack when she got home, to tide her over until dinner.
Deon had enlisted the day before. He’d gone back to the Armed Services Recruitment Center on Georgia Avenue, talked to a Sergeant Walters for a couple of hours, and signed up. The sergeant spoke of adventure and personal growth, but Deon’s decision was more practical than spiritual. The service was the only clean way out of his present life that he could see. He had some time before he was to report to basic training, at Fort Benning, Georgia, and he would spend that time heading there, driving his car around the South, burning his cash on hotels and nice meals. He heard Myrtle was a whole rack of fun. He wanted to go to Daytona and drive his car on the beach. He’d sell the Marauder in Georgia, before entering BCT.
His mother was going to be upset, and worried, too. He’d tell her that he wasn’t going to see combat, necessarily. That the army would decide what he was best suited for once he got through basic. There were all sorts of ways a young man in uniform could serve, said the sergeant, though he did mention that one of those ways could be as a soldier in a theater of war. “There’s a price for freedom,” said the sergeant. “It isn’t free.” Deon’s mother would ask him about his depression and medication. She’d wonder how they could take a boy with his problems. Sergeant Walters had said that this was “not an issue.” The sergeant had assured him that everything was going to be all right.
What Deon had to do was get her out of the house. Convince her to gather up what she needed and move to La Juanda’s place in Capitol Heights. His sister had a family, but she would take their mother in. It wouldn’t be permanent. Just long enough for this bad thing with the Dixons to go away. As for Charles Baker, she had never given him a key. If he came to the house on Peabody, he’d find a locked door.
All of this would have to be dealt with now.
His mother, La Trice, had stepped out the kitchen door and was standing on the back steps of her row house. He went to the chain-link gate of the fence and stepped into the yard. She studied him as he approached, and because he was her son, she read his face and knew, despite the calm appearance he was affecting, that something was wrong.
“What is it, Deon?” she said.
“Mama, we need to talk.”
“Come in. I’ll fix us something to eat.”
He followed her into the house without objection. He wanted them to have that meal together. There was time enough for that.
The address on Salvatore Antonelli that Alex Pappas had pulled from the phone book seemed to be a match for the man at first glance. Located on a street off Nimitz Drive, in a postwar GI Bill housing community in Wheaton, not far from Heathrow Heights, the home was a wood-shingled Cape Cod with a one-turn wheelchair ramp leading to the front door. Antonelli would be of that era, a veteran most likely, probably in his eighties. The ramp would have been built for him.
As Alex went to the door, he could see a painting crew through the bay window, working inside the empty living room, a drop cloth beneath them. He knocked on the door and waited for it to open. Soon a stocky young man with deep brown skin stood in the frame.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Antonelli,” said Alex. “Salvatore, an old man.”
“The old man die.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We paint. The family, now they’re going to sell the house.” The resourceful young man handed Alex a business card. “You need paint? We do good work, cheap.”
The name on the card read Michael Sobalvarro. Below it were the words “We Paint.”
“Thank you, Michael. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Back in his Cherokee, Alex phoned the number for Rodney Draper. A woman answered, and when Alex told her he had a historical question about Heathrow Heights, she gave him Draper’s work number. Alex thanked her, called the number, and got the main-office receptionist for a major appliance and electronics retailer named Nutty Nathan’s. Alex knew the company, a bait-and-switch house that nevertheless had character the chains lacked. He had bought a television set from a fellow named McGinnes, at the Connecticut Avenue location, many years back. Alex remembered him because the man, extremely personable and knowledgeable, was quite obviously high.
“Draper,” said a voice on the other end of the line, after Alex had been put through.
“Yes, my name is Alex Pappas. I’m wondering if I can ask you a quick historical question with regard to Heathrow Heights. I was referred by Mr. McCoy from the historical society.”
“Who are you with?”
“I don’t represent anyone other than myself. This was about a shooting incident that occurred outside the old Nunzio’s market, back in seventy-two. I’m trying to locate a woman… the woman who was in Nunzio’s the day of the incident. She testified at the trial. It was a very high-profile case.”
Alex did not hear a reply. He thought the call had been dropped.
“Hello?”
“I remember it,” said Draper.
“I’d like to contact her if I can.”
“Listen, Mr…”
“Pappas.”
“I’m going to have to get back to you. I’ve got an ad to mock up here, and the sales rep from the Post is outside my door, waiting on it.”
“Can I give you my cell number?”
“I’ve got a pen.”
Alex said his phone number. “Please call me.”
The line went dead. There was nothing to do now but go home. Alex was not encouraged. He had the feeling that he might not hear from Rodney Draper again.
