but was now trashed. A big man sat in a shredded armchair with the sports section open in his lap.
“Where’s he at?” said Monroe, looking at the man who had opened the door.
“Who are you?” said the big man.
“Where is he?” said Monroe to the man with the trombone nose.
“He sleepin, most likely.”
“You ain’t his PO,” said the big man.
“What room is he sleeping in?”
“You ain’t his PO and you got no right to be in here,” said the big man.
“If I was talkin to you, you’d know it,” said Monroe.
“I’ll call the police.”
“No, you won’t.” The big man looked down at his newspaper. Monroe turned his attention to the man with the long nose. “What room does he stay in?”
The man jerked his head up. “First door to the right of the bathroom.”
Monroe took the stairs. The flame grew inside him as he hit the landing and went to the closed door and kicked it at the jamb. It did not crack, and he kicked it a second time. The door swung open, and he blocked it on the backswing as he stepped inside. Charles Baker, bare to his boxers, was throwing off the sheet, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. Monroe drew the sharpened screwdriver in one motion, tore off its corked tip, and leaped onto the bed. He punched Baker with a sharp left to the jawline that sent him back to the mattress. Monroe straddled Baker and pressed his left forearm to Baker’s upper chest. It pinned him there, and Monroe put the sharp end of the screwdriver to the top of his neck. He pushed it until it punctured the skin and Baker moaned. Blood trickled down over his Adam’s apple.
“Quiet now,” said Monroe softly. “Don’t speak. I’ll push this pick straight up into your brain.”
Baker’s hazel eyes were still.
“Stay away from Pappas and his family. Stay away from my brother forever. I will kill you. Do you understand this?”
Baker did not respond. Monroe pushed the weapon farther and saw the tip of the screwdriver go deeper into Baker’s skin. Blood flowed freely down his neck. Baker made a small high sound against the pain, but still his eyes were steady. It was Monroe who blinked.
He felt sick and a sudden chill. The flame died inside him. He pulled the screwdriver out of Baker’s neck, got off him, and stood away from the bed.
Baker wiped at the blood. He sat upright, his back against the wall. He rubbed at his jawline where Monroe had struck him and he stared at Monroe and smiled.
“You can’t,” said Baker. “You could have once. But you can’t today.”
“That’s right,” said Monroe. “It’s not in me and I’m not you.”
“James and Raymond Monroe,” said Baker with contempt. “The good boys in the neighborhood. Sons of Ernest and Almeda. Lived in the clean house had the fresh coat of paint on it each year. Everything so clean and nice. Only thing missing was the apple pie gettin cool on the windowsill and the bluebirds flyin around it. Weren’t you the lucky ones.”
“You got wronged when you were young,” said Monroe. “But that don’t excuse you now.”
“I deserve things.”
“Leave us alone, Charles.”
“I’ll think on it,” said Baker.
Monroe replaced the screwdriver in his jacket, exited the room, and went down the stairs. The men in the living room did not look at him as he left the house.
In his room, Baker pressed fingers to his neck and walked to the landing at the top of the stairs.
“Trombone,” Baker called down to the living room. “I need you up here, man. Bring some of that medical shit you got, too.”
Trombone, the house mother, slowed the blood from Baker’s puncture wound as best he could, cleaned it and dressed it with Neosporin, and sprayed it with Mastisol, a liquid adhesive. Over that he taped a gauze bandage. Almost immediately the bandage became dotted with blood.
“You better have someone look at that,” said Trombone.
“Yeah, all right.”
Baker dressed in black slacks, a lavender shirt, and the tooled leather shoes that looked like gators. He wore his deep purple sport jacket with the white stitching on the lapels. He was not shook up. Instead, he felt almost jovial as he prepared to leave the house. The visit from Ray Monroe had only confirmed what he knew. He was like one of those strong animals, walking proud in plain sight, a hunter who had no need to hide his intent. Because who was going to stop him? No one, it seemed, had the will.
Charles Baker took Delafield east on foot. He’d catch the 70 on Georgia Avenue, go on over to Cody’s apartment. The boy was out delivering his weed, but he’d be back. There Baker would compose another letter, this one to Pappas, with none of the niceties that his letter to Whitten had contained. Cody could help him with the spelling and grammar. He wasn’t as smart as James Monroe, but he would have to do.
Baker hummed a tune as he walked down the block, confidence in his step, his knobby wrists protruding from the too-short sleeves of his sport jacket, his hands swinging free.
Twenty-Four
Alex Pappas had his head down, counting out ones below the counter, not with any real purpose but because he liked the feel of paper money moving between his fingers and thumb. As he worked, he turned the bills around so that all the heads of George Washington were facing the same way. For his father, it had been a meaningless fetish and it had become his as well.
He could tell by the dying noise in the shop that the lunch rush was done. He knew this also by the touch of the sun that had just begun to come through the plate glass window. He didn’t need to look at the Coca-Cola clock on the wall to find the time.
After the ones, he counted the fives, tens, and twenties, and replaced them in their respective beds. He took note of the sole fifty-dollar bill, which he had slipped beneath the change drawer. By figuring the average percentage of cash to credit card sales, he could calculate the take of the day. He had spent his adult life working this register and had become adept at retail math.
Alex closed the register drawer and walked along the inner counter, his feet treading the mats. He said good-bye to Juana and Blanca, who were laughing at something one of them had said in Spanish, and came up on John and Darlene, who were discussing next week’s menu. All seemed to be in good spirits. It was Friday.
“Grab your jacket,” said Alex to John. “Let’s go outside for a few minutes.” To Darlene he said, “Where’s Rafael?”
“Lover Boy’s out on a delivery.”
“I saw the ticket. It was for Twenty-second and L, so he should have been back by now. Give him a call on his cell and tell him to quit socializing. The dishes and silver are backing up.”
“Got it,” said Darlene. “We’ll see you on Monday, right?”
“I’m opening,” said Alex. “Same as always.”
Alex and John got their jackets off a tree by the dishwashing station, went through a break in the counter, and exited through the front door. Outside, John followed his father to the ledge decoratively bookended by shrubs. Alex had a seat on the ledge and looked at the shiny bits of quartz embedded in the concrete.
“I used to jump over this thing all day long when I was a kid,” said Alex.
“So did we,” said John. “Me and Gus. We’d be out here playing while you were working inside.”
Alex could see them, John, eleven or so, and Gus, around six, John standing on the deep side of the ledge, ready to upright his younger brother in case he caught the toe of his sneaker on the concrete and tripped.
“I remember,” said Alex. He rubbed at his shoulder unconsciously as he spoke.
“Dad, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
