Marquis left the room.
Lawrence Newhouse hadn’t washed and detailed one car since he’d taken the money. The young man he worked with, Deon Miller, was upset with him, because together they’d built up a nice little business. But he couldn’t tell Deon why he’d lost his ambition. He’d known Deon since he was a kid, growing up at Parkchester, and smoking weed one day on Stevens Road, they’d made grandiose plans about this thing they were going to do, starting small and ending, in their minds, with a string of locations in Southeast and PG. They’d be known as the entrepreneurs who owned the spots to get the nicest cars in D.C. cleaned and shined. They’d be to cars what Murray was to steaks.
It hadn’t turned out so big, but they’d done all right.
Lawrence and Deon took their business to the car owners. They used grocery carts they’d stolen from the Giant, and stocked them with everything needed to impress. Lawrence would go to the big auto parts store, buy their cheap house brands of liquid detergent, wax, wheel cleaner, and tire shine, and pour them into empty bottles of recognizable brand names, like Armor All and Black Magic, that he’d found in the trash. They called their business Elite Shine. If they had a sign, it would have read, “Only the finest materials used to detail the very finest cars.” Lawrence had thought of that when he was high.
They were getting a rep around Southeast. Seeing the same customers getting their cars done. What they called “repeat clientele.” So it was natural that, just as they were beginning to lift off, Deon would be disturbed and disappointed when Lawrence told him that he didn’t want to work no more.
“What, you just gonna give up on everything we built up?” said Deon.
Lawrence said, “I’m retired,” and left it at that.
That was before Ben got done. Now that he was gone, nothing mattered. Not even the money.
Lawrence draped his forearm over his eyes. He was sweating and he could smell his own stink.
Why would someone do his boy like that?
Why? was the first question. Then came, Who?
Lawrence burned to know.
Chris Flynn returned to his apartment, put his shoes neatly under his bed, changed his clothes, and went to sleep. When he woke, the bedroom had darkened. He went to the window and opened the blinds and saw that it was night. He had slept heavily for several hours and could not recall if he had dreamed.
Chris phoned Katherine. She asked if he wanted company, and he said that he preferred to be alone. It was not that he did not want to see her. He knew that he would not be good with anyone tonight.
“I’m worried about you,” said Katherine.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” said Chris.
He showered, microwaved a Celeste pizza, and ate it standing up. He thought of smoking some marijuana he kept in his nightstand but decided against it. His head would be up for a while, but then he’d get to that overthinking phase, and he didn’t want that. He grabbed a few bottles of Budweiser out of the refrigerator and put them in a six-pack-sized cooler, along with some ice. He dropped his cell into the pocket of his shorts and left his apartment.
Out on the front porch of the bungalow, Andy Ladas, the black-haired, middle-aged tenant of the three-family home, was sitting in a high-backed chair, drinking an Anchor Steam and smoking a Winston. Beside him was a steel stand-up ashtray of the type once common in barbershops. This was Ladas’s position and activity for a couple of hours every night.
“Hey, Andy.”
“Chris.”
“We alone?”
“The kids got a gig,” said Ladas. He was referring to the musician couple, Tina and Doug Gibson, who had the top floor. They were older than Chris but did not look it.
“Case you fall asleep with that cigarette in your hand and catch fire, I’ll be out back.”
The house was on a corner of the street, at an intersection featuring a four-way stop that was frequently ignored. There was a police station nearby, and it seemed the main offenders were cops. They were the most aggressive speeders, too. Neighborhood activists had petitioned for road humps to slow the cruisers down, which had improved things slightly.
Chris walked through the side yard to the back, where he put down the cooler and took a seat in a green metal rocking chair beside a brick grill. The yard went deep and it had been landscaped by the Gibsons and maintained by all the tenants. It was a nice spot, and he frequently sat here on summer nights. With a view unencumbered by the branches of trees overhead, he could look up at the stars. The sky was clear, and the moon cast a pearl glow on the property.
Chris drank a beer. He thought of Ben and the day at Pine Ridge, and as the alcohol kissed him he felt his shoulders relax. He tossed the first bottle into the grass and reached into the cooler for another. He twisted off its top and emptied its neck.
Chris heard a vehicle come to a stop and looked to his right. An old black sedan had parked on the street and its engine died.
Chris reached into his pocket, retrieved his cell, and flipped it open, its buttons and screen illuminated. Because he was of a generation that was dexterous with keyboards, he quickly found the contact he was searching for.
Two men, one large and one small, got out of the car, crossed the street, and walked toward him in the yard. Chris studied them and continued to text with his fingers.
He was not thinking of police. He was a boy, and he was calling his father.
He typed the words I’m at home.
And: Signal 13.
TWENTY-THREE
The large man wore a windbreaker over a T-shirt and jeans. The small man wore black. They stood before Chris Flynn, still seated in his chair. Chris had slipped his cell back into his pocket. He held a beer bottle loosely in his right hand.
“Get up,” said Sonny. “Let’s take a ride.”
Chris slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“We need to have a talk.”
“We’re talking now.”
“Not here,” said Sonny.
Chris’s eyes disconnected from Sonny’s. He drank slowly from his bottle of beer.
“Get up,” said Wayne.
Chris looked at him blankly. Wayne’s brush mustache seemed to spring from inside his nostrils and lay beneath a flat nose in a deeply lined, imploding face. He appeared to be rotting. His wiry arms were dominated by ink.
“What do you want?” said Chris, returning his gaze to the big man with the walrus whiskers and high cheekbones.
“Somethin that’s mine,” said Sonny.
“What would that be?”
“Try to tell me you don’t know.”
“I’m not playing this game,” said Chris.
“You will.”
“You’re trespassing.”
“Fuck you, sweetheart. Let’s go.”
Chris looked at him with lazy green eyes.
The big man held one hand out to Chris and turned it into the shine of moonlight. Chris saw a tattoo on the crook of it.
