The Sweet Forever

  “Figured that, Clarence,” said Marcus Clay.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “So I’m in this bar,” said Johnny McGinnes, “and I order a Leon Klinghoffer cocktail from the tender. ‘What’s that?’ he says.”

  “Well,” said Nick Stefanos, “what is it?”

  “A Leon Klinghoffer cocktail?” McGinnes grinned. “Two shots and a splash.”

  “Funny, Johnny. Okay, so that’s your Achille Lauro gag. What’s next, a Challenger joke?”

  “Oh, I got a couple of those, too, you wanna hear ’em.” McGinnes popped the top on a sixteen-ounce can of Colt 45. “Thirsty, Greek?”

  “Might make my head feel better.”

  “You could take something for it instead. I think I got a couple of TTs in my pocket here.”

  “TTs?”

  “Tainted Tylenols.”

  “Just give me the Colt.”

  McGinnes pulled a tallboy from the bag at his feet. He passed the can over to Stefanos, who cracked it and took a long swig.

  McGinnes pointed through the windshield. “That him?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  Stefanos’s Dart was parked on Easley Street, across the road from the back lot of Silver Spring Towers. The baby blue Bronco was parked nose out in the lot.

  “We’re just tailin’ this guy, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t need to paper him?”

  “What, you think we’re gonna serve a cop?”

  Stefanos produced a Camel filter from the inside pocket of his Robert Hall sport jacket and pushed in the dash lighter. He lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, held the smoke in his lungs.

  “This process serving, though,” said McGinnes, “you gotta admit, it’s like cuttin’ butter. See, I got the whole thing figured out…. Hey, Nick. Nick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, you’re not that interested right now. But I can tell by lookin’ at you, every time we get going after one of these guys, you get juiced real quick.”

  Stefanos hit his Camel, blew smoke out the open window. “All right, I like the challenge of it. When you find someone it feels like more of an accomplishment than just, you know, closing a deal.”

  “Maybe you ought to think about doing it full-time. Since you been so unhappy lately, I mean.”

  “That would make my wife real happy. Karen’s already all over my ass, pushing me to get a professional job, like all these other guys my age, got Brylcreem in their hair.”

  “Mousse.”

  “Whatever. Look, man, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you’re all right, Nick. Maybe it’s your wife that’s got the problem and not you.”

  “Yeah, lately I been thinkin’ the same thing.”

  McGinnes scratched between his legs. “Makin’ money’s easy. The hard part is finding something you like to do every day. Look at me, Nick; I love what I do.”

  “I know it, Johnny.” Stefanos noticed a beefy guy coming out of the apartments, watched him cross the lot and head toward the Bronco. “There’s our man.”

  “What is he, the missing link or somethin’?”

  “Check out those acid-washed jeans.”

  “Dress slacks for today’s redneck.”

  Stefanos ignitioned the Dart, pitched his cigarette out the window. He let the Bronco get up toward Fenton Street before he put the Dodge in gear. The Mopar engine knocked as he gave the car gas.

  “Gotta get this thing tuned up,” said Stefanos.

  “You ask me,” said McGinnes with a slow smile, “it’s the O-rings need to be replaced.”

  “What’s this we’re listenin’ to?” said McGinnes.

  “Thin White Rope,” said Stefanos.

  “Sounds like the singer’s on the toilet, strainin’ one out.”

  “Tight group. Saw ’em at the 9:30 last week. Guy named Petersen, used to be in the Insect Surfers, opened up for them. Davey Con Carne, he calls himself now. Bad show.”

  “Yeah, okay. Slow down, Nick, you’re gettin’ too close. He’s gonna make us, man.”

  “ ‘Make’ us? Nice expression, Johnny, real street. What, did you hear that on Hardcastle and McCormick or something?”

  “I think it was Scarecrow and Mrs. King.”

  Stefanos pulled over to the curb as the Bronco turned left off of 14th and went down Colorado. The driver stopped behind a black Trans Am that was parked in front of an Irish bar.

  “Salt-and-pepper team,” said McGinnes as a mustached black man stepped out of the Pontiac, locked it, walked over to the Bronco’s passenger side, and opened the door.

  “Here we go,” said Stefanos.

  The Bronco headed south. Stefanos and McGinnes did the same.

  “Man’s takin’ the scenic route,” said McGinnes as they drove down Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House. Across the street, in Lafayette Park, a city of tent dwellers covered the green.

  “Reaganville,” said Stefanos.

  “What am I supposed to do, take the day off and shed tears?”

  “Oh, so they’re not really hungry, long as the rest of us are doing okay, right?”

  “You’re losing them, Nick.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Ten minutes later both cars were on East Capitol Street, driving toward the Anacostia River.

  “Looks like we’re leaving D.C.,” said McGinnes.

  Stefanos said, “I know.”

  In Maryland, along Central Avenue, Stefanos eased up on the gas and pulled into a half-vacant strip mall off the highway. He had hung back, watching the Bronco roll down the service road behind the mall. He parked in the last space in front of the mall and cut the Dart’s engine. They could still see the Bronco as it came to a stop beside a few black imports in front of a bungalow backed by a small forest of trees.

  The two men got out of the Bronco. McGinnes watched the black man with interest as he and the white man walked toward the house, stepped up onto the porch, and went through the front door.

  “Nick?”

  “What?”

  “Nothin’, I guess.”

  Stefanos and McGinnes sat there for the next ten minutes and killed the rest of the six.

  “You get the address?” said McGinnes, crushing an empty in his hand and tossing it over his shoulder to the backseat.

  “Got it.”

  “Then that’s it. We did what we said we’d do.”

  “I guess.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Just don’t feel like we’re finished yet, Johnny, you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s funny, I feel the same way.” McGinnes put on a pair of shades. “I gotta take a piss.”

  “I gotta take one, too,” said Stefanos.

  They got out of the Dart, walked to the side of the strip mall, stood side by side, and urinated on the bricks.

  McGinnes pissed his initials on the wall, then zipped up his fly. “Now that we’re out here—”

  “What?”

  “You’re curious, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you’re not.”

  “Okay, I’m curious. And that malt liquor’s fucked with my head just enough to make me do something stupid.”

  “I just wanna see what’s what. Maybe there’s some extra geld in it for us.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll do the talking.”

  “Wasn’t any doubt in my mind that you would.”

  They turned and walked toward the bungalow at the end of the road.

  “Where is he?” said Richard Tutt.

  “Who?” said Tyrell, sitting in his chair.

  “Don’t be cute. On the phone earlier you told me you had the thief.”

  “You mean that little white bird dropped out of the sky?” said Antony Ray. “One with the busted wing? Cheep, cheep, cheep.”

  Ray laughed, reached across the table, and touched Short Man Monroe’s hand.

  Alan Rogers sat in a chair pushed against the wall. He looked at Kevin Murphy, standing back by
the door.

  “Kidnapping’s a capital crime,” said Tutt, “case you geniuses didn’t know.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” said Tyrell.

  “You better hope he lives. Add murder to the charges and you’re lookin’ at an automatic death penalty.”

  “What charges? You gonna charge me with somethin’, Officer Tutt?”

  “This ain’t D.C., Tyrell. Here in Maryland they don’t fuck around. Better tell that miniature psycho boy of yours and cousin An-tony the news.”

  Monroe sat back, moved his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. He spun the Glock slowly on the table so the grip came to rest in his hand.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Tutt, “I see the gun, Short Man. You’re one tough case, aren’t you? Real tough with little boys. Oh, but look what happened to you when you came up against a full-grown man. That record store owner cut your little ass down to size real good and quick, didn’t he? Had to go and kill a couple of kids just to make yourself feel tall.”

  “Come on,” said Monroe, rising from his chair. “You wanna go, let’s go.”

  Antony Ray put his hand on Monroe’s chest, pushed him down in his seat.

  “This ain’t the time,” said Ray.

  Monroe stared at Tutt and smiled. Tutt breathed out slow. Tyrell looked into the fire, ran one long finger up and down his cheek.

  “Where’s Golden?” said Murphy in a very quiet way.

  “Our voice of reason,” said Tyrell. “Always glad to know we got an ice-cool mothafucker like you on our side.”

  “Where is he?” said Murphy.

  Tyrell made an elaborate motion with his hand. “Bedroom on the left.”

  “He gonna make it?”

  “Far as I know. Alan been takin’ care of him, givin’ him water and food. Alan’s in love with a girl, case you haven’t heard—turned him all sensitive and shit.”

  Murphy nodded at Rogers. “Alan did good. Because you have to keep him alive. My partner here spoke the truth. It’s important for all of us that he lives.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Officer Murphy,” said Tyrell. “Golden’s worth nothin’ to me dead. ’Specially since Clay and that white dude he works with still got our money.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Eddie told us. And me and Alan and Short are going to see Mr. Marcus Clay after dark and talk about a trade. See if we can’t get together on some other points, too. Might take a little persuadin’, understand, but he’ll come around.” Tyrell looked curiously at Murphy. “You got a problem with that?”

  Murphy said nothing.

  Antony Ray’s fingers spread the blinds on the bay window. “Aw, shit,” he said. “What the fuck we got here?”

  They all looked through the window. Two white men, one nearing middle age and one on the young side, walked the gravel road toward the house.

  “Cops,” said Monroe.

  “Are they?” said Tyrell.

  Tutt squinted. “None I ever seen.”

  “This some kind of bust, man? ’Cause if it is—”

  “I’m tellin’ you, Tyrell, I don’t make those two as cops.”

  “You and Murphy get your asses to the back till we figure out what the fuck they want.”

  Alan Rogers stood up and pressed his back to the wall. Antony Ray stayed in his seat. Monroe picked a towel up off the floor and draped it over the automatic he held in his hand.

  “Come on, Murph,” said Tutt, making a head motion to the kitchen.

  “Right behind you, man,” said Murphy.

  Tutt walked around the couch, stepping over Atari wires, and went into the kitchen. Murphy started off behind him but broke away and entered the hall. He passed the bathroom, opened the bedroom door, and stepped inside. He closed the door and looked at the figure lying on the bed.

  There was a knock on the bungalow’s front door.

  “Short,” said Tyrell Cleveland. “Get back there behind me. I step out the way and signal, you shoot these mothafuckers straight away. Two quick shots to the head. Don’t waste no time.”

  Monroe nodded, adjusted the towel so that it covered the barrel.

  Tyrell uncoiled himself from his chair. He stretched to his full height. He opened the front door.

  Murphy knelt by the mattress. Eddie Golden was on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. The wrist area of one hand was like a twisted gourd, orange and purple and black. Eddie looked up at Murphy, his eyes jittery and unfocused.

  “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Murphy.” He pulled his badge from his jacket and put it close to Golden’s face. “I’m a police officer. Tyrell thinks I’m with him. But I’m not with him. I’m here to help you, Eddie. You understand?”

  Eddie’s head came off the mattress. “G-g-get me outta here.”

  “Can’t now,” whispered Murphy. “Gonna come back for you later on.”

  “Not later… now.”

  “Eddie, I need to know where the money is. Gonna bring it back with me and trade it for your life.”

  “Money’s with Karras. That record store guy—”

  “Bullshit. You ain’t talkin’ to them now, you’re talkin’ to me. I know Karras. And I damn sure know Marcus Clay. Those two didn’t take no one off, Eddie. Now, where’s that money at, Eddie? Where’s it at?”

  They heard loud laughter from the other room. Eddie winced and fluttered his eyes.

  “The money, Eddie. The money, man, it’s gonna save your life.”

  Eddie licked his lips, stared straight ahead. “Donna,” he said. “You can’t let anything happen to her.”

  “I won’t. I promise you, man, she won’t come to no harm. Tell me where this Donna lives.”

  Eddie gave Murphy her address.

  “When she gonna be there?”

  Eddie told him the knock-off time of Donna’s shift at Hecht’s.

  “What’s she drivin’?”

  “A red RX-7. An old one—”

  “Now listen,” said Murphy. “I’m comin’ back later. Meantime, you let Alan Rogers keep takin’ care of you. And do what Rogers says, hear?”

  Eddie nodded.

  Murphy went to the sash window, looked through it, judged the distance to the ground. He unlatched the lock, ran the window up and down in its tracks. It made a harsh scraping sound. He walked to the door and opened it. Murphy glanced back at Eddie once more and stepped from the room.

  Out in the hall, he saw Short Man Monroe raising a towel-draped hand. He could see the grip of a gun beneath the towel. The two who’d been walking toward the house were on the porch. Monroe was pointing the gun at them.

  Nick Stefanos stood on the porch beside Johnny McGinnes, jingling the change in his pocket as McGinnes knocked on the scarred oak door. Stefanos could hear the low thump of bass coming from behind the bungalow’s walls, and as the door swung open he recognized the shout of Kurtis Blow: “It’s tough, like Muhammad Ali./It’s rough, like the Oakland Raiders….”

  Once he saw the man standing in the door frame, and those grouped around him, he barely noticed the music at all.

  The man before them must have stood six and a half feet tall. His ears and chin were pointed, and his eyes were bottle green. Gargoyle, thought Stefanos, looking at the man.

  A young black man, short and muscular, stood behind Gargoyle, his nose packed with gauze and criss-crossed with tape. He held his towel-wrapped hands in front of him. Whatever had happened to him, Stefanos guessed his hands had been injured, too.

  A dark-skinned black man, also long of feature, sat at a round table, staring at them with hard black eyes. A very young man stood against the wall, looking down at his shoes. Atop the table was a scale, the kind Stefanos had seen in many apartments where he scored cocaine.

  A drug house, thought Stefanos, and they’re not even trying to hide it. He knew then that it was time to go.

  “How’s it going?” said McGinnes, extending his hand to Gargoyle, who ignored the gesture.

  “What
you want, man? This here’s a private residence.”

  McGinnes smiled. “Exactly why we’re paying you a visit today. My partner and I, we’re real estate brokers. With Cushion and Pushin’.”

  “Who?”

  “Cushion and Pushin’. The name’s Richard Long. I didn’t catch yours.”

  “I didn’t pitch it.”

  Nose-Mask smiled.

  Gargoyle said, “Say your name again?”

  “Richard Long,” said McGinnes. “Like the actor. One played in The Big Valley? Most people go ahead and call me Dick.”

  “Who don’t know that,” said Gargoyle, and everyone laughed.

  McGinnes cleared his throat. “Anyway, we’re canvassing the area, seeing if any home owners are looking to put their houses on this seller’s market we’re having now. Way it is these days, you can get more than your asking price. Lot of folks are taking advantage of the situation—”

  “Really?” Gargoyle raised his voice. “Seems to me you’d be workin’ off a list, makin’ sure you’re not wastin’ your time callin’ on people like us. And by people like us, I don’t mean niggers. I’m talkin’ about renters, Dick.”

  “Nice day out,” said McGinnes, “that’s all. Thought we’d make some cold calls.”

  Gargoyle’s eyes deadened. “I don’t think so.”

  Stefanos watched Nose-Mask raise one of his hands. He saw the muzzle of a gun peeking out from beneath the towel.

  “Let’s go, Dick,” said Stefanos, wanting to run but not able to leave his friend.

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” said Gargoyle, stepping away from the door frame and turning his head back toward Nose-Mask. “Ain’t that right, Short?”

  Short Man Monroe could see that the young white dude with the fucked-up jacket knew what time it was. It was all in his eyes, the way they went quick from his partner, one who called himself Dick, back to Tyrell. Trying to get old Dick’s attention, wantin’ to say, Fuck it, man, let’s just buck and run.

  Monroe figured he’d shoot the younger one first, blow a hole through his temple as he turned his head. Then the silly-ass one with the shades and the Evel Knievel sideburns and the hair combed slanted-like across his forehead. Do them quick, bap-bap-bap, before they could scream.

  Monroe raised the gun to hip level, sighted it best he could. He’d practiced hip shots out in the woods, blowin’ bottles and cans off stumps, and he’d gotten pretty good. Still, it was a tricky shot from here. But if he missed he could chase those two down easy, head-shoot ’em out in the yard.