The Sweet Forever

  “We came for Golden,” said Murphy.

  “Yeah?” said Tyrell. “Why the guns?”

  “Don’t want any misunderstandings. Want to walk out of here nice and clean.”

  “You don’t trust us?”

  “No.” Murphy’s eyes went down to the pillowcase in his hand, back to Tyrell. “Let’s get on with it. Got the money right here.”

  “All’s I see is some old cloth bag.”

  “You’ll see the money when I see Golden.”

  “I’ll see it now.”

  Murphy dropped the pillowcase, opened it, reached inside and extracted a stack of bills. He tossed the bills onto the table.

  Tyrell looked at the banded green without moving.

  “Short,” he said. “Bring him out.”

  “No,” said Murphy. “Want Monroe where I can see him. Send Rogers back there.”

  Tyrell smiled. “Damn, Murphy, you really steppin’ up and takin’ charge. And all along I thought you were the strong and silent type.”

  “Send Rogers.”

  “All right, Alan. Go ahead.”

  Rogers brushed by Monroe. Monroe gave him a hard look as he passed.

  “Hurry up, boy,” said Murphy.

  Rogers picked up his pace.

  Monroe watched Rogers go into the hall, open the bedroom door, shut it behind him.

  Tyrell’s eyes went to Tutt’s ostrich-skin boots. “Lookin’ clean tonight, Officer Tutt. Got those shitkickers on your feet, I see.”

  Don’t do that. Don’t insult Tutt.

  Tutt stepped up and stood beside Murphy. He didn’t look ashen anymore. Murphy felt Tutt’s energy change.

  “Say it again, Ty-rell,” said Tutt. “Couldn’t hear you with that jungle-jump you got playin’ so loud.”

  Monroe shifted his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

  “Curious,” said Tyrell, looking at Murphy’s guns. “Why you go so formal on us tonight, Officer Murphy, with that utility belt, your badge, and shit? Bet you even got a set of cuffs hangin’ on the back.”

  Murphy moved a foot to his right and spread his feet. His vision line between Ray and Tyrell was clear now; he could see the kitchen window, and the black woods beyond, from where he stood.

  Tyrell said, “Got yourself customized tonight, too, with that extra revolver.”

  Let’s go, Alan. Step it up.

  Ray said, “Man be walkin’ in here, six-gunnin’ it like the Josey Wales.”

  Ray and Monroe laughed.

  “Cut the bullshit,” said Tutt to Tyrell. “Where the fuck’s Rogers?”

  Relax, Tutt. Breathe deep.

  A scraping sound came from the bedroom.

  The window. Get him out that window now. Drop him; it ain’t that far. Pick him up if you have to and carry him through those woods. Run—

  “Check on Rogers, Short,” said Tyrell.

  Monroe turned.

  “No,” said Murphy.

  Monroe stopped, shifted his shoulders.

  Murphy said, “I told you I didn’t want Monroe out of my sight.”

  “You told me?” said Tyrell. “You told me? Boy, you ain’t tellin’ me a mothafuckin’ thing.” Tyrell blinked hard, chin-nodded toward the pillowcase. “I want to see the rest of that money, Murphy. Give it here.”

  “Gotta do it, partner,” said Tutt, speaking low. “We gotta do it now.”

  “What’d he say?” said Tyrell.

  Run, Alan. Run.

  A faint crying sound rode above the music pounding in the room.

  Tyrell cocked his head. “I asked you what he said.”

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want….

  Tutt high-cackled, took a couple of steps toward Monroe. “I axed you what he said.”

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters….

  “The money, Murphy,” said Tyrell.

  Murphy kicked the pillowcase to Tyrell’s feet. Tyrell bent down and looked inside.

  He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake….

  Tyrell stood up, his jaws tight, spent lottery tickets bunched in his fist.

  The crying sound grew louder.

  “Sounds like sirens, cuz,” said Ray, locking back the hammer on the .38.

  “Fuck is this?” said Tyrell, ignoring Ray, shaking his fist and then throwing the tickets into the fire.

  “Yeah,” said Tutt, smiling strangely at Murphy. “What is it, partner?”

  “What the fuck is goin’ on!” shouted Tyrell. “Short, check on Rogers, man!”

  Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death…

  Monroe went back to the hallway, kicked open the bedroom door. Murphy heard him curse, then watched as Monroe came back into the room, emerging from the darkness and stalking back into the jumping orange light.

  I will fear no evil….

  “Golden’s gone, Ty,” said Monroe, his eyes shifting nervously between Tutt and Tyrell. He tightened his grip on the Glock. “That bitch Rogers took him out the window and bucked.”

  Murphy saw headlights flash in the kitchen window.

  For thou art with me….

  Murphy drew his Combat Magnums.

  Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

  Murphy said, “You’re all under arrest for the murder of Wesley Meadows and James Willets—”

  “Aw, fuck all that, Kev,” said Tutt. He raised his Colt with one hand and waved good-bye to Monroe with the other.

  Monroe shot from the hip.

  The bullet blew four fingers off of Tutt’s waving hand, entered his neck, and pierced the carotid artery. Blood sprayed out into the strobing light.

  Tutt stumbled forward and squeezed off two point-blank rounds from the .45; the hollow points imploded Monroe’s rotten-fruit face. Monroe’s heels rattled at the hardwood floor.

  Tyrell snatched the Mossberg off the table while Ray fumbled for the .38 lodged in his slacks.

  Murphy shot Ray in the chest, the dumdum bullet flattening on impact and punching out fist sized through his back. Ray staggered, yanked at the trigger guard of the gun, yanked the trigger instead. He screamed as the round entered his groin and blew his balls to chowder, the muzzle flame igniting his pubes. Foam spilled from Ray’s mouth as he pirouetted to the floor.

  A shotgun blast roared in Murphy’s ears.

  Murphy dove sideways, hot shot peppering his right shoulder.

  Tyrell kicked the table up on its edge and fell behind it.

  Murphy stood, raised the .357 in his right hand. His shoulder nerves spasmed, jerking his hand straight up. Murphy’s gunshot ventilated the bungalow’s roof. The Magnum slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

  “Murph.”

  He turned his head. Tutt was on his back, his eyes rolled up into his head. He was pushing the stump that had been his hand against the neck wound, now hosing blood.

  Murphy heard the snick snick of a shotgun pump.

  He raised his left hand, squeezed the trigger three times, spacing for the Magnum’s recoil. The shots splintered the wood table in a clean, close pattern.

  Tyrell came up screaming, blood pumping from his stomach and spiraling from a steaming black gash in his cheek.

  Murphy pulled off two more rounds as fire erupted from the shotgun. Murphy felt a part of himself stripped away.

  Tyrell fell and rolled onto the hearth, one arm coming to rest in the fire. Flames crawled up his sleeve, melting the rayon shirt to his heaving torso. Tyrell gurgled as the fire claimed him.

  Murphy felt unbalanced. He felt nothing on his left side. He looked for the damage to his arm.

  “Lord!” he screamed, spinning in a circle through the cordite, the action sending a wash of blood bucketing onto the bay window.

  Murphy dropped into Tyrell’s chair. He looked down. His left arm was lobster meat, shredded and red and slick, gone below the bicep. Blood flowed freely into his lap.


  He managed the phone with his trembling right hand. He punched in 911.

  Think of sensations. You feel things and you are alive: revolving blue and red lights striping the room, the smell of gunsmoke and burning flesh, the cat wail of sirens against the bell toll…

  “Your name, please.”

  Murphy gave the dispatcher his name.

  “Your address.”

  Murphy gave the dispatcher the address.

  “What is the nature of the emergency?”

  Murphy gave the dispatcher the numbered code.

  “Repeat,” said the voice on the other end.

  “Officer down,” gasped Murphy as uniforms kicked in the scarred oak door.

  PART II

  TUESDAY

  JUNE 17, 1986

  THIRTY-ONE

  “There goes Brad Daugherty,” said Dimitri Karras. “You believe he went first?”

  “Cavaliers needed a center, “said Marcus Clay. “Not a bad choice, you think about it. Got that Dean Smith pedigree, too. And you know Bias is goin’ next.”

  Karras stood beside Clay, who was seated at his desk in the back of Real Right. They were watching the televised NBA draft selections on the beat-up house set.

  “Look at that,” said Clay. “One of Red Auerbach’s people is whispering something in Bias’s ear.”

  “ ‘Get ready to go,’ he’s sayin’.”

  “Most likely. Damn if that isn’t a pretty ice green suit Lenny’s got on.”

  “Should be Celtic green. The color of money.”

  “Here we go,” said Clay.

  Bias’s name was announced. Karras clapped Clay on the shoulder and watched his friend smile ear to ear.

  “From Northwestern High School to the world-champion Boston Celtics. Can you believe it, Dimitri?”

  “With Bird and McHale and Parish down below, he’s gonna have to start off as the sixth man.”

  “Be better for him that way.”

  “Wonder if Clarence is watchin’ this,” said Karras.

  “He’s probably sittin’ in traffic right now, tryin’ to get into town. Since he moved out to Maryland he’s been spendin’ most of his time in his Cutlass.”

  “He did the right thing. With the schools here the way they are, it’s better for Denice in the suburbs.”

  “Seems like everybody’s either movin’ out of D.C. or thinkin’ on it.”

  “Speaking of that, I got a letter from Donna Morgan a few days ago.”

  “What, from Florida?”

  Karras nodded. “Outside of Orlando. She and Golden are renting a little house. Got a swimming pool in the backyard under one of those bug tents.”

  “Sounds like a winner.”

  “She always wanted to go to Florida. She’s selling watches in a department store. And Eddie’s installing dishwashers. Takes him a little longer than it used to on account of that bum wrist of his. But as far as I could tell, they’re doin’ all right.”

  Applause came from the television’s tinny speaker.

  “There goes Chris Washburn,” said Clay.

  “Golden State. Bet it’s nice out there in California.”

  “Oh, so you thinkin’ of leavin’ town, too?”

  “You know me better than that.”

  “ ’Cause I need you, man.”

  “I am the glue that holds this operation together.”

  “Wouldn’t go so far as all that.”

  The phone rang on the desk, and Clay picked it up. “Real Right. Hey, Cheek. Any action over there? Good. Uh-huh…. How’s our boy doin’? That right. Well, you make sure and praise him when he’s on it and point out to him when he’s not. I want him to stay with it…. Yeah, me and Dimitri were just watchin’ it. Happy for him, too. Take care, Cheek.”

  Clay cradled the phone.

  “What’s up?” said Karras.

  “Cheek says they’re doin’ some business over at Dupont Circle.”

  “How’s it goin’ with our new employee?”

  “He says he’s comin’ along. Yeah, I think Alan’s gonna be all right.”

  Karras grinned. “Long as you can keep him away from Denice.”

  “Knock that shit off, man. Rogers backed away from that his own self. Boy’s got self-control, unlike you.”

  They watched Chuck Person get called up by the Pacers; then Kenny Walker went to the Knicks.

  “We doin’ anything out on the floor?”

  Clay shook his head. “Cootch says we haven’t rung but one or two sales all day. If it wasn’t for Georgetown and Dupont, we’d be hurtin’ bad. We’re hurtin’ as it is.”

  “You still talkin’ to Record City?”

  “They’re comin’ back in next week. Say they’re interested in ‘testin’ the urban waters’ with a couple of small locations before they come to town with that superstore concept of theirs. They’re talkin’ buyout, but we’ll see.”

  “Would you do it?”

  “Get out of the way or get run over, that’s the way I’m lookin’ at it now. Like I say, we’ll see.”

  Karras frowned, looking at the set. “Phoenix took William Bedford over Ray Tarpley?”

  “I’m a little surprised at that one myself.”

  Cootch’s head appeared in the doorway. “Boss?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Got a man out here from the mayor’s campaign office, wants to put some of those posters in our window.”

  “Tell him we don’t do that,” said Clay. “We don’t do it for anybody. Explain it to him like that.”

  “Right,” said Cootch, returning to the floor.

  “He’s gonna get reelected,” said Karras. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Sure. Runnin’ against Mattie Taylor in the primaries and Carole Schwartz—a white Jewish Republican from Ward Three—in the general elections? Damn right he’s gonna win. Meanwhile, city services are down to nothin’, and the school system is fallin’ apart for real. And George Dozier tells me that crack’s already come to the District, ahead of schedule. Murder rate’s gonna accelerate now like we’ve never seen.”

  “And the people are gonna put the mayor back in office.”

  “Nero fiddled while Rome burned, Dimitri; our mayor took cocaine.” Clay looked up at Karras. “But you know somethin’? We’re all to blame. ’Cause in the end, years from now when it’s way too late, we’re gonna see that we did nothin’ to stop all this. We were so busy makin’ money, ignorin’ the ones who needed help, lookin’ out for ourselves. So busy lookin’ the other way.”

  Karras jingled the change in his pocket. “Yeah, well, what’re you gonna do?”

  “Just keep talkin’ about it, I guess.”

  “Look, I gotta jet. Gonna make the rounds, check on the stores. There’s that Replacements show I want to catch at the 9:30 tonight, so I won’t be back in.”

  “You talkin’ about that guy, looks like he can’t get a comb through his hair?”

  “Westerberg. Steve Earle’s openin’ things up. Should be a helluva show.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Nice day out. You ought to see some sunshine yourself.”

  “Fixin’ to, man. Gonna do some ball.” Clay eyed Karras. “You’re lookin’ a little on the thin side, you know it?”

  “Way you’re workin’ me, man.”

  “I’m serious. You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” said Karras, avoiding Clay’s eyes. “Listen, you think you could come by one night this week, get the rest of your shit out of the apartment?”

  “Why, you expecting company?”

  “You never know.”

  “Okay, man, I’ll try. Know how tidy you like to keep things over at the Trauma Arms.”

  “Thanks, Marcus.”

  “Ain’t no thing.”

  Clay and Karras locked hands, gave each other their old double-buck shake.

  “Take care, man.”

  “Yeah. You, too.”

  Clay watched Karras leave the room. He turned to the corkboard
over his desk, stared at the Washington Post photo of Len Bias smiling into the camera, palming two basketballs.

  Clay’s eyes moved to the photograph pinned to the right of Len’s: a grinning, happy Anthony Taylor, holding up a catfish he had hooked from a Georgia creek, his sisters on either side of him, his mom behind him, her hand resting on his bare, wet shoulder.

  Marcus Clay leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and smiled.

  Clay parked his car on Takoma Avenue, along the railroad tracks in Takoma Park. He locked the car, stopping to admire it before he crossed the street to Jequie Park.

  Kids played on brightly colored equipment while parents sat on nearby benches reading paperbacks. In the open field a dozen shirtless El Salvadorians were engaged in a game of soccer, while at the adjacent roughed-out baseball diamond a father pitched a whiffle ball to his young son. A freight train passed, its click-clack muting the children’s squeals and laughter and the bird sounds coming from the tall trees at the edge of the park.

  Clay went to the half-court square of asphalt set near a sheltered picnic area, where a man dribbled and shot, laying the ball up off the painted wooden backboard and getting ragged net.

  “Marcus.”

  “How you doin’, man?”

  “Workin’ on it.”

  “You up for a game?”

  “You ain’t gonna play me soft, are you?”

  “Wouldn’t do that.”

  Kevin Murphy bounced the pill to Clay. “Go ahead and shoot for ball.”

  They played to eleven, Clay coming out on top by four. The second game was more even, with Murphy tying it up, ten-ten.

  “Gotta win by two, right, Marcus?”

  Clay nodded. “Your ball.”

  Murphy won the game on a shot from the top of the key.

  “You gave me that one.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  But Clay was lying; he was playing Murphy soft, avoiding contact with the man’s left side. It bothered Clay, seeing Kevin like that, knowing that this was Murphy now, and it was him forever.

  Murphy’s game, though, it was improving fast. He’d spent the last month dribbling, getting his balance back, driving to his left, learning how to move in a different way.

  “Rubber match?” said Murphy.

  “Right.”

  They sweated through their T’s, going full out in the best of three. Murphy made a good effort, but he lost his wind halfway into the game, and Clay turned it on. He rejected the ball when Murphy drove left and tried to lay it up. Clay sank the next bucket, a shot that bounced straight up off the rim, came down, and went right through.