“Got some forgiving buckets here,” Clay said, shaking Murphy’s hand. “You almost had me.”
“Never could go to my left. Told you that.”
Clay and Murphy had a seat on a grassy slope by the street.
“So how’s it goin’?” said Clay, lifting his T-shirt and wiping the sweat from his face.
“It’s okay. Workin’ this summer youth program down in Ward Eight. Got plenty of young brothers I’m tryin’ to guide. Funny how quick I got attached to ’em.” Murphy looked out across the park. “Almost like havin’ sons of my own.”
“Thanks for that picture of Anthony,” said Clay.
“Thought you’d like it,” said Murphy. “Lula Taylor sent me an extra.”
Clay spit to the side. “They payin’ you down at that program?”
Murphy shook his head. “It’s volunteer work. I don’t need the money. Got my pension, and the disability payment alone’s gonna carry me for a long time. You lose a limb, man, it’s more valuable than if you lose your life.”
“Sweet how the department took care of you.”
“Had to. Oh, they knew somethin’ was off about me and Tutt. Couldn’t prove it, but they knew. Course, you went and tore up that note. Another thing I need to thank you for, besides sending the troops in like you did. Them gettin’ there so quick, it saved my life.”
“Good thing you passed out.”
“Yeah, IAD never did have a chance to talk to me alone. When I woke up in the recovery room, Elaine was right by my side, holdin’ my hand, tellin’ me to keep my mouth shut. She and that other lawyer—”
“Williamson?”
“Yeah, him. One who looks like El DeBarge? He did a helluva job for me.”
Clay laughed. “Man does look like DeBarge. But he’s a damn good lawyer.”
“And Elaine, don’t forget her. None better than your wife.”
“She is somethin’.”
Murphy stroked his mustache, salted now with gray. “In the end, I guess the department figured it was easier to give us medals than it was to prosecute. Considering what’s goin’ on out there now, they thought it was better for the public’s morale, too. Made heroes of me and Tutt. You believe that?”
You are a hero, thought Clay.
Murphy pulled grass from the ground and shook his head. “One thing’s for sure. Tutt would have loved that fancy procession they gave him, all those officers cryin’ over him and shit.”
“ ‘When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’ Heard that in this Western I saw one time, down at the Keith’s.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Hell, man, I don’t know.”
Clay and Murphy smiled.
“How’s Wanda doin’, Kevin?”
“She’s got her days. They’re tryin’ to treat her with pills now, so we’ll see. I’m not givin’ up, Marcus. No matter what goes down in this life, there’s always hope.”
“There it is.”
“Come on, man. Got to fix Wanda dinner. Need to be gettin’ home.”
“Yeah, I need to be gettin’ home, too. You got wheels?”
“Not anymore. I walked over from Whittier.”
“I’ll drop you, man. My short’s right across the street.”
“It’s all the same to you, I’ll walk home. But I would like to check out that ride.”
They crossed the street and stood by the trunk of the car, the boat-tail rear waxed and beautiful in the golden-time light.
“Damn,” said Murphy. “That’s a pretty-ass Riviera. Seventy-three?”
“Seventy-two. Elaine bought it for me. It ain’t exactly like the one I owned. But it’s close enough.”
“Tell you somethin’. You got a woman like that, you don’t ever want to let her go.”
“I know it, brother. Believe me, I know.”
“See you next week?” said Murphy.
Clay said, “Bet.”
Kevin Murphy turned and walked east along the railroad fence, the atrophied stub of meat dangling from the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Clay watched him go, then drove away.
Marcus Clay slipped the sound track to Claudine into his tape deck and headed down to Mount Pleasant. Gladys singin’ Curtis, nothin’ could be better than that. He bought a couple of Boston creams—Elaine’s favorite—at Heller’s Bakery and then stopped at Sportsman’s Liquors, where he picked up a bottle of cabernet on the recommendation of Tasso and Leo, the genial brothers who owned the store. He drove over to Brown and parked his car.
Elaine sat on the stoop out front while Marcus Jr. ran around the rectangle of worn front yard, a small burgundy-and-gold football tucked under his arm. Clay took the concrete steps, waving to Pepe, his neighbor, who was working on a bottle of beer out on his porch.
“Daddy!” said Marcus Jr.
“What’s goin’ on, M. J.?” said Clay, going up the walk and handing the Heller’s box, cross-tied with string, to Elaine, who was moving one foot to “Black Satin,” coming from the open door of the house.
“What’s that I hear, On the Corner?”
“I do love my Miles.” Elaine felt the weight of the box. “Thanks for thinking of me, Marcus.”
“I’m always thinkin’ of you, girl. Proud of you, too.”
“Come here.”
They kissed and then Clay went out into the yard. Marcus Jr. threw him the football. Clay threw an underhand spiral back.
“I’m the Redskins,” said Marcus Jr.
“I know you are, son.”
“Who are you?”
“Anybody but the Cowboys.”
“Tackle me, Daddy.”
“Okay.”
Marcus Jr. took off toward his father, and Clay caught hold of his arm. But he didn’t tackle him; he hugged him tightly and kissed him roughly on the cheek. He smelled his son’s hair.
Clay remembered, just then, the words that Kevin Murphy had spoken: No matter what goes down in this life, there’s always hope.
“Daddy, you sad? Why you cryin’?”
“I’m not cryin’,” said Clay. “I’m happy, that’s all.”
THURSDAY
JUNE 19, 1986
THIRTY-TWO
The sun woke Dimitri Karras early Thursday morning. Raising himself up on one arm, he read the face of the watch strapped to his wrist: ten A.M.
Karras licked his dry lips. He’d been dreaming of cool water in a tall glass, out of reach.
He withdrew a tissue from the box on the nightstand and blew blood from his nose. He dropped the tissue on the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed.
Karras rose and took a long shower, hot water first and then cold. His stomach flipped, and he leaned his weight against the tiles.
“Stupid,” he said.
He dressed and walked out to the kitchen. The message light on his answering machine was blinking; it was Marcus, most likely, calling to find out why he was late. He decided not to listen to the message. He’d think of something or other to tell Marcus by the time he got down to U.
Karras tried to drink a cup of coffee but couldn’t get it down. He poured the coffee out in the sink and rubbed his face.
God, he felt like shit.
It was going to be a long workday on three hours’ sleep. He could use a little bump to get through it. Just a little, to straighten out his head.
Karras took Connecticut Avenue uptown, the air conditioner’s blower the only sound in the car. He turned right on Albemarle Street and parked near the entrance to the Soapstone Trail. He got out of the BMW and walked west toward the apartment building where his dealer, Billy Smith, had his place.
While waiting for the light at the corner, Karras looked across Connecticut to the Nutty Nathan’s store. Nick Stefanos stood on the sidewalk out front, his hand resting on the shoulder of some bandanna-wearing black kid, both of them watching the bank of televisions in the display window of the shop. Karras hadn’t seen Stefanos since March, or thanked him for the work he’d done.
/> Karras crossed the avenue, approaching Stefanos and the kid from behind. As he neared them, Karras saw the televisions in the window were all tuned to the same image: Len Bias, wearing that jazzy ice green suit of his, standing out of his chair at the calling of his name.
All right, it was news. But why were they running the draft highlights again, two days after the fact?
“Nick?” said Karras.
Stefanos and the boy turned their heads. The black kid was crying freely, tears running down his cheeks.
“Dimitri,” said Stefanos, his eyes hollow and red.
Karras felt hot and suddenly nauseous in the sun. He backed away to a government oak, leafy and full, planted by the curb. Karras stepped into its cool shade.
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. It was better there, standing in the darkness pooled beneath the tree.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
The author would like to acknowledge Dream City, Harry S. Jaffe and Tom Sherwood’s extraordinary account of the rise and fall of Home Rule in Washington, D.C., as a major source of factual material in the writing of this novel.
Contents
FRONT COVER IMAGE
WELCOME
DEDICATION
PART I: FRIDAY MARCH 14, 1986
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
SATURDAY MARCH 15, 1986
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
SUNDAY MARCH 16, 1986
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
PART II: TUESDAY JUNE 17, 1986
THIRTY-ONE
THURSDAY JUNE 19, 1986
THIRTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
ALSO BY GEORGE P. PELECANOS
PRAISE FOR THE SWEET FOREVER
Copyright
Also by George P. Pelecanos
King Suckerman
The Big Blowdown
Down By the River Where the Dead Men Go
Shoedog
Nick’s Trip
A Firing Offense
PRAISE FOR THE SWEET FOREVER
“For some time George P. Pelecanos has been the best-kept secret in crime fiction—maybe all fiction. His stories have always been powerful tales of character and survial that grip the mind and heart. The word among writers and those in the know has long been ‘Read pelecanos.’ But I think now with The Sweet Forever the secret will finally be no more. For this is Pelecanos at his very best—telling a story that is urgent and moving, full of wisdom and the gritty truth of the street. You can’t put this book down or out of mind. It is one of the best novels I have read in years.”
—MICHAEL CONNELLY
“One of the best crime novelists alive, George Pelecanos is an American Original. The sweet Forever—a sweeping blistering thriller set on Washington’s mean streets against the cocaine rush and underground music explosion of 1986—is a beautiful, brilliant book, the Bonfire of the Vanities of suspense fiction. Volcanic, violent, exhilarating, it is also poignant and savagely tender, bearing a sad and knowing love for the hustlers and schemers, the innocent children and simple working men and women trying to get by in a brutal, tattered world. Gritty and flawlessly paced, this is the finest novel I’ve read this year.”
—DENNIS LEHANE
Copyright
Copyright © 1998 by George P. Pelecanos
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Little, Brown and Company
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First eBook Edition: August 2011
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
ISBN: 978-0-316-20450-7
George Pelecanos, The Sweet Forever
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