“Turn that music down, will you, Lonnie?” asked Otis.
“What’samatter, man, ain’t you down with it? Or would you rather be listenin’ to the Commodores and shit?”
“Turn it down. Can’t hear myself think.”
“Thought you was Cali,” said Newton, counterclockwising the volume. He looked at the woman, smiled, then looked at Lavonicus. “How about you, Frankenstein? You into the West Coast sound?”
Lavonicus’s ears pinkened and his mouth dropped open as Newton laughed. Otis shook his head. The Newton boy was making a mistake. It was because the woman was in the room. Newton wouldn’t show fear in front of his woman; that was understandable. But he was pushing it too far the other way. Some men were stupid like that. Newton was one of those men.
Violence didn’t bother Otis, but it was usually messy and often costly, and he preferred to avoid it when he could. He thought he’d give the Newton boy a chance.
“Excuse me, young lady,” said Otis to the girl. “Give us a few minutes alone, will you?”
“Go on, girl,” said Newton.
She snatched the blunt up out of an ashtray and headed toward the stairs.
“Not there,” said Newton. “Get in the bedroom.”
She went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
“Nice-lookin’ lady,” said Otis, knowing then that the money was in the bedroom.
“Compton freak,” said Newton.
Otis went to the bay window and scanned the view. “Beautiful up here, man.”
“Yeah, the neighborhood’s red hot. Madonna just bought a house out this way. Maybe I’ll stop by and give her one of those personal housewarming presents you hear about.”
“Think she’d like that, huh?”
“Pretty as I am?”
Still acting cocky, thought Otis. And the woman wasn’t even in the room.
“You know, Lonnie, to live in a place like this you must be doin’ all right.”
“It’s a rental. But, yeah, I’m doin’ fine.” Newton picked a rolled number out of his bag of dope. He lit the fatty and drew on it deeply. “You want some of this?”
“Maybe later.”
“Your loss. ’Cause this here is some chronic motherfuckin’ shit.”
Otis turned from the window to face Newton. “Let’s talk business, Lonnie.”
“You mean that thousand dollars again? Told you I didn’t have it here.”
“Where you got it, man, a bank? You got no bank account, Lonnie, so don’t be frontin’ behind that shit.”
“Look here, man,” said Newton, gesturing with the joint in his hand. “Word is you’re out of the loan business, Roman. Most of your clients done, what’s that word, reneged on their contracts. It’s like any business, you know what I’m sayin’? You make the rules, you got to enforce them. Otherwise, people just won’t take you serious.”
“Now you’re gonna tell me how to run my business.”
“I’m a man. Maybe I’m the only man you been dealing with lately. And, man to man, I’m here to tell you that your business is through. My debt is erased, hear? Not that I plan to forget what you did for me. We’ll work out something away from the money side.”
“That a fact.”
“Look, man, you want my advice, you ought to just go ahead and concentrate on that singin’ career of yours. I hear from a couple boys I know down on Sunset that you’re not half bad. Your song selection’s about twenty years too late, but there’s money in that old-school bullshit now, you can believe it.”
Keep talking, young man. Just keep talking.
Newton gave Otis the once-over with pink, sleepy eyes.
Newton smiled and said, “I like you, Roman. Tell you what. I got an OZ of cola in the back room. How about I lay a gram on you and your personal tree here, you two can do a little clubbin’ tonight, have a good time.”
“I don’t want it.”
“How about this, then?” Newton placed the joint in the ashtray, picked up a watch off the table, and lobbed it to Otis. “Nice Hamilton I bought off the street. It’s yours if you want it.”
“I look like I need a Hamilton? I’m wearin’ a Rolex.”
“Take it as a backup. Go ahead.”
Otis studied the face of the watch and tossed the watch across the room.
“Silly-ass boy,” said Otis sadly. “That ain’t even a Hamilton. It’s a gotdamn Hormilton, man.”
“The money, Lonnie,” said Lavonicus.
“The money, Lonnie,” said Newton, mimicking the big man’s monotonous drawl. Newton clapped his hands together and laughed. “Aha, ha, ha.…” He stamped one foot on the floor and went, “Ssh, ssh, ssh.…”
Otis reached into his jacket, found the grip of the .45.
“The money,” said Lavonicus.
“Damn, Gus,” said Newton, “why you so serious? Someone forget to put the bolts in your neck this morning?”
Newton was laughing as he went and stood before a framed mirror nailed to a wooden beam that ran from the floor to the ceiling. He looked in the mirror with admiration, patted his nearly shaved head, smoothed it where the barber had cut a faint part on the side.
“I look good, too,” said Newton. “Bitches be formin’ a line outside my door, know what I’m sayin’?”
Lavonicus grabbed Newton by the back of the neck and slammed his face into the mirror. The frame flew apart and the glass seemed to disintegrate. Lavonicus released his grip and Newton fell back in a heap on the floor.
Otis pulled his hand from his jacket and looked at the wooden beam where the mirror had hung. The beam was splintered and dented at the point of impact.
“I kill him?” asked Gus.
“I don’t think so. Go in the bedroom and find the money.”
Lavonicus went into the bedroom. The woman sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, her fingers wound tightly together.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” said Lavonicus. She reminded him of a young Cissy.
He tossed the bedroom and found a rubber-banded roll of hundreds under a stack of sweaters on the closet shelf. Lavonicus took the money out to the living room, held it up for Otis to see.
Otis ran a glass of water in the kitchen, kneeled over Lonnie Newton, and poured the water over Newton’s face. His face was slick with blood, and beneath the blood was hamburger. For a moment, as the water washed the blood away, Otis and Lavonicus could make out a riot of small cuts and one deep gash running from Newton’s eye to the corner of his mouth. The cheek was filleted there, hanging away from the face.
Newton’s eyes opened. He moved his head, and pink saliva slid down from his mouth to the floor.
Otis took Newton’s chin and straightened his face so that he could see Lavonicus standing over him.
“Take a look, Lonnie. Just wanted you to remember it. That’s a face you’re gonna be seein’ in your sleep.”
“He’p me,” said Newton sloppily. “Pleee.”
“Gonna have to get your girl to help you, man. That is, if she still plans on hangin’ around.” Otis stood up. “By the way. You approve of how we, uh, enforce our rules?”
Otis rolled the Baggie of herb into a tight tube, sealed it with his tongue, and placed the tube in his jacket. Might be wantin’ some herb on that cross-country ride. He turned up the volume on the stereo before he and Lavonicus left the house.
They took the steps down to the street.
“Say, Gus — when you get mad, you ever do my sister the way you did Lonnie back there?”
“I’d never touch Cissy, bro. I swear to God.”
“’Cause you sure do got a temper on you, Gus.”
“I pushed him too hard. I didn’t judge his weight too good. He was way lighter than me, I guess.”
“They’re all lighter than you, man.”
Otis and Lavonicus went to the car. Otis drove slowly down Cumberland.
Lavonicus said, “We got two thousand.”
“Ought to be plenty enough to
get us to D.C.”
“What are we gonna do there, Roman?”
Otis adjusted his shades. “Frank’ll get us into some kind of drama. You can believe that.”
TWELVE
DIMITRI KARRAS ENTERED the Spot a little after two the day after Stefanos called him and had a seat two stools down from a gray-complected guy in a baby-shit brown sport jacket. Karras rested his forearms on the bar, waited for the tender to finish marking one of several bar tab checks wedged between the bottles on the call rack. The bartender turned around and dropped a cocktail napkin in front of Karras.
He made eye contact with Karras and said, “Dimitri?”
“Nick.”
They shook hands.
Karras saw a guy who kept late nights. A scar ran down one of his cheeks. There was silver flecked in the temples of his close-cropped cut. He remembered the boy with the curly shoulder-length hair, the skinny kid wearing the jeans and Sears work boots, standing in the warehouse of Nutty Nathan’s, thumb-flicking the ash off a cigarette. Cocky, with everything in front of him. That boy was gone.
Stefanos saw a guy with gray hair and tired, dying eyes. He looked to be in shape, but the shell was hard and empty. No trace of the handsome, brown-haired ladies’ man with the desperado mustache. Karras was only halfway through the race, but there was nothing left.
“You look good,” said Stefanos.
“You too,” said Karras.
“Yeah?” said Stefanos. “How about this? How about we say that’s the last time the two of us will ever lie to each other?”
Karras chuckled. “Sounds good to me.”
“Can I get you something?”
“No, I’m all right.”
Stefanos leaned on the bar. “How long’s it been, man?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was trying to think this morning. The last time I saw you was in eighty-six.”
“The morning Lenny Bias died.”
“Yeah. Every Washingtonian remembers what they were doing that morning, right?”
Stefanos nodded. “And before that, back around the Bicentennial weekend. My grandfather had sent you over to give me a talking to.”
“I wasn’t one to be giving you any lectures. But, hey, I tried.”
“I didn’t listen.”
“You weren’t supposed to listen. Hell, you were, what, nineteen years old? Which puts you at —”
“Forty. You?”
“Forty-eight.”
The prelimineries were done. Stefanos struck a match, kept his eyes on Karras’s as he lit a cigarette. “I heard about your son. My sympathies.”
Karras nodded.
Stefanos exhaled a stream of smoke. Karras said nothing, and Stefanos took another slow drag.
Stefanos said, “So you got my message.”
“Yes.”
“You workin’ now?”
“No.”
“You interested?”
Karras had a look around the bar. Posters of John Riggins, Larry Brown, Phil Chenier, and Earl Monroe. A neon Globe poster advertising a concert by the Back Yard Band. A signed Chuck Brown glossy. An old Captain Beefheart, The Spotlight Kid, playing on the stereo. Some quiet patrons, a couple who looked like cops, none who looked like lawyers. No green plants.
Karras said, “Maybe.”
A young Asian waitress with nice wheels bellied up to the service bar and said, “Ordering.”
“Excuse me a second,” said Stefanos. He went down to her, retrieved some bottles from the cooler, and set them on a bar tray.
When he returned, Karras said, “Elaine tells me you’re a private investigator.”
“Well, not exactly private. I do work for the public defender’s office down there. I work for Elaine exclusively.”
“Nothing else, huh?”
“Not anymore.” Stefanos crushed out his cigarette. “You wanna meet the folks in the kitchen?”
“Sure.” Karras slid off his stool and walked along the bar. “Who’s the guy in the brown suit?” he asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
“His name’s Happy.”
“He doesn’t look too happy to me.”
“He’s pacing himself,” said Stefanos.
Maria Juarez and James Posten were dancing to the salsa music coming from the boom box when Karras and Stefanos entered the kitchen. Maria had the flat of her palm on her stomach and was moving two steps forward, two steps back, smiling at James, who was counting out his steps, twirling, holding a spatula up at head level.
“Cha-cha-cha, senorita,” said James. “We havin’ us one of those carnival’s now.”
“Watch my feet, Jame,” said Maria.
Darnell stood over the sink, the hose in his hand, his back to the door, one foot tapping time to the beat.
“Hey, everybody,” said Stefanos as the song ended. “Meet Dimitri Karras, the guy I was telling you about.”
Stefanos had briefed them earlier, told them that Karras might be dropping by. Darnell turned and appraised him; Maria did the same.
James turned the volume down on the box, crossed the room, and shook Karras’s hand. “How you doin’, man? James.”
“Dimitri. Good to meet you.”
“James is the grill man,” said Stefanos. “And this is Maria — colds and salads.”
“My pleasure, Mitri.”
“My hands are kinda wet,” said Darnell. “So you’ll understand if I don’t come on over there.”
“It’s all right,” said Karras, but Darnell had already turned back to the sink.
Ramon came in, deliberately bumped Stefanos as he passed.
“Ramon’s our busboy,” said Stefanos. “And the bar-back. And the all-purpose resupplier. Anything that’s stored down in the basement, you let Ramon get it.”
“We got some serious rats in that basement,” said James. “You wouldn’t catch me down in that motherfucker on a bet. Excuse me, Maria.”
“Is okay.”
“Ramon brings in the lunch tickets along with the bus trays,” said Stefanos.
“’Cause we don’t want no waitresses comin’ around here,” said James, “pressuring us to get their food out.”
“The waitress always in a horry,” said Maria.
“A beeg horry,” said James. “You got that right, senorita.”
“Ramon will set the ticket down in front of you. You’ll slip the ticket in the lip of the top shelf, right here, in the order it came in. Then you call out the order. The time on specials varies. Salads are premade, so they’re always ready to go. Burgers take longer to cook, obviously, so you’ll want to call those out first, then call out the cold sandwiches from the same ticket later on.”
“Don’t want to have my burger up there, gettin’ cold,” said James, “while you’re waiting on Maria to put up a chicken salad on toast.”
“Right,” said Stefanos. “It can get complicated sometimes. The object is to have the hots and the colds from the same ticket come to you at the same time. Maria and James talk to you, let you know where they are in the process. You check the order against the ticket, garnish it, put it out on the reach-through when it’s ready to go.”
“Ain’t all that big a deal, Dimitri,” said James, who went to the box and scanned off the Spanish AM station, finding an R&B/disco station on the FM dial.
“My music time up already?” said Maria.
“Yeah,” said James. “We back to my joint now.”
James closed his eyes and began to sing soulfully to the Seal cut coming from the box, Karras noticing the purple eye shadow on his lids. Past James, Darnell had his arms raised above his head. Ramon was punching Darnell in the stomach with short, alternating jabs.
Darnell smiled. “C’mon with it, little buddy. That all you got?”
“Any questions?” said Stefanos to Karras.
“I guess not. Not right now.” Karras said to the others, “Nice meeting you all.”
“Nice to meet you, man,” said James, and Maria gave him a smile.
r /> Stefanos and Karras left the kitchen and stood by the service bar.
“I got the impression Darnell wasn’t too happy to see me,” said Karras.
“Darnell’s a man,” said Stefanos. “You’re taking away some of his responsibilities. He’s a little hurt, maybe, but he’ll get over it. And we do need the help. Think you can handle it?”
“Yeah, but —”
“The pay’s twenty dollars a shift, cash. That’s a hundred a week. Including a lunch and a beer, if you want it. It isn’t much, I know. Walking-around money, basically.”
“I don’t have a problem with the money —”
“Good.” Stefanos handed Karras a paper menu. “Here. Have a look at this tonight. Course, you won’t learn a thing until you jump in. But familiarize yourself with it anyway. Be here about eleven-thirty tomorrow. Okay?”
Karras said, “Okay.”
“See you then.” Stefanos lifted the hinged gate and stepped behind the bar.
Karras neared the Asian waitress as he headed for the door.
“Dimitri Karras,” he said, stopping in front of her and extending his hand.
“Hey,” she said, shaking it. “Anna Wang.”
Karras was out on the sidewalk, buttoning his coat, when he realized he had taken a job.
THIRTEEN
ALL RIGHT, JAMES,” said Dimitri Karras. He squinted at the ticket hanging in front of him. “I’ve got a cheddar, medium. A bacon cheddar, medium rare. A provolone, medium. And —”
“Stop there, Dimitri,” said James Posten. He dropped three burgers on the grill. “Cheddar medium, provolone medium, bacon cheddar, medium rare.”
“That’s right.”
“Go ahead, man.”
“A chicken steak, no cheese, everything.”
“Got it. Here comes your hot pastrami, buddy.”
Maria Juarez was humming as she halved an egg-salad sandwich on white and put it on a plate. She slid it onto the shelf just as James delivered his pastrami. Karras garnished both sandwiches with chips and pickle spears, pulled the corresponding ticket from the lipped shelf, and placed the two plates on the reach-through. He rang the hotel desk–style bell there with a strike of his palm and said, “Order up!” into the space.