“You’d do that?”
“I wouldn’t take any pleasure in it. But, yes, I would.”
Billy lowered his gaze. “Okay. I recognized one of those guys.”
“I can’t hear you.”
Billy looked up, anger flaring in his eyes. “Can you hear me now?”
“Yes.”
“I have a friend at school I’m pretty tight with. Brian Kelly. He’s got an older brother named Terrance. Goes by Terry. He was one of them.”
“Did you speak to him that night?”
“No.”
“Tell me about him.”
“All I know is what Brian’s told me. Terry’s, like, twenty-three now. When he went to our school he was a pretty good baseball player. Real good. He could hit and he had a hot glove. Second baseman. He was D-One material but he fucked it up.”
“How?”
“Started hanging out with guys on the east side of Montgomery County. He was one of those kids who was always trying to act black. You know, like he thought he was gangsta.”
“That’s black?”
“You know what I’m saying. He got caught up in it, nearly failed out his senior year. Then he got busted on a distribution charge, lost his scholarship money, his college acceptance, everything.”
“Marijuana?”
Billy nodded. “He flipped on his friends to get off. After, he started getting messages on his cell about what happens to snitches. Word was Terry got scared ’cause he thought those kids in Silver Spring, out Cherry Hill Road way, were gonna smoke him. All of a sudden he wasn’t so black anymore. Basically, he got punked out. That’s when he changed.”
“Changed how?”
“He went the other way. Like, all the way. He hooked up with these guys who hated on black people, Muslims, Mexicans…shit like that.”
“White supremacists.”
“That’s what his brother says. Terry’s head got turned around. He’s all fucked up.”
“Were those the guys he was with that night?”
“I guess so. They had those fashy haircuts. Ink.”
“Hipsters wear their hair that way too. And you been to the beach lately? Grandmothers have ink.”
“All right, it was those kinda guys. He was with them. Okay?”
“Does Terry stay with his parents?”
“Brian says he’s in and out.”
“Terry has a car?”
“He drives a Charger his father bought him, back when he was doing good in school.”
“Where does the Kelly family live?”
“Over in Glen Echo Heights, off MacArthur Boulevard. Wagner Lane.”
“You got an address?”
“I never looked at the numbers on the house.”
“Okay.”
“Is that all?”
“You can go.”
But Billy didn’t move. His face had reddened and his right fist was clenched. Ornazian wondered if Billy was going to swing on him. It was plain that he wanted to.
“I said you can go,” said Ornazian.
“Who are you?”
Ornazian left him there and walked back to his Ford.
Sixteen
LATE IN the afternoon, Anna staged the next morning’s mobile library carts down in the workroom as her assistant, Carmia, checked in books and inspected them for contraband. Earlier that day, Anna had serviced the Fifty and Older unit. The men there, who had not outgrown their troubles, had tastes and sensibilities going back to their childhoods. Sidney Sheldon was very popular, as were Ernest Tidyman’s Shaft novels, Chester Himes’s Coffin Ed and Grave Digger Jones books, the street pulp of Donald Goines, and the potboilers of bestselling author Harold Robbins. The Carpetbaggers, a novel that was a thinly veiled version of Howard Hughes’s life, featured a character named Nevada Smith and spawned the cult Steve McQueen Western of the same name. It was an inmate favorite. The lead character in the book was a man called Jonas Cord, referred to with admiration as a “cock star” by the men. Many of the inmates had read the dirty parts of the novel, filched off their fathers’ or mothers’ nightstands, when they were kids. The carnal scenes in Robbins’s books were discussed with an almost academic intricacy, though nothing that approached the reverence surrounding that most hallowed sex passage in popular fiction, the one involving a bridesmaid, Sonny Corleone, and his “enormous, blood-gorged pole of muscle,” commonly referred to around the jail as “Page 28.”
When Anna was on this ward, she was inevitably reminded of an inmate named Lester Irby, a writer who’d had an entry, “God Don’t Like Ugly,” in a short-story collection set in the District that had been distributed by a legit New York publisher. Irby, seventy, had died of a stroke while incarcerated in the D.C. Jail. The unit got swelteringly hot during the summer months, and it was said that faulty air-conditioning ducts prevented cool air from reaching the block. The heat, most likely, contributed to his death. Anna missed Mr. Irby still. With her, he had always been a gentleman.
“Anna, you ready?” said Carmia. “I got to pick up my baby.”
“Yes. Let’s go.”
THAT EVENING, Anna suggested to Rick that they have dinner at the District Line, and Rick said, “What, you wanna go see your boyfriend?”
Anna didn’t smile or defend herself, so he didn’t push the joke. She didn’t like it when he kidded her about the offenders she knew or cracked on her job. Since he had moved up in the law firm, Rick had become a little cynical about people who committed crimes or, in general, those who led imperfect lives. He talked about the choices people made, as if everyone came from the same starting point or was lucky enough to have drawn the inside lane by an accident of birth. But then, when she became annoyed, she checked herself, because she lived with Rick and she knew who he was. Despite his sometimes sarcastic words, he was a decent man in his everyday interactions. She watched the courtesy he showed their neighbors and listened to how he dealt with people who worked in the restaurants and bars they frequented. He never talked down to anyone. Rick was becoming more of a law-and-order man as he grew older, which was not uncommon, and he was also basically good.
“We can go somewhere else if you want to,” said Anna. “But you always talk about how you like the food and the atmosphere there.”
“The DL is fine.”
They sat out on the patio, lit by strings of Christmas lights, because it was warm enough and the night sky was clear. They were at a table along the sidewalk. Anna had placed her cell phone on the table’s edge and they were drinking a couple of beers, sharing a prosciutto and gorgonzola bruschetta, and waiting for their pizzas to arrive. Anna had not seen Michael Hudson and did not know if he was on shift. She hoped he’d come outside if he was.
There were many people out, patrons on the patio and residents on the streets. She didn’t notice the short man wearing an old motorcycle leather walking along the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, as he was one of many. So she was startled when he reached over the railing and lifted her iPhone off the table where she had placed it. For a moment, as she took in the event, she simply watched him sprint north on Eleventh.
Anna shouted, “Hey!” and Rick registered the situation and came out of his chair. He placed a hand on the railing, leaped over it athletically, and broke into a run almost as soon as his feet hit the sidewalk below. He was in pursuit of the man, who had cut right on Newton and was already out of sight.
Minutes later, inside the dining room, Michael, who was picking up a rack of glassware at the service end of the bar, saw some folks standing by the north windows, talking excitedly and looking out to the street. Michael went there and observed Anna, standing by a table at the edge of the patio, gesturing to Angelos Valis, who had gone outside and was writing something down on a notepad. And then Michael saw Anna’s husband, Rick, walking back to the patio from up around Newton Street. He looked angry.
Michael waited for Angelos to come back inside. Angelos grabbed a waiter and said, “That couple out there, the lady that
just got robbed? I’m buying their dinner.”
The waiter said, “You got it, boss.”
“What got stole?” said Michael.
“Her phone,” said Angelos. “Dude grabbed it right off their table and booked.”
“I know her,” said Michael.
“Yeah, they’re regulars,” said Angelos. “I gotta call the police. Then I’ll look at the video. Good thing we got a camera out there.”
“Mind if I look too?” said Michael.
“When it slows down here,” said Angelos, “come upstairs.”
ANNA WAS a little shaken up and wanted a drink, but not at the District Line, so on the walk home they stopped at bar on Georgia that they both liked. Seated at the stick, both of them nursing beers, Rick watched Anna’s lips move, though she was not speaking.
“You’re talking to yourself,” said Rick.
“I’m pissed off.”
“You had your passcode in place, right? Your phone was locked?”
“Always.”
“Was the Find My iPhone thing enabled?”
“No.” Anna shook her head. “And don’t say you told me to do that. I know you did.”
“Okay. When we get home we’ll get on the laptop and change your Apple password. And then we’ll call our carrier and disable the account. It’s a pain in the ass. But it’s no big deal.”
“City life,” she said.
“This shit happens everywhere,” said Rick. “You want to move to the suburbs or something?”
Anna smiled with admiration. “You were out of your chair like a rocket.”
“Little fucker got a jump on me. Once he made the right on Newton, he disappeared.” Rick squeezed her hand. “Let’s settle up and go home.”
ANGELOS VALIS had a small office off the upstairs dining room where he kept top-shelf liquor, his files, and a government-style metal desk. On the desk was a fifteen-inch monitor. Security cameras were in place in both dining rooms, and an outdoor camera had been mounted and pointed at the patio and street. Angelos and Michael were watching a replay of the robbery. Also in the office was Joe, the short wannabe boxer and pizza chef, who was interested in anything that involved conflict and drama.
“That’s him,” said Angelos.
Michael watched as a stocky dude, small as an early teen but a man by age, wearing one of those leather jackets had zippers on the sleeves and chest, grabbed Anna’s phone off the table and sped on foot up the street. Anna stood up, pointed at the man, and then her husband leaped over the railing and gave chase. Looked like her man was in shape.
“You guys recognize him?”
“I don’t,” said Michael, and he looked over at Joe. Joe’s eyes registered something but he held his tongue.
“Well, I reported it to the MPD,” said Angelos. “That’s all I can do.”
Angelos took a call on his cell from the bartender and stepped out of the room. When Angelos was well gone, Michael turned to Joe.
“You know that guy, amigo?” said Michael.
“Who?”
“Don’t play. The man who boosted the phone.”
“Yes, I know him,” said Joe. “He wear that jacket all the time. He probably stole that too. Lives with some men I know who work in kitchens, like me. Sometimes we drink beer at their house. He doesn’t work. He is a bum.”
“So you know where he stay at?”
“Sí, Tall Man,” said Joe, and his eyes smiled. “What are you gonna do?”
THE CELL on Ornazian’s nightstand was buzzing, but he didn’t answer it because he was busy making love to his wife. He gathered Sydney’s thick, muscular thighs around his waist. She flexed her inner muscles and tightened herself around him.
“Uh,” he said.
Sydney chuckled low. “You like that?”
“Fuck, yeah,” he said and kissed her full mouth. She made a small grunt of pleasure as he touched bottom.
Their pit mix Blue was asleep on one of two cushions in the room. Their other dog, Sydney’s protector, sat beside their bed, watching them fuck. Whitey had been whining for the last ten minutes.
“Stupid animal,” said Ornazian.
“He thinks you’re hurting me.”
“I am.”
She was getting there. He could tell by her cooling lips and her escalating moans. He turned her over because that was how she liked to finish. He gripped her shoulders for purchase and she reached between her legs and worked herself.
“Apo piso,” said Ornazian.
“Huh?”
“‘From behind.’ It’s Greek.”
“I know it’s Greek. They invented it. Don’t stop.”
She burst with a long shudder.
They rested, and then she said, “Now you,” because he had controlled it and held himself back. She propped some pillows against the headboard and told him to sit and lean back, and then she pushed his legs apart and got between them. She went to him with vigor.
“Look up at me when you do that,” said Ornazian.
“Who made you king?” she said.
“You did.”
MICHAEL STOOD on Princeton Place in Park View around two thirty a.m., after the bars had officially closed. He was near a group of low-rent row homes, painted brick, no stoops, no porches, on the south side of the street. The man in the leather jacket, whose name was Guillermo and who went by Gil, lived in one of the homes. He was not there now. This Michael knew because Joe had asked a female friend to call the house and see if he was in. The person who picked up the phone told the woman that Gil was out “having beers.”
Some of the bars citywide stayed open and served past their closing time, but Michael was patient and energized. He himself had just recently clocked out of work. He was not tired.
Around three a.m., a man in a black jacket with multiple zippers—surely Gil—came up from Georgia Avenue, walking unsteadily. Michael crossed the street and headed toward him. The man would be naturally hesitant at this hour to see a big man approach him on a dark street, but his machismo prevented him from stepping to the side, and as they neared each other Michael grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him onto the hood of a nearby Nissan sedan.
Michael held Gil fast with one hand, bore his full weight down on him, and violently pressed his forearm across his throat.
“You stole a phone tonight,” said Michael.
Gil looked into Michael’s unyielding eyes. “The phone no work.”
“I ain’t ask for no review.”
“Eh?”
“Give it up.”
The swell inside Michael was familiar.
ORNAZIAN AND Sydney lay in bed, naked atop the sheets, his arm under her, her head on his broad chest. Now the room was quiet, as Whitey had joined Blue in sleep. With his free hand, Ornazian traced the curve of her rump.
“You’re fine as shit, girl.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“You are. I showed Thaddeus that photo of you and he was like, Damn.”
“You’re bad.”
“Proud, is all.”
“I’m still carrying fifteen extra pounds from the babies. I could stand to lose a few.”
“Please don’t. You’re perfect as you are.”
“You just like me.”
“I do, indeed.”
“I want to look like Diana Ross in 1967.”
“I’d leap over a hundred Diana Rosses just to touch your hand.”
“You’re sweet.”
“I mean it.” He did too.
Sydney looked up at him. “What are you working on with Thaddeus?”
“Couple of things,” said Ornazian. “We’re gonna be flush.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“It’s for our family. Besides, I got a life insurance policy. Half a mil. Even covers suicide, in case all your talking drives me to it.”
“I don’t like it when you joke about that,” said Sydney. “I worry.”
“Don’t,?
?? he said. “Everything’s good.”
Sydney left the room to use the toilet in the hall. Ornazian reached over to the nightstand to check his phone.
Michael Hudson had called.
Seventeen
THE NEXT day, Ornazian pulled into a north–south alley off Kansas Avenue and drove to where it joined another alley at a T. There he came upon a freestanding red-brick garage large enough to hold four vehicles. A sign above the bays read FRIENDLY AUTO REPAIRS. The establishment was licensed to work on cars.
A man with a full head of tight black curls stepped out of the garage rubbing his hands on a shop rag. His name was Berhanu and his true business was off-the-books rental cars known as hacks. He accepted only cash, which served him and his clients well. There was no paper trail.
Ornazian got out of his Ford amid the frenzied barks of alley dogs. He walked through an open chain-link gate, wide enough to allow the entry and exit of vehicles, and shook Berhanu’s hand.
“Selam, Berhanu,” said Ornazian. “How’s your family?”
“Thanks be to God, Phil. They are well. And yours?”
“We’re good.”
Ornazian and Berhanu were both Eastern Orthodox Christians and when they greeted each other, they observed certain rituals. They were not close friends but their common religion connected them in an unspoken way.
“What do you have for me?”
“Come inside.”
They walked into the garage that was lit by drop lamps. A large tool bench ran along the back of the bays. Berhanu’s man, a beer alcoholic named Donnie, was seated on an overturned milk crate, drinking Budweiser from a can. He was a good mechanic when sober. Though he recognized Ornazian, he said nothing to him upon his entrance. Instead, Donnie got up and walked out of the garage.
There were three cars in the bays. Two of them were imports: a high-horse Lexus LS460 and an E-Series Benz that Berhanu kept for big rollers. The third was a nineties-era Chevy Impala SS, black over gray, with five-spoke aluminum wheels. Its bumpers, grille, and rocker panels were black and not chromed. The Impala SS had been the shot-across-the-bow for the modern muscle-car sedan. Ornazian went to it immediately. It was a car he had coveted when he was a young man but could not afford. He opened the driver’s-side door and inspected the interior. The front buckets were as spacious as La-Z-Boys and the rear bench was as big as a sofa.