The Man Who Came Uptown

MICHAEL HUDSON’S eyes were on the house in the pines when headlights came up the road. He watched as a car, looked like a Dodge from the lamps, slowed and pulled into the gravel driveway. Had to be a V-8 from the sound coming out the pipes.

  Michael picked up the two-way and keyed it.

  “Come in, Number One,” said Michael.

  “It’s me. What’s going on?”

  “We got company. Looks like our man.”

  “We’re almost done here,” said Ornazian. “Handle it.”

  Michael dropped the radio on the seat beside him and picked up the steel baton.

  AFTER TOMMY had given it up, Ornazian went to Richard’s bedroom and moved the boxes of promethazine, codeine, and NyQuil that were stacked in the corner. He then picked up a throw rug to find a cutout in the hardwood floor. He crouched down and pulled on a ring set in a grooved-out portion of the floor. The cutout came up, revealing a framed-out box below.

  In the box were an automatic, a revolver, several pieces of jewelry in a paper bag, a rubber-banded stack of cash, and a robin’s-egg-blue box marked TIFFANY AND CO. Inside that box was the diamond-and-platinum bracelet.

  They had missed the stash when they tossed the bedroom the first time around. It had been here, under the stacked ingredients of the Lean.

  Ornazian pocketed all of the jewelry, the bracelet, and the cash in his tan Kühl jacket. He ejected the magazine of a nine-millimeter Beretta and removed the bullets from the revolver and put those in his jacket as well.

  He went back out to the living area to scoop up Ward. It was time to go.

  TERRY KELLY noticed the car across the road, its front end jutting out of the woods, as he got out of his Charger. Looked like an old Chevy, maybe an Impala. A police package car, or Feds, maybe. There were no residents close by, and there wasn’t any good reason for anyone to be parked in those woods.

  Terry knew what Richard would say if he went into the house and told him and Tommy about the car: Dumbass. Why didn’t you check it out?

  Terry reached under the driver’s seat and found his gun, a nine-millimeter Beretta he had bought on the street. He pulled back on the receiver and eased a round into the chamber. He snicked off the safety, slid the gun into the side pocket of his jacket, and walked across the road.

  He went to the car. The night was dark but he could see that there was no one inside the vehicle and as his eyes adjusted he made out its make and model. It was indeed an Impala, the muscled-out nineties version of the SS. Terry walked into the stand of scrub pine to the rear of the car and examined the animal badge on the trunk’s lid, the chrome pipes. He heard footsteps. His heart beat hard in his chest.

  “Don’t move,” said a voice behind him.

  Terry turned quickly and in that motion drew the Beretta from his side pocket and pointed it at the man standing before him, just three feet away. In the darkness he saw a tall, bearded man, nearly featureless in the dim light, holding a metal rod in his hand.

  Though he held a gun, Terry felt the blood drain from his face.

  “I don’t want to die,” said Terry, a quiver in his voice.

  “Who said anything about dyin?”

  “They sent you here to kill me, didn’t they?” said Terry. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Who?”

  “The Cherry Hill Road boys.”

  “Ain’t nobody send me here. Toss that gun aside so we can talk.”

  “I can’t do that,” said Terry.

  Michael Hudson looked at Terry Kelly. He wasn’t hard. He was a stupid, confused kid. Michael had been in juvenile lockup and been incarcerated as an adult. He knew enough to see that this boy was weak.

  “Do what I say,” said Michael.

  “I can’t,” said Terry.

  Michael swung the steel baton. It struck Terry in the temple, and he lost his legs. Terry fell to the ground in a heap of deadweight.

  Michael tossed the gun into the woods. He got down on his knees and felt the blood on Terry Kelly’s face.

  I’m a murderer, thought Michael.

  I killed a man.

  IN THE living room, Ornazian told Ward that he had found what they’d come for. Richard was still in the toppled-over chair, conscious but disoriented. His genitals were burned and there was some blood where Ward had pulled out the barbs. He had voided his bowels. Ward had poured water on his face, but he was white as milk.

  Ward told Tommy to let the incident go. Warned him what would happen if they went back to the house in Potomac or tried to retaliate in any way.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  Ornazian and Ward left them there, bound to their chairs.

  Outside the house, they crossed the road to the Impala and found Michael seated on the ground beside Terry Kelly.

  “He’s dead,” said Michael.

  “Put your light on him,” said Ornazian to Ward.

  Ward trained the mini Mag on Terry as Ornazian got down on his haunches and pressed his index and middle fingers to the carotid artery in the young man’s neck. Then he found a bottle of water in the trunk and wet Terry’s lips and poured some of it on his bloodied forehead and temple.

  “He’s not dead,” said Ornazian. “I’m guessing you concussed him, but his pulse is running strong. He should be all right.”

  “We just gonna leave him here?” said Michael.

  “He’s lying on a soft bed of pine needles. When he wakes up, he’ll go over to the house and cut his friends loose.” Ornazian cupped his hand around Michael’s biceps. “Listen, you did good.”

  “Fuck you, man,” said Michael, pulling his arm away.

  They drove off the mountain in silence. At Route 15, Michael headed in the direction of D.C. Ornazian cracked a window to get some air. He was sickened by what they’d done.

  “You don’t look so good,” said Michael.

  “I’m fine,” said Ornazian.

  “Yeah? What’d you do to those guys in that house?”

  “We got what we came for,” said Ward.

  “That’s all that matters?” said Michael.

  “Don’t get all high and mighty, young man,” said Ward.

  “After tonight,” said Michael, “I don’t want nothin to do with y’all. Threaten me all you want. I’d rather go to prison than be with people like you.”

  “But you’re still gonna take your cut,” said Ward.

  Michael’s face was grim in the dashboard light.

  Twenty-Five

  SYDNEY HAD prepared a large breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, and mushrooms after Ornazian had woken up just past noon. It was what she called a Full English. He sat at their kitchen table eating ravenously, washing the meal down with juice and coffee.

  The dogs, Whitey and Blue, were following Sydney around the kitchen, hoping for scraps. She commanded them to sit, and when they complied, she gave them each half a strip of bacon.

  “You’re spoiling them,” said Ornazian.

  “I’m spoiling you,” said Sydney. “What time did you get in last night?”

  “I don’t know. It was pretty late. That’s why I slept in. When did Gregg and Vic go to their playdate?”

  “Well before you got up.”

  “I’ve got some running around to do today. Maybe we can all go out tonight. Get some fried chicken and crab cakes at that place on Upshur.”

  “The boys would love that,” she said.

  He went up to his office on the porch, made a couple of phone calls, then showered, dressed, and loaded his daypack. Down on the first floor, Sydney was picking up toys, balls, and all varieties of plastic weapons. She walked Ornazian to the front door. They kissed. He felt a stirring and he kissed her again, deeply, his hand on the flat of her back.

  “Later?” he said.

  “Perhaps.”

  “You’re smoking hot. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You just like me.”

  “That I do.”

  “Are you done with all the nonsense
with Thaddeus?”

  “Yes. I’m done.”

  “Maybe we can go back to our normal life now.”

  “That’s the plan,” he said.

  He got into his Ford, parked on Taylor Street, and drove out to Potomac, Maryland, the Tiffany bracelet in his daypack on the seat beside him.

  ORNAZIAN SAT at the kitchen table of the Weitzman residence, counting cash. After Ornazian had phoned him, Leonard Weitzman had gone to his bank and withdrawn twenty-five thousand dollars and placed it in a manila envelope. Now he dropped it on the table. Also on the table was the Tiffany box that held the bracelet and the jewelry that had been in the paper bag: a string of pearls, a couple of rings set with precious stones, and a pair of diamond earrings.

  “We’re good,” said Ornazian, sliding the envelope into his daypack.

  “What about the other items you retrieved?” said Weitzman, referring to the jewelry. He was seated at the table, wearing a pullover with the Congressional Country Club coat of arms, crossed gold clubs over the Capitol Dome, sewn on its breast.

  “I’m throwing them in,” said Ornazian. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be on my way.”

  “There is one thing,” said Weitzman. “I got a call from a man named Hanrahan. He says you spoke to his son, who apparently attended the party that night. You told the kid you’d go to the headmaster of his school if he didn’t give you some information.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hanrahan threatened me with legal action.”

  “Is there a question?”

  “I asked you not to involve any of the kids or their parents.”

  “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll find a way to deal with Hanrahan,” said Ornazian.

  “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. You did good work for me.”

  Ornazian stood. Weitzman offered his hand and Ornazian shook it, accepting the compliment without comment. He looked through the kitchen windows to the deck, where Lisa sat on a cushioned bench. She was staring out into the yard, ashing a cigarette onto her jeans.

  HE RETURNED home and went up to the bedroom, where he put ten thousand dollars in an envelope he labeled Thaddeus and another ten in a separate envelope that he left unmarked. Then he took the remaining five thousand, put it in a third envelope, and went downstairs. There he found Sydney, kissed her, and told her he’d be back to take the family out to dinner. The boys had not yet come home.

  Out on the street, he ignitioned his Edge.

  ORNAZIAN DROVE to the District Line on Eleventh Street and parked his car. Michael was out on the side patio, splitting wood with a maul. A short man came out of a side door and said something to make Michael smile. Michael raised his arms and let the short man combinate a soft left and a right to his solar plexus. Michael took the punches and barely flinched. The two of them laughed and then the man began to gather the wood that Michael had split. Loaded with the fuel for the oven, the short man returned to the kitchen.

  Watching Michael in his element, working and happy, Ornazian felt a flush of shame.

  He found the envelope in his daypack, got out of his car, and walked toward the patio. Michael frowned as he approached.

  “Hey,” said Ornazian. “This is for you.”

  He handed Michael the envelope. Without looking at its contents, Michael slipped it under his shirt and apron.

  “I guess that’s it, then,” said Michael. He placed the maul in a cage full of unsplit logs and fixed a padlock on its gate. He started to walk away.

  “Hold on a second,” said Ornazian.

  “What?”

  “Look…I never should have gotten you involved in this.”

  “You’re comin to it a little late.”

  “I know. I was wrong. Accept my apology. Please.”

  Ornazian, blown and distraught, held out his hand. Michael hesitated. He was bitter, but it wouldn’t cost him anything to give this man the small kindness he needed now.

  Michael shook his hand.

  “Thank you,” said Ornazian.

  Michael nodded, turned, and went through the side door that led to the kitchen. Ornazian stood there for a moment, then returned to his car.

  HE LOWERED his window, rolled back the sunroof, and drove south on Eleventh to Lamont, then he hung a right, took a left on Sherman Avenue, and headed north.

  I was wrong.

  How had this happened?

  It hadn’t been his plan. No kid dreams of becoming corrupt. Ornazian tried to remember what had turned him, and he couldn’t think of one event. A cop once told him that there were grass-eaters and meat-eaters on the force. A grass-eater accepts a free cup of coffee from a diner owner. A meat-eater takes the cup of coffee one day and demands protection money the next. With Ornazian, it was witness tampering. Then rip-and-runs. Home invasions. He’d told himself that he only took off bad people. He’d told himself the money was for his kids. For Sydney. For their future.

  Well, he was done. He’d taken that ride and it was over. He didn’t want his sons to know what their father was, and now they wouldn’t know. If he and Sydney had to struggle financially, they’d struggle, but the boys would grow up with everything they needed: food, shelter, love, and, most important, two parents who set an example of how to live one’s life.

  He was headed home now. He’d kiss Gregg and Vic and hold them close as soon as he entered the house.

  Up the road, a blue Mustang pulled off the curb and cut out in front of Ornazian. At Park Road and Sherman, Ornazian stopped at a red light behind the Mustang. Something about the car was familiar.

  Ornazian glanced in his rearview mirror. A black Range Rover was accelerating toward him at high speed. It swerved around his Edge and came to an abrupt stop beside him.

  He looked to his left, his heart beating rubbery in his chest. Cesar, Gustav’s second, was in the passenger bucket of the Rover. A cut-down shotgun swung up in his hands.

  Ornazian said, “Syd.”

  Part III

  Twenty-Six

  TEN MEN in orange jumpsuits sat in a circle in the chapel of the D.C. Jail. Anna, the jailhouse librarian, was among them. Two armed guards stood by, watching the proceedings but unconcerned, as there was rarely any trouble during the book club. In addition, the men in today’s session were from the Fifty and Older unit, and were relatively docile. They were here because they wanted to be.

  Anna had selected John D. MacDonald’s The Deep Blue Good-By, the first novel in the Travis McGee series, originally published in 1964. Though it was at times a violent and erotic book, the sexual content was not graphic, and she had managed to get it in through the DCPL filter. Anna had argued that The Deep Blue Good-By was an important novel about the complex nature of masculinity and the cost of retribution. It was also a damned good read.

  Most of the men had put the reading guide she had prepared under their chairs. Each man held a copy of the book, the twenty-third printing of a Fawcett Gold Medal paperback, in his hands. She had found copies in passable condition on the internet for next to nothing, all with the classic Ron Lesser cover art showing a woman with big hair wearing leopard-skin capri pants and high heels, her bare back exposed. Anna’s father, recently diagnosed with colon cancer, had collected the McGee paperbacks. There always seemed to be one on his nightstand when she was growing up. So picking this book for the club had been an emotional choice as well as a literary one.

  After a prayer, led by one of the more religious members of the group, the discussion commenced.

  “What did you all think of the lead character, Travis McGee?” said Anna.

  “That’s a bad white boy right there,” said a man named Sam, a serial parole violator with two clown patches of gray hair flanking a bald head. Anna never knew what Sam did to keep getting locked up, but it couldn’t have been too egregious. He had a gentle manner.

  “He’s got no nine-to-five job,” said Russell, an intelligent longtime heroin add
ict who dealt small quantities to pay for his habit. “He only works when he runs out of money. He’s tall, strong, and good-looking. He can go with his hands. He drinks but he’s not a drunk. He scores with all kinds of women. Got no commitments. No mortgage, no family. Shoot, the man lives on a houseboat. You don’t get no freer than that.”

  “McGee is the man that many men would like to be,” said Anna. “He’s wish fulfillment in the flesh. That’s one of the reasons the series was so popular.”

  “This reminded me of a Western movie,” said a repeat offender named Randolph, a film freak who often spoke nostalgically about life in the 1970s, the decade, apparently, when he’d had the most fun. He was sixty years old, very tall, light-skinned with freckles, still wore his hair in a blowout, and had a comically long nose. Some of the men called him Big Bird.

  “How so, Randolph?” said Anna.

  “McGee is like John Wayne or some shit. You know that movie The Searchers? Ethan Edwards. That’s McGee right there. He’s a protector, but he don’t fit into society nohow.”

  “He’s more like a knight,” said Russell, putting on his reading glasses and opening his book. “Look here, I marked it. Page twenty-nine. McGee talks about himself getting on his white steed, knocking the rust off his armor, and tilting a crooked old lance.”

  “There you go,” said Sam. “The lance is crooked. That means Travis knows he’s not straight.”

  “You could say he’s a tarnished angel,” said Anna. “What about the villain in the book, Junior Allen?”

  The mention of Allen, the sociopathic predator of the novel, caused the group to stir.

  “That’s a wrong motherfucker right there,” said a man. “Excuse me, Anna.”

  “McGee calls Junior a goat-god,” said Russell. “A satyr.”

  “But isn’t Junior similar, in a way, to McGee?” said Anna. “I’m talking about in their relations with women. Sure, Junior uses women for sport, but McGee also sleeps with many women he doesn’t love.”