The Cut

by George Pelecanos

  “I read it a while back. Good stuff.”

  “That thing teacher said, about the book being a Western in the disguise of a crime story?” said Ernest.

  “That’s right.”

  “Works that way in movies, too.”

  Lucas remembered that, the night before, Lisa Weitzman had mentioned that Ernest was a movie lover. He did not know that Leo was pushing him to go to college, get his needed education, make contacts, and move ahead from there, possibly to grad school. Ernest’s grades were excellent, but he was reluctant to leave home, so Leo had suggested he apply to the University of the District of Columbia. It was a start.

  “How so?” said Lucas.

  “You know that first Man with No Name joint?”

  “A Fistful of Dollars.”

  “That was based on a Japanese movie about a samurai. And that one was taken from an old crime story. That Hamlet dude—”

  “Hammett. You’re talking about Red Harvest.”

  “They made a rack of movies based on that book. Not a one of them gave credit to Hamlet.”

  “Hammett.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re pretty smart, Ernest.”

  Ernest smiled shyly. “I’m gonna make movies, Mr. Lucas.”

  “Call me Spero.”

  “Sayin, I’m going to.”

  “No doubt. But you need to get your undergrad work done first. Get yourself a base.”

  “I picked up an application from UDC a few days ago.”

  “There’s plenty of scholarship money for minority students. It’s lying around, waiting to be used. I bet my brother will help you fill out the forms.”

  “My mother will help me.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ma drop the form back off next week.”

  “Do it,” said Lucas. “Don’t wait.”

  The room became uncomfortably quiet. A failing fluorescent bulb buzzed steadily overhead. Ernest withdrew the apple slices from his bag and handed one to Lucas. As Lucas ate it, he noticed Ernest staring at him.

  “What’s up?” said Lucas.

  “I was just wondering. About when you were overseas, in the war.”

  Lucas sat back. Instinctively, he folded his arms across his chest. “Yes?”

  Ernest shifted his weight in his chair. “You hear all kinds of stuff about what got done over there. By our soldiers, I mean. Things that got done to, you know, the people that lived in that country.”

  “The civilians,” said Lucas.

  “People that weren’t the enemy or terrorists.”

  “It happens. Especially in wars that get fought today. Generally you’re not fighting men and women in uniform. Mistakes are made involving citizens. What’s called collateral damage.”

  “So you saw civilians bein killed in Iraq?”

  Lucas did not answer or gesture with his eyes.

  “If you saw something like that,” said Ernest, “would you turn the soldier in who did it?”

  Lucas shook his head. It was not a no. He was telling Ernest that the question was unanswerable and maybe out of bounds.

  “Okay, then,” said Ernest. “Let me ask you this: You know that soldier who got killed by his own men? The one who played football in the NFL? They got a word for what happened to him.”

  “Friendly fire. His name was Pat Tillman.”

  “Well, it wasn’t just the generals and the politicians who knew what happened. Some of his friends, the other soldiers, they had to know, too. So why didn’t anyone speak out? Why didn’t anyone come forward and say what went down?”

  “It got told eventually.”

  “But everyone tried to cover it up at first.”

  “I don’t know about that, Ernest. I can’t speak for those who were there.”

  “You’re not helping me out here much.”

  “Helping you out with what?”

  “You’re an investigator. You tried to talk to me, and I think I know what it was about.”

  “Well?”

  Ernest looked toward the windows and gripped his legs above his knees. “Man, I don’t know.”

  “What’s going on with you?”

  “I got a problem,” said Ernest.

  “What is it?” said Lucas.

  Ernest leaned forward. “I saw somethin.”

  “I WASN’T at school that day,” said Ernest, after Lucas had helped himself to a couple of water bottles from Leo’s desk drawer and returned with them to the table.

  “Were you sick?” said Lucas.

  “Nah. My mother works at the GAO, and all her other kids, my brothers and sisters, are grown and out the house.”

  “So you cut school. What do you do, bring girls over while your mom’s at work, stuff like that?”

  Ernest looked away, mildly embarrassed. “I watch movies on Turner, mostly, like if they’re havin like a festival. Something I really want to see.”

  “What were you watching that day? Do you remember?” Lucas wanted to test the young man’s veracity. The TCM schedule for the past month was easy enough to check.

  “It was…” Ernest’s brow creased. “It was called The Last Hunt. ’Bout buffalo killings in the West. I hadn’t even heard of it, but I got this friend Diego, a movie freak, told me about it. It’s not on DVD, so when it got scheduled during a school day, I knew I had to find a way to watch it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Way my mom’s got our house set up, when you’re watching television, you’re kind of sittin by the front porch window, so naturally you look out onto Twelfth Street from time to time. I heard a truck come down the street and stop. It was the FedEx man. He got a big package out the truck and carried it up the steps of Miss Lisa’s house and left it on her porch. She works during the day, too.”

  “Lisa Weitzman, your next-door neighbor.”

  “Yeah. So right after the FedEx man leaves, a black Impala SS shows up and this young dude gets out the car. It was the old-style SS, not that crud joint they got now.”

  “How soon after?”

  “Like, five minutes.”

  “What’d the guy look like?”

  “He had braids. That’s all I remember ’bout him, really.”

  “Anyone else in the car with him?”

  “There was someone in the passenger side, but he never did get out.”

  “Okay.”

  “So this dude with the braids comes up on Miss Lisa’s porch real quick and picks up that box. Must have been kinda heavy, ’cause he struggled with it some.”

  Lucas’s blood was getting up. Tavon and Edwin had been lying to him. The package wasn’t stolen. He took a long drink of water and set the bottle back on the table.

  “What happened next? The guy put the package in the car and drove away?”

  “No,” said Ernest. He said nothing else and sat back in his chair.

  Lucas stared at Ernest Lindsay. “You didn’t tell Lisa Weitzman that a package had been taken off her property. I know that she’s been a friend to you. Why wouldn’t you let her know?”

  “I like Miss Lisa. She’s cool people.”

  “Come on, Ernest, help me out here. What is this?”

  “I don’t know for sure if I can trust you. You stand up in our class and talk about doin what’s right, and it moved me to reach out to you, but I just don’t know.”

  “What’s holding you back?”

  “It’s not just me. I got my mother to think of.”

  “What are you afraid of? Do you want to bring the police into this?”

  “No.”

  “Do you need protection?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “Police are already in it. They part of it, man.”

  Lucas nodded slowly. “Tell me about it.”

  Ernest exhaled, the air leaving him like he was pushing something away. “When that boy went down Miss Lisa’s steps with that box in his hand, a police car turned onto Twelfth and stopped behind the Impala. By then I was s
tanding up in my mom’s living room, looking out the window, looking down on the street.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Police officer gets out the squad car and opens up its trunk. Says somethin, just a couple of words to the dude with the braids, and then that dude puts the package in the police officer’s trunk. Police officer gets in his car and drives away. Dude with the braids drives off, too. It happened fast, like, bang. You know?”

  “Was the officer riding alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “You know, a patrol car. Fourth District car.”

  “And this cop was in uniform,” said Lucas.

  “Yeah, but not a regular one, though. He had on a blue shirt, said ‘Police’ in big letters across his back.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was kinda skinny, had a long nose, like a beak almost. Hair was cut close, like a reddish color. Dude looked like a big old rooster.”

  “Black or white?”

  “If he was white I would have said so.”

  “Right,” said Lucas. “What else?”

  “I think this man saw me.”

  “You think.”

  “Before he left outta there, he looked up toward my house. I don’t know, maybe he had one of those feelings you get, like someone’s watching you. When he did, I stepped back, away from the window.”

  “So you don’t know for sure.”

  “The other day, when you were parked on this street, the first time you called out to me?”

  “I remember.”

  “He was parked over there on Clifton, in front of my school. I felt like he was waiting for me, man.”

  That’s why Ernest had been so uptight that day, thought Lucas. It was the same 4D patrol car, the same officer who had come down the street earlier, driven slowly by Lucas’s Jeep, and checked him out. Now Lucas knew why the sight of the car had felt strange to him. The Fourth District’s southernmost boundary ended at Harvard Street, several blocks north of 12th and Clifton, which was 3D territory. So this car was out of its district. The officer knew who Ernest was and where he lived. He also knew Lucas’s vehicle by sight and maybe had its plates; he’d seen Lucas get out of it and try to talk to Ernest.

  “What’s wrong?” said Ernest.

  “I’m thinking,” said Lucas.

  “Should I be worried?”

  “No. You’ve told me everything you know, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You did right by talking to me. But you’re out of it now.”

  “What’s your connect?”

  “I was hired to get that package back.”

  “Yeah? What was in it?”

  “It’s better that you don’t know.”

  “You sayin this shit is dangerous.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Ernest.”

  “I can’t lie. I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be,” said Lucas. “You’ll be fine.”

  HE WAS riding his bike out along Sligo Creek, away from the city, heading into the woods of Wheaton Regional Park property later that day, when it came to him. He kept pedaling and pushing it, and when he hit the park itself he found a shaded shelter that was cool and unoccupied. He removed his gloves and helmet, then sat on a picnic bench, took a long drink from his insulated water bottle, and wiped the drip off his chin.

  He stared out into the trees.

  The numbers of an MPD squad car, called the CAD, were printed on its right rear bumper and front quarter panels. The sequence started with the police district’s number. So a car from the Fourth District would display a CAD identification that began with the number 4.

  The number that Tavon Lynch had sent him through the phone was not an address. Tavon had texted Lucas the number of the squad car driven by the police officer who he was in with or was shaking him down. Sitting on Hayes Street that night, he must have had the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

  Car 4044.

  Lucas’s grin was feral and tight.

  TWELVE

  IN THE morning, Lucas did a circuit workout in his apartment. He showered, changed into clothing that was suitable for a lunch date, got on his computer, and did some research on dc.gov. With time to kill before his lunch, he went out and hit a couple of used-book stores. At Silver Spring Books, in his old neighborhood, he found two nonfictions that he had read and enjoyed: Kings of the Bs, by McCarthy and Flynn, and Sergio Leone, the massive biography by Christopher Frayling.

  He met Constance Kelly at My Brother’s Place, at 2nd and C, Northwest, a lunch-and-happy-hour spot not far from the courts and Tom Petersen’s office. The bar, dark wood and low lights, was one of the better down-home watering holes in town, a longtime haunt of cops, judges, federal marshals, Department of Labor employees, and college students. Lucas and Constance sat out on the enclosed porch, watching the sidewalk parade. Constance was studying the menu.

  “You eat meat, don’t you?” said Lucas.

  “So?”

  “Get the burger. It’s Angus beef and they put it on a nice kaiser roll.”

  “What are you having?”

  “The Cubano. They got a kickin mojo sauce here, man.”

  “What is it with you and food?”

  “Part of my culture,” said Lucas. “It’s a way of life.”

  “You’re not even Greek.”

  “Want me to prove it?”

  Constance looked up from the menu and blushed. The waiter, a young El Salvadoran, arrived and took their order. As he moved away, Lucas reached into his pocket and produced a plastic cell phone, which he placed on the table.

  “What’s that?” said Constance.

  “A gift.”

  “I have a phone.”

  “This one’s special. It’s a disposable.”

  Constance picked up the phone, examined it, and placed it back on the table. “It’s got a drawing of a cartoon kangaroo on its face. And a special button for nine-one-one. Who makes this, Fisher-Price?”

  “It’s made for kids. And seniors.”

  “Which one do I look like?”

  “I was hoping you’d use it to do me a favor.”

  “You want me to make some kind of call that’s hard to trace or monitor.”

  “Well…”

  “You’re asking me to break the law.”

  “Nope. But I am asking you to lie, a little.”

  “Why can’t you lie?”

  “This needs the distaff touch.”

  “That’s an antiquated term. Tell you the truth, I’m not all that surprised you’re using it.”

  Lucas pushed the phone in her direction. “I’m trying to find the name of a police officer who was driving a certain MPD squad car on a specific day and time.”

  “How would a person do that?”

  “Call the Office of Unified Communications and ask for a dispatcher. All the cars have a four-digit CAD, which is the Computer-Assisted Dispatcher number. Police officers are required to give the CAD to the dispatcher when they put a vehicle into service. This particular vehicle was a Ten Ninety-nine, meaning it was a one-man unit.”

  “You want me to call the OUC.”

  “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

  “I’m just trying to speak your language. Your knowledge of acronyms and ten-codes is very impressive.”

  “Thank you,” said Lucas, ignoring her sarcasm. “So what I need you to do is give the dispatcher this information right here.” Lucas pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Constance. On it was written the number 4044, and a date and time. “Ask them who was driving that car on that particular day and shift.”

  “And they’ll just give it to me.”

  “They’re supposed to. But sometimes they don’t, for good reason. In that case you have to file a Freedom of Information Act request, which could take a lot of time.”

  “And you’d have to put your name on the FOIA, which you don’t want to do.
”

  “In this instance, that wouldn’t work for me.”

  “You’re not telling me much.”

  “I don’t want you to get too involved.”

  “But you want me involved just enough—”

  “Yes.”

  Constance sat back and stared at Lucas.

  “Mo’ ice tea?” said the waiter, appearing like a sweaty apparition.

  “Yes, please,” said Lucas.

  “Are you going to give me some kind of instructions?” said Constance, after the waiter had poured and drifted.

  “Tell the dispatcher that you had an Officer Friendly experience. That a certain police officer stopped to give you directions, or help change your tire, or whatever. That he showed an unexpected kindness to you and you’d like to send a thank-you note to the station, but you don’t recall his name. Or, you know, you wanna put him up for a commendation.”

  “A laurel and hearty handshake.”

  “Something like that.”

  “So,” said Constance, “I do this and I get, what, a twenty-dollar lunch?”

  “I was thinking dinner, too.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “How about Mourayo on Connecticut? They bake a fish that you’ll dream about.”

  “Always with the food, Spero.” She put the toy phone and slip of paper in her purse.

  Constance and Lucas walked out of the restaurant and stopped on the 2nd Street sidewalk to say good-bye.

  “I’ve got a full day,” said Constance. “Tom’s got me running on a case.”

  “I’m headed over there right now,” said Lucas.

  “To Petersen’s office?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re calling in all your chits today.”

  “Thank you for doing this,” said Lucas. “I mean it.”

  He bent forward to kiss her. She gave him her cheek instead of her mouth. Maybe she knew. Some women just did.

  TOM PETERSEN was at his desk, eating a Potbelly sub from the shop on the first floor. Lucas was seated before the desk. His chair was wobbling on the rickety wood planks of the ancient floor.

  “Where you been?” said Petersen. He was wearing a Ben Sherman shirt that looked as if it had been purchased in swinging London, circa 1967.

  “Working.”

  “I could use you if you’re free. The interns I have right now aren’t giving me what I need. There’s this one young guy, big guy, got a few inches on you, I ask him to go to Southeast to do a witness interview, he starts walking backwards.”