The Cut

by George Pelecanos

  “I don’t think so,” said Spero.

  “She’s been asking after you.”

  “I’ll get over there.”

  “You go to the graveyard more often than you go to see Mom. You know that?”

  “Let me get off this phone.”

  “Something wrong, Spero?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Whatever it is, I still love you, man.”

  “I love you, too,” said Spero.

  “I mean it.”

  “So do I.”

  “Okay, malaka,” said Leo. “You need me, I’m here.”

  Spero Lucas had no doubt.

  YOU TOOK that money just to give it back.

  As Lucas paced the floors of the apartment, Ricardo Holley’s words would not leave his head. And then something came to him, a bit of information that Tavon and Edwin had given him the first time they’d met. Lucas was coming to it, though the answers to his nagging questions were irrelevant now. Still, he had to know.

  He got dressed in blue pants and a blue shirt, left the apartment, and drove to the D.C. Jail. By process of observation and elimination he located a lot where prison guards and DOC employees seemed to park their cars. He waited there for several hours, reading a novel behind the wheel, using the piss bottle he kept in his vehicle as needed. At the end of the day shift a tall, handsome woman in uniform walked across the lot.

  Lucas got out of his Jeep and moved toward her. She was turning the door key on her Mercury when she noticed his approach. She stood straight and faced him.

  “Cecelia Edwards?” said Lucas.

  “You are?” she said, confident and not entirely unfriendly.

  “Spero Lucas. I’m an investigator. We’ve met before.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a little bit of information,” said Lucas, extending his hand for a shake.

  Cecelia Edwards took his hand. Her eyes briefly examined the folding money that she now held. There were three hundred-dollar bills there, and she slipped them into her pocket.

  “I was hoping we could be friends,” said Lucas.

  “Sugar,” she said, “we are now.”

  THE NEXT day, he returned to the D.C. Jail.

  After going through security, where he showed his ID, signed in, and was wanded, he went to the visiting room and had a seat in a hard plastic chair set before a heavily smudged window. Soon Anwan Hawkins appeared in an orange jumpsuit and took his place on the other side of the glass. His hair was down and his braids touched his broad shoulders. He snatched the phone out of its cradle, and Lucas took his receiver out of a similarly mounted cradle and put it to his ear.

  “Spero Lucas,” said Hawkins, his voice husky and riddled with static. “Mr. Petersen said you’d be stopping by. I never did get a chance to thank you for visiting my wife. You do good work.”

  “You didn’t really need me, though, did you? You would have gotten your money regardless.”

  “Huh?”

  “I know, Anwan.”

  Hawkins nodded. A glint of gold showed in his wry smile. “You wired up?”

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t be. That’s not your style. But then again, you can’t rightly go to the police.”

  “No.”

  “On account of you’re a murderer. I’m not just talkin about that little white dude, either. I get word in here. Holley, Mobley, and White. That was you, wasn’t it? Had to be.”

  “Your business associates,” said Lucas. “Ricardo told me, in so many words. That I was giving the money back to the same people I stole it from. Meaning you.”

  Anwan stared at him dead-eyed.

  “But you hired me,” said Lucas. “Why?”

  Anwan said nothing.

  “You know I can’t hurt you,” said Lucas. “I can’t speak to anyone on this.”

  “But you’re the curious type,” said Hawkins. “Relentless, too. Once I let you loose, I didn’t know how to rein you back in. I tried to warn you off of it. I did try.” Anwan shook braids away from his face. “When I hired you, I had the need for your services. But you took a week to get started.”

  “I had to complete a job for Petersen.”

  “That was crucial.”

  “It was the week that Ricardo Holley visited you here in jail. Twice. It’s in the logbook, Anwan. You have to show your photo ID and sign your name to get in. It’s damn near impossible to falsify that.”

  “You got a DOC in your pocket, too,” said Hawkins, with something close to admiration.

  “I’m guessing that Ricardo told you that he and his crew were shaking down Tavon and Edwin.”

  “Yeah. And they were paying those boys fifty percent of the package.”

  “Ricardo came to you because the deal with them was finite,” said Lucas. “Tavon and Edwin told me themselves that they didn’t know the identity of your connect. Only you did. So if the financial relationship was to continue, Ricardo needed you. He didn’t need those boys anymore.”

  “Eliminate the middleman.”

  “You ordered them killed.”

  “Had Tavon and Edwin come to me right away, told me that they were being stepped on by those men, it wouldn’t have happened. But they decided to keep the full fifty. I regret it, but it had to be done.”

  “You said you weren’t about that.”

  Anwan shrugged. “They stole from me. I can’t have that perception gettin out there on the street telegraph. The idea that I’m weak. I didn’t get up here where I am by being soft.”

  “Up where?” said Lucas. “You’re in prison.”

  “Today I am.”

  “You’re looking at long time.”

  “I got the best lawyer in town. I’m gonna walk. Bet it.” Hawkins studied Lucas’s narrowed eyes. “Don’t be angry, Spero. I got paid and so did you.”

  “I fucked up,” said Lucas, more to himself than to Hawkins.

  “You’re a bull, son,” said Hawkins. “It’s your nature. You walk into a room and you just break shit. But don’t be getting on your high horse with regards to Anwan Hawkins. You can’t fix it. And you can’t do a motherfuckin thing about me.” Hawkins leaned forward. “You got your cut. There ain’t nothin more to say.”

  Lucas quietly hung the phone in its cradle. He stood and walked from the room.

  LUCAS SPENT the next few days quietly, going out occasionally, wary when he came back to his apartment, expecting the law to be there, waiting for his return. But it did not happen.

  He passed an evening with Miss Lee, playing Scrabble in her first-floor living room, and on Sunday he went to church and said his customary prayer of thanks, and something extra. Afterward he went to Glenwood and lay roses on his father’s grave.

  On Monday he visited Ernest Lindsay at his house to make sure that he was settled and okay. They talked about the books Lucas had given him and the movies described within their pages, but they did not discuss the events that had led to Ernest’s capture and rescue in Edmonston. The mother’s boyfriend was there and the atmosphere was tense. Ernest seemed relatively fine, with the resilience of youth on his side, and Lucas promised himself as he left the house that he would stay in touch with him.

  Outside he saw Lisa Weitzman sitting on her porch. He visited with her, intending to stay for a minute or so, and right away he remembered the fun they’d had and their easy conversation, and he asked her if she was free for dinner. The two of them had drinks in the downstairs bar of Café Saint-Ex, on 14th, then drove north and dined at Sergio’s, in his old neighborhood, in a hotel on Colesville Road, where the veal scaloppine’s tomato-based sauce was exquisite, and afterward they went to back to his apartment and made love as reggae music played through candlelight, and he was reminded of how good it was to be young and alive.

  The next morning, he phoned Tom Petersen and asked him if he could come in.

  “YOU’VE COME far, pilgrim,” said Petersen.

  “You sound like my brother,” said Lu
cas.

  “You do have a bit of a beard going there.”

  “I shaved a few hours ago. It’s my two o’clock shadow.”

  “The testosterone levels are off the charts at your age. I’m sure it speaks volumes to the ladies.”

  Lucas, in Carhartt, was seated before Tom Petersen’s desk. Petersen, big, shaggy, and blond, wore a wide-striped shirt, open collar, jeans with a thick brown belt, and side-zip boots. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a shop on Carnaby Street.

  “What can I do for you, Spero?”

  “Just wanted you to know I’m back in circulation and available.”

  “You’re done with side work?”

  “For now.”

  “Excellent. I can use you.”

  Lucas nodded, said nothing.

  “Is there anything else?” said Petersen.

  Lucas leaned forward. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Ask.”

  “Hypothetically…”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You’re defending a drug dealer. Jury trial. You know he did it, and the law and prosecution have all their bases covered. What’s your strategy?”

  “In general?” Petersen tented his hands on his desk. “If it’s a black defendant, if he grew up disadvantaged, if he’s a nonviolent offender, and if I get the right jury? I argue, artfully I might add, against putting another young black man in prison for political reasons related to a costly and ineffective drug war. I talk about the disparity in sentencing along racial lines, if I can get away with it. I only need one juror who’s willing to acquit, and in D.C. that’s not too difficult. It’s your basic nullification argument.”

  “What if your defendant was a violent offender? I’m talking about a stone killer.”

  “I would prepare a different defense. But I’d know that from the start.”

  “But what if you found out about his acts after you’d taken on the case?”

  Petersen didn’t answer right away. He was trying to read Lucas.

  “I defend murderers often, Spero. You know that. It’s what I do.”

  “You don’t take on everyone who offers you money.”

  “True,” said Petersen. “I’ve refused clients before simply because I didn’t like them. Because there was no conscience or humanity in their eyes. On occasion I’ve quoted outrageous fees to clients, knowing they couldn’t afford them or wouldn’t pay that kind of highway robbery on principle. It’s the easiest way to say no.”

  “You’re missing my point.”

  “I’m not,” said Petersen.

  “Have you ever deliberately tanked a case?”

  Petersen smiled and shook his head. “I’ve lost cases. I’ve lost them because I was insufficiently prepared, or I underestimated the prosecuting attorneys, or a witness underperformed on the stand. I’ve lost cases because…”

  “What?”

  “Because I wasn’t feeling well. Because my rhythm was off in court. I’ve lost cases, Spero, because I simply had a bad day.”

  They sat there in the office, looking at each other, saying nothing. Neither of them cut his eyes away.

  Lucas got up out of his chair. “Thanks for listening.”

  “Do me a favor: when you’re working for me, make sure you shave. You’ll make a better impression out on the street.”

  “I will, if you comb your hair and put on a tie.”

  “I do, when I’m in court.”

  “Were you mad when Mick and Keith kicked you out of the band?”

  “Brian Jones. Very funny, but I’ve heard that before. Are you a Stones fan?”

  “My dad was. He used to play Exile on Main St. front to back when we were riding around in his pickup truck.”

  “Good record.”

  “Listen, is Constance around?”

  “No. She’s waitressing this summer. Said she needed to make some money for a change. I think she was trying to convey some sort of point.”

  “Which restaurant?”

  “You want the truth? She asked me not to tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know for sure. She said something about treating people right. She said you needed to learn.”

  “I’m young,” said Lucas.

  “ ‘Drink in your summer, gather your corn.’ ”

  “Inspector Clouseau?”

  “Jagger/Richards,” said Petersen. He reached his hand across the desk. “Glad you’re back.”

  “Call me,” said Lucas. “I’m ready to work.”

  OVER THE summer, Lucas did a couple of small, simple jobs for Petersen and one that involved murder and conspiracy charges that was much more intricate. Between his work and his physical routine, the daily bike rides and afternoons with his kayak on the river, he stayed busy. He bought a second vehicle, had it registered under a false name with the assistance of one of Nick Simmons’s friends, and kept it in a garage he rented with cash in one of the old alley dwellings east of the Hill. He bought a GPS Internet tracking device that he could access from his laptop or phone. He bought a carton of disposable cells. He was getting smarter about the way he worked.

  There was a day trip to New York, organized by Leo, in which the brothers accompanied Ernest Lindsay on his first major excursion out of D.C. Their intent was to take him on an informal tour of the film school at NYU, where they hoped he would apply the following year. He had enrolled at UDC, but they felt that he needed to ultimately get out of Washington and broaden his world. He was smart enough, he had the grades, and he qualified for various minority grants and scholarships. Spero told Leo in private that he might be able to help out if there was a shortfall in the tuition; he felt he owed the young man at least that much. On the Acela ride back, Ernest could not stop talking about the city and the school.

  Lucas had not been contacted by Larry Holley since the night they’d worked together to rescue Ernest Lindsay. A query e-mail to Tim McCarthy in IAB prompted a terse response sent from McCarthy’s personal account: “Larry Holley resigned from the MPD a month ago.” Lucas never learned where he’d gone.

  In August he received an envelope in the mail with no return address. Inside was a faded trading card of Foghorn Leghorn, the oversize rooster from the Warner Brothers cartoons, with a slash of red Magic Marker through the character’s throat. On the back of the card, a note was written in block letters: Heard he got scratched. Nice work. The postmark told Lucas that the card had been sent from Frederick, Maryland, the hometown of Pete Gibson.

  One humid night toward the end of the season, Lucas was riding his bike uptown, cycling past Wonderland, the bar at the corner of 11th and Kenyon, when he saw Constance Kelly seated at one of the outdoor tables, drinking beer with two other young women. Lucas turned around, cruised back to the patio, and came to a stop alongside her table.

  “Hey, Constance.”

  “Hi.”

  She smiled. She didn’t seem mad at him, nor did her demeanor give him hope. She was simply being polite.

  “Can I talk to you a second?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  He walked his bike along Tubman Elementary and she walked beside him.

  “Where you been?” said Lucas.

  “Working. I made a couple of trips down to the ocean. But mostly work.”

  “Me, too.” Lucas caught her eye. “I called you a couple of times.”

  “I know.”

  “My phone takes calls, too.”

  “Must be a real fancy one.”

  Lucas stopped. “So what did I do wrong?”

  Constance shrugged. “It wasn’t a long-term thing. We both knew that.”

  “Something must have made you get off the bus.”

  “I saw you one night, Spero, at the downstairs bar at Saint-Ex. You were with a woman. You were looking at her the exact same way that you looked at me when we were out and having a good time. And it came to me that I was nothing special to you. I was just one of many.”

  “That’s not how I feel, th
ough,” said Lucas. “You’re exactly the kind of person—”

  “Please. Don’t do that.”

  “I’m trying to figure things out, Constance. I missed out on the good part of my twenties. When everyone else was in college, going to parties and whatever, being young, I was in the desert. Now I’m here, catching up. I told you once before, I’m not ready to make plans.”

  “I wasn’t looking for a commitment,” said Constance. “Just some courtesy.”

  She went back to join her friends. Lucas swung onto the saddle of his bike and pedaled uptown, not yet understanding what he’d lost.

  THE ANWAN Hawkins trial began late in August. Lucas did not speak to Tom Petersen during the proceedings, but he read about them daily in the Washington Post. Because the marijuana legalization movement was making inroads in D.C., the chronicle of this high-profile, high-volume weed dealer and his possible conviction made timely copy. The day after the jury reached its unanimously guilty verdict, the Post reporter assigned to the story quoted an unnamed courtroom witness: “It seemed to me that the defense’s closing arguments were oddly dispassionate and, at times, clumsily delivered.” Tom Petersen, normally light on his feet, had forgotten how to dance. He’d had a bad day.

  ONE SUNDAY early in October, Lucas went to church. He took his seat beside the white-haired former teacher, noticing many of his friends and their families in attendance, and Leo and his mother front and center, in place. He recited the Creed and the Lord’s Prayer, followed along with the liturgy in the book, and when it was time he kneeled and gave his usual thanks, and added a prayer for the dead.

  After the service he bought a dozen red roses and drove over to Glenwood, passing under the arched gate. He negotiated the twisting lanes and went along the stretch of mausoleums, where a blanket of scarlet leaves had fallen on black asphalt, and continued on to the section of headstones at the west edge of the cemetery, which gave to a view of the Bryant Place row homes and North Capitol Street.

  Standing before his father’s grave, he made the sign of the Holy Trinity with three fingers of his right hand and did his stavro. He stood there, feeling the energy around him, listening to the call of sparrows, watching a gray squirrel scamper up the trunk of a tree, breathing the crisp fall air. He looked at the flowers he held by his side.