The Cut

by George Pelecanos

  Lucas returned to his Jeep. He drove north, crossing over the District line at Georgia Avenue and into the neighborhood where he’d come up. He saw one of the barbers standing outside of Afrikuts, and the man shouted out a greeting as Lucas went by in his vehicle, and Lucas waved. He passed a couple of Guatemalan housepainters standing by an old 4Runner, a ladder lashed to the crossbars of its roof.

  Driving down his street, Lucas punched in a number on his cell. When the call was answered he said, “Just wanted to make sure you were home.”

  “I’m here, honey.”

  His mother was standing outside the front door, waiting for him. He met her there and put the roses in her hands.

  IN THE evening, in the stillness of his apartment, Lucas grew restless. He decided to go up to the bar on Georgia that had the quiet patrons and the eclectic juke. He left his place, went out to his Jeep, and looked up at the hunter’s moon and clear sky. He’d walk.

  He took Piney Branch to Colorado, east to 14th Street and its small commercial strip, and followed it to 13th, where he turned left. Down at Quackenbos he cut into the weedy field alongside Fort Stevens, and he traversed it, going up the gravelly road to the parking lot of the Emery Methodist Church, where he’d fought Earl Nance.

  He’d killed many men. Some, like Ricardo Holley and Bernard White, had been murderers themselves, and others, like Beano Mobley, had been dirty, in the wrong place, and had simply caught his fire. And then there were the men who were fathers, sons, and brothers, fighting in their homeland. Men he’d ended because they’d tried to kill him.

  He stood on the edge of the lot and stared into its shadows. Close to the church’s north wall, where the light from the moon was obstructed, the night was very dark. He walked through it and took the steps down to Georgia Avenue. He crossed the street and headed for his bar.

  Lucas was thirsty. He wanted a beer.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank Larry Nathans, Jon Norris, James Grady, Quintin Peterson, and Nick Pelecanos for their help with this novel; the sources on both sides of the law who spoke to me with candor and wish to remain anonymous; Sloan Harris and Alicia Gordon for their friendship and guidance; Michael Pietsch, Marlena Bittner, Tracy Williams, Heather Rizzo, Karen Torres, Miriam Parker, Betsy Uhrig, and everyone who has worked so hard on my behalf at Little, Brown over the years; Jon Wood, Malcolm Edwards, Susan Lamb, Gaby Young, Sophie Mitchell, and the kind staff of Orion Books in the U.K., and Robert Pepin in France. Proudly, this is my first book published under the imprint of my longtime editor and friend Reagan Arthur. A special shout-out to Emily, Nick, Pete, and Rosa, and to all the readers who have come along with me on this excellent trip.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  George Pelecanos is an independent-film producer, an essayist, the recipient of numerous international writing awards, a producer and an Emmy-nominated writer on the HBO hit series The Wire, and the author of a bestselling series of novels set in and around Washington, D.C. He currently writes for the acclaimed HBO series Treme.

  … and about “Chosen”

  Following is an original short story featuring Spero Lucas.

  Chosen

  Evangelos “Van” Lucas was behind the wheel of a Land Cruiser, his wife, Eleni, beside him. They were driving home from a Sunday barbecue in upper Northwest, hosted by a business associate of Van’s. Most of the guests were people Van and Eleni had not met before. There had been polite conversation, food eaten off paper plates, and a bit of afternoon drinking.

  “You know that lady I was speaking with by the food table for a long time?” said Van. “With the sweatshirt falling off her shoulder?”

  “The Flashdance woman. She was nice.”

  “She was all right. But why’d you have to go and tell her about our kids?”

  “She asked to see photographs,” said Eleni. “Once I pull those out, there are questions. It’s easier just to tell people.”

  “But see, then I had to continue the conversation with her.”

  “You didn’t look like you minded.”

  “Please. She wasn’t my type. That lady was all angles and bones. It would be like doing a skeleton.”

  “How would you know what that’s like?”

  “My point is, I’m into a woman who looks like a woman. A woman with curves. Like you.”

  “I think there’s a compliment in there.”

  “And you’re smart.”

  “Thanks loads.”

  “Not, like, mousy smart. Don’t get me wrong; I like a smart woman. But I also like a nice round ass and a beautiful rack. Which, thank you, Jesus, you happen to have. Matter of fact, you’ve got the whole female package.”

  “You’re about to make me blush.”

  “But that woman, she just bothered me.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Not like that. She wanted to talk about our kids, how wonderful it must be to have a rainbow family, how I was doing God’s work, all that bullshit. What a good man I am. Like, just because I adopted a bunch of kids, that makes me good.”

  “As you were trying to look down her sweatshirt.”

  “Exactly.” Van looked over at Eleni. “You saw me?”

  “From across the room.”

  “She’s too skinny for me.”

  “You like a nice round ass and a beautiful rack.”

  “Don’t forget smart,” said Van.

  “I know,” said Eleni. “The whole female package.”

  They were coming out of the city, going up Alaska Avenue near the District line. Soon they would cross into Maryland and arrive at the close-in neighborhood where the Lucas family made their home. Van and Eleni were in their early thirties. They had four children, ages seven, six, two, and one. All but the oldest had been adopted. It seemed to have happened very fast.

  Van Lucas was a big man of Greek descent with the kind of open, honest facial expressions that could be read with ease. The Reagan generation baffled him, and he did not feel he was a part of it. His black curly hair was unfashionably long at a time when the hard-chargers kept theirs short and spiked. He wore a heavy black beard when most went clean shaven and some reached for androgynous. He had the beginnings of a gut inching over the belt line of his Levi’s. His appearance suggested casual good nature and a lack of vanity. He was as advertised.

  Eleni reached across the buckets and squeezed Van’s right hand, which rested on the console between them.

  “You are good,” she said.

  “Ah,” said Van, “knock it off, Eleni.”

  He felt electricity when she touched him like that. They’d been together many years and it had never subsided. For a moment he thought he might get lucky that night. But it was false optimism. There was little spontaneous lovemaking between them these days, what with all the commotion around their house. What with all those kids.

  When he was single, he had never looked forward to a family. He had no daydreams of watching his children play sports, reading to them at night, helping them with their homework, or kissing the tops of their heads before they left the house. Van Lucas didn’t have a great need for fatherhood, and he didn’t think he would be particularly good at it. But when it happened, he took to it. It was chaotic at times, but it was manageable. He liked being a father, and he loved his kids. Later, he would look back on that time of his life and think: It was easy when they were young.

  Within a year of their wedding, Eleni gave birth to a girl they named Irene. “It means ‘peace,’ ” said Van, selling the name to Eleni. The baby was born after a very difficult pregnancy during which Eleni was required to lie in bed for most of her third trimester. Even with this precaution, Irene arrived prematurely and her survival was in doubt for the first week of her life. But she did fine and progressed without complications. Eleni’s doctor suggested that a subsequent pregnancy would be just as problematic, if not worse, and that Irene should be looked upon as a single blessing and not the first of many blessings to come. Or something like th
at. Eleni got the convoluted message: Do not tempt fate and try to have another child.

  Van was fine with having only one child, but Eleni was not. When Irene got to walking a year later, Eleni decided that a child was not “whole” without a companion. Van said, “We could get a dog,” and Eleni said, “I was thinking along the lines of something on two legs,” to which Van replied, “A monkey, then.” She didn’t smile, so he knew she was serious. He also knew where this was going. Eleni wanted to adopt.

  On the subject of adoption, Van suspected he was in the camp of many other men who were not quite sure. Will I truly love a child who did not come from me? Would I be as good a father to an adopted child? Do I want a kid who doesn’t at least look a little like me? He kept these questions to himself for the most part. But they were there.

  The one objection a man could legitimately raise was the cost, but Van couldn’t belch about money with a straight face or a clear conscience. He had the dough. A high school friend, Ted Leibovitz, an ambitious renovation man turned builder, had invited Van into his venture when both were right out of college, and they had bought properties in the U Street corridor at fire-sale prices while the Metro was being built, the street was torn up, building windows were boarded, and businesses were failing. The sale of these properties at profit a few years later had funded bigger projects, commercial and residential, in soon-to-be-hot Shaw, Logan, and Columbia Heights. Ted had an eye for seeing the possibilities in run-down areas, while Van’s talent was in sensing when to sell at the top. Van, despite no visible signs of type A drive, was making a small fortune as a relatively young man. He was liquid and he had real estate. He couldn’t cry poor to Eleni.

  “What are you going to do with all of our money?” she said. “Buy things? You’re not about that.”

  She was right. He was not a clotheshorse or into labels. His work truck, a two-toned Chevy Silverado, was his only vehicle.

  Eleni was similarly uninterested in material things. She had inherited a deep reserve of compassion from her parents, who had preached and practiced Christian charity throughout her childhood. Hell, Van had met her at one of those Christmas Day dinner–soup kitchen things, to which he had been dragged by a community activist he had been courting for zoning favors. The moment he saw Eleni, her hair under a scarf, an apron not even close to concealing her figure, he fell in love with her. Looks aside, it was the fact that she was there in that church basement on a cold Christmas morning, trying to reach out to people who had next to nothing, when she could have been sitting comfortably by a fire, sipping tea and opening gifts. Her obvious kindness was what closed the deal for him.

  “You could do some good,” she said. “Think about the difference you’d make in some kid’s life.”

  “While he’s stealing my silverware.”

  “Van, come on.”

  He threw up his meaty hands in a gesture she recognized as near-surrender. “I don’t know.”

  They were seated at the kitchen table of their bungalow. Irene was in her high chair, aiming Cheerios in the general direction of her mouth. Eleni reached across the table and took one of his hands. He felt the current pass through him.

  “You know what your name means?” said Eleni.

  “Evangelos? It means ‘big stud.’ ”

  “No, but nice try.”

  “So tell me.”

  “It means ‘evangelist.’ Someone who spreads the gospel. Or, if you want to take it a little further, someone who does good.”

  “So you’re sayin what?”

  “Somewhere in your past your ancestors probably adopted kids, too, I bet.”

  “When men were men and sheep were nervous.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re talking about ancient times. When guys wore metal skirts. The meaning of my name is supposed to make me go out and adopt a kid?”

  “Honey, let’s do this,” said Eleni. “We have the money and the opportunity. To, you know, have a reason for being here. Don’t you ever think about why we’re here?”

  “Not really,” said Van. “I’m not that deep.”

  She came around the table and sat on his lap and kissed him on the lips. His sudden erection was like a crowbar underneath her bottom.

  “You’re right,” she said. “You’re not that deep.”

  “I’m not doing any of the legwork,” he said. “I got a business to run.”

  “I’ll take care of the details.”

  “I want a son,” he said, rather petulantly.

  Eleni said, “Me, too.”

  Through the recommendation of friends in their neighborhood, Eleni made an appointment with an attorney, Bill O’Toole, who specialized in adoptions. Van and Eleni met O’Toole and his assistant, a junior attorney named Donna Monroe, at O’Toole’s downscale office in Silver Spring. O’Toole seemed both distracted and intent on securing them as clients, while Monroe appeared to be more interested in exploring their motivations and needs. Eleni sensed that the lively eyed Monroe was the conscience of the outfit.

  After O’Toole had explained the financial aspects of the adoption, in which he pushed for a flat fee rather than itemized billing, they got into the logistics of paperwork, home visits, and matters of timing.

  “I’ve heard this process can take years,” said Eleni.

  “If you want a baby that looks like you,” said Monroe.

  “You mean a white baby,” said Van.

  “There is typically a long waiting period for white adoptees,” said O’Toole. “Russia, Eastern Europe. In general you’re talking about children from orphanages who are three, four years old.”

  Van didn’t need to be bait-and-switched by O’Toole. He had heard some stories about those kids. He didn’t have the fortitude or the altruism of the people who were willing to take on those kinds of problems. He wanted a family, not a project. He felt that you could mold a baby easier than you could a child who had been socialized, or unsocialized, in his or her formative years.

  “No,” said Van. “I’m not interested in that scenario. I wouldn’t want a, you know, handicapped kid, either.”

  Van shrugged off Eleni’s reproachful look and shifted his weight in his chair. There was a brief silence as the lawyers digested his remark.

  “Would you adopt an African American infant?” said Monroe, looking into Van’s eyes.

  Van hesitated. He felt that he was now a customer in the Baby Store, a situation he’d hoped to avoid. And what did you say to the black woman sitting across the table from you? “I’d rather not adopt a black child”?

  “You mean, what color baby do I want?” he said. “Is that what you’re asking?”

  “This will be easier if we speak freely,” said Monroe.

  “We want whoever needs to be adopted,” said Eleni.

  Van looked at Eleni. In that moment he knew he would love her forever.

  “Right,” said Van.

  “Then let’s get started,” said Monroe.

  “I’ll have my assistant run the contracts,” said O’Toole, standing excitedly, displaying his tall, birdlike frame. “You do want the flat fee, don’t you?”

  Van nodded absently.

  That is how it began.

  They’d been warned that the adoption process was complicated, but for them it was not. The home visits were perfunctory and quick, and they soon “identified” a baby boy after looking at an array of photographs spread like playing cards on a table. Van said to Eleni, “This is kinda weird. When you choose one, you’re rejecting the others, in a way. You know what I mean? What happens to them?” Eleni agreed that it was mildly troubling but was steadfast in her belief that they should concentrate on the positive impact they would have on one person’s life rather than bemoaning the fact that they couldn’t help them all. As she was telling him this, her eyes were on the table, and she touched her index finger to the photograph of a black baby who, consciously or not, was staring into the camera, right at them, it seemed, with a startled expression.

/>   “Him,” said Eleni.

  Van said, “Okay.”

  Van suggested they name the baby Dimitrius, in keeping with his intention of giving their children traditional Greek names. Van was third generation and about as Greek as a Turkish bath, but Eleni did not resist, much.

  “Dimitrius is not a traditional African American name.”

  “Okay, we’ll call him LeDimitrius.”

  “Stop it. I just think we ought to consider what it will mean for him to carry a name like that.”

  “It’ll toughen him up. Y’know, the bullies used to call me Chevy Van.” Van balled his fists and held them up. “Until I introduced them to Thunder and Lightning.”

  “You were never a fighter.”

  “I know it. But that’s the story I’m gonna tell Dimitrius.”

  Soon after this conversation, Dimitrius came to them. He was a quiet, pleasant baby, and his sister, Irene, took to him right away. She insisted on pushing his stroller and always sat beside him on the family room couch, where his parents frequently propped him up with pillows. He was her breathing doll. He was loved.

  A couple of years passed. They were comfortable as a family and Van was still making significant money. They adopted Shilo, a large dog of indeterminate breed, from the Humane Society at Georgia Avenue and Geranium. The house seemed to grow smaller, louder, and hairier.

  When Irene was about to enter kindergarten and Dimitrius was in his last year of preschool, Eleni Lucas got a call from Donna Monroe, now a partner in the O’Toole firm, telling her that another baby had become available. He was a black infant who had been due to be adopted by a white couple who changed their minds at the last minute.

  Because they were happy, because they were now convinced that this adoption thing worked, Eleni and Van had already talked about bringing another child into the family. And there was another reason, unspoken to Eleni, which made Van ready to pull the next trigger: Dimitrius was not quite the boy he had imagined he would one day have. He was not particularly coordinated or athletic, and he shied away from any roughhousing or physical contact with his dad. Van loved him, but Van wanted a boy-boy for a son.