Lucas walked toward him.
The lot, empty of cars, was so greatly elevated that it was not visible from the heavily trafficked Georgia Avenue. Behind them was the darkness of the field. The man must have spied Lucas walking into the park and correctly surmised that there was but one way to the Avenue from there. He had left his vehicle down on Georgia, taken the steps up, and waited for him. He did not look like he had come to talk.
“What is this?” said Lucas, approaching the man.
The man said nothing, and as Lucas neared him he reached his left hand into his pocket and produced a knife. With a jerk of his wrist, a six-inch serrated blade sprang from its bone hilt. He held it loosely and correctly, palm up.
Now Lucas was just a couple of yards away from the man. They stood in the center of the lot. It was like a basketball court where they had come to jump for possession. Or the center circle of a wrestling mat.
“You know your Bible?” said the man.
Lucas did not answer. He stayed focused on the man’s seemingly lidless eyes.
“John, Eleven-Ten. ‘But if a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, because there is no light in him.’ ”
“Not this man,” said Lucas.
They moved at the same time. The man swung the knife, and Lucas stepped out of its arc and back. The man swung again. His reach was not sufficient, and Lucas knew he would have to come in. The man flipped the knife, switching it to a down-grip, and brought it across from his right shoulder as if he were swinging a bat. He caught only air. He brought the blade back from the other direction and swung with a grunt, and it took him too far. Lucas stepped to the side, then came in quickly, grabbed the man’s wrist, and struck a hammer blow to the knife arm’s elbow. The man’s hand opened like a stunned flower, sending the knife skittering across the asphalt. Lucas pushed him away.
The man looked at the knife, ten feet from his reach. He thought about it, and Lucas said, “You had your chance.”
The man charged him. He drove his head into Lucas’s abdomen and reached for the back of Lucas’s thighs, and Lucas sprawled out in defense of the takedown. He grabbed the man’s hair with his left hand, sprang forward, and with his right shot an uppercut into his jaw. The punch stood the man up and knocked him out of Lucas’s grasp. He came in once more and threw a flurry of face and head punches that stunned Lucas and forced him to step back. He locked his eyes on the man. Lucas touched his thumbs, one after the other, to his nose. Now he knew where his hands were.
They circled each other in a slight crouch. In the man’s eyes Lucas saw that he was about to move. The man feinted with his right fist and threw a wild roundhouse left that overshot the mark. Lucas ducked and came in, sliding one of his arms under the man’s punching arm, forcing that arm up firmly, anchoring it with his hand on the back of the man’s neck. Lucas slipped behind him and hooked his free arm around the man’s neck and grabbed his own wrist and pulled tight. He had him in an air choke now.
He kicked the man’s right heel out from under him and fell back, bringing the man down with him; Lucas hit the asphalt with the man on top of his chest. He scissored his legs around the man’s waist and locked him up. Lucas violently tightened his grip on the man’s neck and arched his back as he squeezed with his legs, squeezed the life out of the man who was writhing now in panic and pain and no breath. The man’s feet kicked. He made a high-pitched, childlike sound. There was no mercy in Lucas and he squeezed with all he had. Something gave beneath the crook of his arm. He felt the snap of a bone. Lucas pushed the body off of him. He rolled away and stood.
He waited for his breath to even out. He looked down at the corpse. Urine staining the man’s jeans, his eyes half open, saliva threading down from the corner of his open mouth, hands frozen and clawed. A broken string of beads and a crucifix lying crookedly on his chest. His face mannequined in the pale yellow light.
Lucas felt nothing.
He reached into the man’s back pocket and found his wallet and opened it. He saw the driver’s license that identified Nance, studied it carefully, and left it in its slot. He removed all the cash and credit cards and shoved them into the pocket of his jeans. He wiped the wallet off with his shirttail. He dropped the wallet on Nance’s torso.
Lucas picked up the knife and pocketed it. He walked toward home and did not look back. He threw the credit cards and cash down various storm drains on side streets, and behind the Kingsbury School on 14th he broke the knife blade off on an alley floor and threw it in a stand of weed trees, then tossed the hilt into another drain.
Lucas entered his apartment, took a shower, got into bed, and fell to sleep. He had no dreams.
SEVENTEEN
The body of Earl Lee Nance was found around sunup by an employee of the church arriving in advance of Sunday service. The Fourth District station sat one block south of the church, so uniformed officers quickly secured the scene. A homicide detective and mobile crime technicians arrived shortly thereafter. Parishioners who showed up later, unaware of the incident, were told that they could not park their cars in the lot, so they walked up the gravel road to the church on foot and, when given the reason for the police presence, tried to shield their children’s eyes from the sight of the victim. But, being curious about death, as the very young often are, many children managed to get a look at the corpse, its head unnaturally angled, its hands clawed in the throes of death. Some of them did not think of it after that day. For a few unfortunate others, this twisted sight would visit their dreams for years to come.
In the morning Lucas went outside and picked up the two newspapers left on the front lawn of the house. He dropped one on Miss Lee’s doorstep and took the other up to his apartment. Over coffee he read the Metro section of the Washington Post, guessing correctly that the event would not have made the morning edition. He went to his laptop and brought up the Crime Scene page of the Post ’s website. There was a small item carrying the byline of veteran reporter Ruben Castaneda that told of the discovery of a body in the lot of Emory Methodist that was being treated as a homicide. No further details were available.
Lucas took a hot shower; despite the shape he was in, he had woken up sore. Afterward, he had a good look at himself in the bathroom mirror. The crook of his right arm was reddish and irritated. His face was bruised around his eye and temple where Nance had landed a particularly vicious blow. He expected to see his mother that day and would have to come up with a lie.
He dressed in a blue suit and drove across town to his church, St. Sophia, the Greek Orthodox cathedral at 36th and Massachusetts. He went through the narthex, greeting one of the board members who manned the inner doors, and found a spot in a pew on the left side of the nave, far in the back, beside a white-haired woman who had once been his Sunday school teacher. He spotted a couple of the guys with whom he’d played GOYA basketball, standing with their wives. He saw their parents and a few of their grandparents. He could see his mother, Eleni, standing beside Leo, center section, in one of the rows close to the altar. Leo brought her here nearly every Sunday. The good son, thought Lucas, without any feelings of sarcasm or rancor.
Lucas followed the liturgy in a book he found in a wood box on the back of the forward pew. He recited along with the Creed, which he knew by heart, and the Lord’s Prayer in English and Greek. He knew what was going on behind the sanctuary and in front of it because he had served as an altar boy at the age of fourteen and occasionally in the years that followed. He listened to the familiar voices of the priests and the beautiful singing of the cantor and her choir during the Communion Prayer, and when it came time to kneel and pray, he dropped the padded bar before him and got onto his knees. With his elbows on the pew lip, he put his cradled hands to his forehead and closed his eyes.
He would not ask forgiveness for the taking of another man’s life. Just like those who had shot at him in Iraq, the man in the parking lot had intended to kill him. In fact, when Lucas prayed he never asked for anything. He had not even begged for a m
iracle while his father was dying of the brain cancer that had quickly claimed him. Instead, he silently said the same prayer he had always said in church, in the privacy of his home, and in the Middle East: Thank you, God, for the gift of life you’ve given me, and the gift of life you have given to my family and friends.
Lucas did not have the absolute faith his mother and his brother Leo possessed. He had seen too many bodies zipped into rubber bags, seen so much random death that he was no longer certain of an afterlife. But he did feel that the life he had, here on earth, was no molecular accident. It had been granted to him and it was a blessing. He came to church to give testimony to that, to express his gratitude, and to be a part of this community that had meant a great deal to him throughout his life. He saw his people here. In the fathers of others he saw his own father in the church.
Later, during a post-liturgy ceremony for a parishioner who had been deceased for forty days, Lucas did his stavro, the sign of the cross, three fingers for the Trinity touched to the forehead, chest, right shoulder, then left.
“… for there is no man who lives and sins not,” said the priest.
And Lucas thought, Amen.
The brothers took their mother to brunch at a restaurant she liked, high on Wisconsin near a cigar store and the Gawler’s funeral home. The food was in the French vein, the dining room was tastefully designed, and the service had a European elegance. Eleni ate a goat cheese omelet and her sons both had eggs Moroccan, served over easy with sausage and tomato sauce. Leo and Spero had juice; their mother was working on a chardonnay.
Spero had told them out on the front steps of the church that he had “had a few” the night before and walked into a door in the darkness of his apartment when he’d gotten home. Eleni took the story at face value, but Leo clearly did not. After they ordered, Eleni got up to use the restroom, and when she was out of earshot Leo brought up the bruise.
“What really happened, Spero? I know a door didn’t hit you upside the head.”
“I was a little wasted. I was in a place I shouldn’t have been down around Petworth. Some guy standing next to me at the bar thought I looked at him funny or somethin and he just coldcocked me.”
“Big strong guy like you?”
“Yeah, I know. You would have been proud of me, though. I didn’t even retaliate. I let the bouncer get rid of him.”
“What was the name of the bar?”
“Huh?”
“Place you were at had a sign out front, didn’t it?”
“Man, I don’t even know. I guess I was pretty gone.”
“Uh-huh.”
Eleni Lucas returned, sipped at her wine, double sipped. Spero shot a glance at Leo, but Leo didn’t bite.
“My men,” said Eleni, placing her glass on the table. “I’m so lucky to have you both here in Washington.”
“We’re not goin anywhere,” said Leo.
“Your dad would be proud of both of you,” she said, and Spero stared down at his plate.
“But a little more proud of me,” said Leo. “Tell the truth.”
“Well, you both have your positive attributes,” said Eleni. “You are certainly different from each other, but your father loved you equally. Leonidas, he called you Cool Breeze-”
“Because it felt like a breath of fresh air when Leo walked into a room,” said Spero, robotically repeating something he had heard many times before.
“Don’t be jealous,” said Leo.
“You did get the tightest nickname,” said Spero.
“And your dad called Spero ‘my thereeyaw,’ ” said Eleni. “Its literal translation is ‘wild animal.’ But he meant ‘my wild one.’ Your dad used to love to watch you wrestle. He said you had the killer instinct.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Spero, still not looking in her eyes.
Eleni ordered another glass of wine. They quietly finished their meals.
Bernard White hadn’t heard from his partner the night before, which he found strange. For White, doing jobs was just a way to make extra money, and he took no pleasure in the process. But Earl had pride in his work and he relished the details. He would’ve called Bernard after he’d done the dude, bragged on it, too. By mid-morning, White knew in his gut that the hit had gone wrong.
He got a call from Ricardo Holley on his disposable. Earl Nance was dead. The TV news was saying that it was a homicide committed during an apparent act of robbery. They’d found Earl in a church parking lot. Larry had gotten the unofficial word and told his father that Nance had died of asphyxiation and possibly a broken neck. Ricardo said that Larry was quite “upset.”
Fuck that punk, thought White. He said, “What are we gonna do now?”
“Sit on it overnight,” said Ricardo. “We need to think on this before we act. Come over to the warehouse tomorrow at lunchtime.”
“Larry comin, too?”
“Think I’ll speak to him alone,” said Ricardo. “Look here: I’m sorry your boy got his self chilled.”
“He knew the risks,” said White, and he ended the call.
Bernard White sat in a big chair in his Marlow Heights apartment, a crossword puzzle and pen in hand, looking out the window. Thinking of the day ahead, and how empty it would be without his ugly little friend.
Most of the commercial and retail businesses back in the Edmonston industrial section were closed on Sundays, but Beano Mobley kept his place open, because working folks used their free time on the weekends to get their vehicles correct. Also, an open and active business meant less suspicion when one of his side customers came to call.
Mobley had been at the firearms thing for a while. Indirectly, it was how he’d met Ricardo Holley. He and Ricardo had struck up a conversation one night at the club out New York Avenue, the one near the dog shelter that had the best all-ass dancers in town. Ricardo had mentioned that he was looking for a heater, and when Mobley asked him if he was police, Ricardo said, “I used to be, but don’t hold that shit against me.” They ended up bringing a couple of the dancers back to Mobley’s warehouse and partying in the far back room, where Beano poured mid-shelf liquor and Ricardo cut out lines of coke he had copped at the bar. Beano had put Brick and some Cameo, shit he liked from his day, on the stereo and cranked it up. Both of them were on the old side, but that night they tossed those freaks like they were young. The cocaine helped. Ricardo and Beano had the same taste in women-the bigger in the back the better. They liked them young, too.
Their friendship solidified, Ricardo began to talk partnership. He liked the fact that Mobley had real estate, a base of operations, and a gun thing that was recession proof. Ricardo would bring his knowledge of law enforcement and his ambition to the table. Both of them felt it was a good fit.
Lately, though, Mobley was beginning to wonder if he had made an error in joining up with Ricardo. Mobley had enjoyed a nice quiet run, selling firearms out the back of his warehouse to gangsters, studio gangsters, and plain old dudes who wanted protection for their homes and shops. He wasn’t too worried about someone flipping on him because of the code. At first he was down with Ricardo’s marijuana scheme, but when murder got attached to it, Beano wanted to walk away. Problem was, he couldn’t.
Beano wanted his old life back. To own his detailing business, move a few guns now and again, drive his Cadillac DTS, watch his beloved Redskins on Sundays, party with women and girls in his warehouse when he could, and grow old with some kind of dignity. He wanted a divorce from Ricardo Holley, but he didn’t know how to make it happen.
Mobley was outside standing in his lot, where his employees, a few ex-offenders he was trying to give a break to, were working on an SUV, when Larry rolled in, driving his Escalade. Dickless Larry, thought Mobley, watching as Larry’s window rolled down, seeing that the boy was agitated.
“Where’s Ricardo at?” said Larry.
“Waitin on you,” said Mobley. “In the back.”
Mobley watched with amusement as Larry got out of his ride and crossed the parking lot
, trying to Walk Tall with an exaggerated swagger, a presidential candidate in elevator shoes and rolled-up sleeves, an actor trying to play a man. Larry, a tit with no milk.
“Sit down,” said Ricardo.
“I’ll stand,” said Larry.
They were in the main office of the warehouse, Ricardo seated behind his desk.
“You lied to me again,” said Larry.
“No, I didn’t. I kept you out the loop. That’s not the same thing.”
“You’re always twistin your words around,” said Larry.
“I have to, with you.”
“How could you let this shit happen?”
Ricardo shrugged. “Earl thought he had a solution to our problem. I let him give it a go. Looks like the dude he tried to down was better than him.”
“You’re talkin about Lucas.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We got real trouble now.”
“I expect we’ll be all right, son.”
Larry shook his head gravely. “Don’t call me son.”
“You’re my blood.”
“It’s not like I’m proud of it.”
“Neither am I. You look like me, but you ain’t me.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
As they always did, they came to a verbal stalemate. Ricardo leaned back in his chair. “Anything else?”
Larry’s posture slackened. “No.”
“If I need you, I’ll call.”
Larry left the room. Ricardo could only shake his head.
Beano Mobley entered the office shortly thereafter. “Your boy stormed out of here.”
“What can I say? Larry’s a woman.”
“Do I need to be concerned?”
“I got him under control,” said Ricardo. “But I rue the day I tapped that heifer he calls Mom.”
“We all got regrets.”
“Shoulda pumped my nut into a dirty sock instead.”
“You can pick your nose,” said Mobley, “but you can’t pick your gotdamn relatives.”
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