The Turnaround

by George Pelecanos

  “We’ll do that one pound,” said Deon. “See how it goes.”

  It went well at first. It was easy finding customers, and the ones they dealt with were friends they’d made at the mall or people those friends could vouch for. If a kid got pulled over in his car and got busted for a bag of weed in his glove box, the event ended there. The no-snitch culture had bled out from the city to the inner suburbs. The police were not respected as worthy adversaries. Uniforms were the enemy. It was unspoken and understood that no one would roll on Cody and Deon.

  In the course of a year, change came rapidly. The lunch place up past Georgia and Alaska closed its doors. Another neon letter on the Morris Miller sign went dark. Cody rented an apartment and furnished it. Charles Baker came into Deon’s mother’s life and inched his way into theirs. Cody quit the job at the shoe store. He bought a gun, the second transaction started by a straw purchase from a firearms store on Richmond Highway in Virginia. They doubled their orders from Dominique.

  Deon didn’t care for the changes. At times, when he was off his Paxil, too high on weed, paranoid and confused, he thought of running away, perhaps moving to another city. But he knew no one outside D.C., and he didn’t want to leave his mother. The bus he had caught was an express.

  “HERE COME that boy now,” said Charles Baker.

  They were parked on Madison, facing west, the dark grounds of the park on their right, residences on their left. A stock Chrysler 300 drove slowly down the block, then executed a three-point turn and backed up so that its trunk was close to their hood. Dominique Dixon got out of the car and lifted the trunk lid as Cody opened the trunk to the Honda using his keypad remote. Dominique quickly retrieved two large black plastic trash bags, each holding a pound of marijuana. He closed the lid with his elbow, went around back of the Honda, and dropped the bags into its trunk and shut it.

  “Kid dresses nice,” said Baker, as Dominique, sporting a leather jacket over a striped designer shirt worn out over expensive jeans, came to the driver’s window, now rolled down.

  “Fellas,” said Dominique, his eyes losing their light as he got a look at Baker, sitting in the passenger seat.

  Cody handed him an envelope containing three thousand dollars cash. Dominique slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket.

  “Why don’t you come on in and sit, boy,” said Baker.

  “I gotta roll,” said Dominique.

  “Don’t wanna be social, huh?”

  “I ain’t trying to get jailed,” said Dominique, attempting to keep a jovial tone to his voice. He looked into the backseat. “We good, Deon?”

  Deon made a very small shake of his head. The movement told Dominique to leave them. Deon’s eyes were saying “Just go away.” Baker caught the signal and it made his blood tick.

  “Yeah,” said Deon. “I’ll get up with you later.”

  “We could go somewhere and talk,” said Baker pleasantly. “I wouldn’t mind gettin to know you better.”

  “I can’t tonight,” said Dominique.

  “Maybe we could go over to where you stay at. Have a drink, somethin like that.”

  “I got plans.”

  “With a woman, I hope,” said Baker, and Cody chuckled. “C’mon, bro, we just wanna visit.”

  “I don’t take my clients to my crib.”

  “Do I stink or somethin?”

  “Look, man —”

  “It’s Mr. Charles to you.”

  Dominique exhaled slowly. He didn’t make the correction. He looked at Deon pointedly and said, “I’m out.”

  He didn’t acknowledge Baker or Cody before returning to his Chrysler. The headlights of the 300 swept across them as Dominique Dixon pulled away.

  “Little motherfucker just so full of disrespect,” said Baker. “Wonder where he off to for real.”

  “Probably back to his spot,” said Cody.

  “You know where he live at?” said Baker.

  “Sure,” said Cody. “Me and Deon dropped some cash off to him once. But he ain’t ask us inside.”

  “Let’s go, Cody,” said Deon. “We need to get off this street.”

  At the apartment, Cody and Deon weighed the weed on scales and began to ounce it out into Glad sandwich bags. Charles Baker paced the floor as a late West Coast NBA game played on the plasma TV.

  “Kobe gonna take it to the Jailblazers,” said Cody, his eyes pink from the bud he’d smoked. “Lakers makin a run.”

  Deon’s cell rang. He answered it, said, “Hey,” and then, “Yeah. Hold up.”

  Baker watched him get up out of his chair at the table and walk down the hall.

  In Cody’s bedroom, Deon closed the door softly behind him. “I’m good now.”

  “Look here, Deon,” Dominique said. “This shit with your man got to stop.”

  “I hear you.”

  “I told you before, I deal with you. Cody’s rough, but he came with the package, and I accepted that from day one. That old man, though, he’s just wrong.”

  “He stays with my mother sometimes. He’s just around, is what it is. I didn’t ask him to be there. He got a way about pushing hisself in.”

  “That’s not my problem. This business I got, ain’t no corner bullshit to it. No chest thumpin, no threats, and no violence. I don’t bring people like him into the circle. Are we straight on that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You my boy, Deon.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Next drop we do, I don’t want to see that man again.”

  “I got you, Dominique.”

  Deon closed his phone. He left the bedroom and went back down the hall. Baker was seated at the table with Cody as the basketball game played at a high volume in the room.

  “Who was that?” said Baker, looking up.

  “My mom,” said Deon.

  “You two got secrets? Why you had to leave out of here to talk?”

  “’Cause y’all got the game up so loud I can’t hear myself think.”

  “She ask to speak to me?”

  “Nah. She got one of them migraine headaches. It might be better if she’s alone tonight.”

  “That her talkin or you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothin,” said Baker.

  That pussy dead to me, thought Baker. And fuck her soft little son, too.

  RAYMOND MONROE sat at Kendall Robertson’s desk and clicked the Outlook icon on her computer screen. She had set up an e-mail address for him, as he didn’t have a computer at his mother’s house. He went to Send and Receive and hit it. A spam solicitation came through, but nothing else. No e-mail appeared from Kenji.

  He hadn’t heard from his boy in a couple of weeks. It was not unusual, but that did not cause him to worry any less.

  Raymond sat in the quiet of the living room and said a short silent prayer for Kenji. His words were always the same: simple thanks for the gift of life, and the gift of life given to his son. Monroe never asked God for anything. He had no right. He thought of his brother, and then the man at the Fisher House with the bad eye. The lives ruined and taken. All you could do was hope for forgiveness and try to live a decent life. Reach out to the ones who got caught up in the ugly mess.

  Monroe phoned his mother, told her he loved her, and said good night. He shut off the lights, went up the stairs, checked on Marcus, and walked into Kendall’s room. Kendall was on her side of the bed, her back to him. She had left a bedside lamp on for him, and in the glow of it he stripped down to his boxers and slid under the sheets. She was naked. He got close to her and ran his hand down her shoulder, arm, and hip. She turned toward his kiss.

  “This is a nice surprise,” he said, cupping her breast.

  “Wasn’t to me,” said Kendall. “I’ve been thinking about it all evening.”

  “What did I do right?”

  “Plenty. The way you are with Marcus, especially.”

  “That boy’s good.”

  “So are you, Ray.”

  “I’m tryin,” said Monr
oe.

  Twelve

  EIGHTY-FIVE ON the soft-shells, Juana,” said John Pappas.

  “Got it, baby,” said Juana Valdez, running a damp rag over the countertop where a customer had eaten moments before. “One mo.”

  Alex heard the exchange but did not turn his head. He was busy ringing out the lady attorney who had just gotten off her stool. The lunch rush was winding down, with only stragglers left at the counter. There would be little turnover now.

  “How was everything today, dear?” said Alex.

  “Fantastic,” said the dark-haired woman.

  She looked over Alex’s shoulder as he made change. The dessert case was there behind him. His father had chosen its location, thinking that customers would want a little something to take back to the office on their way out the door.

  “Tempted?”

  “How’s that peach pie?”

  “Nice. I can wrap you up a slice if you want.”

  “Better not. Shame to let it go to waste, though.”

  “It won’t go to waste,” said Alex.

  The peach pie didn’t move well at the store, but Alex brought it in because the soldiers, many of whom were Southerners, seemed to like it. He had half a cherry cheesecake in the refrigerated case as well. He planned to box them both and run them by the hospital on his way home.

  “Dad.” John Pappas had come down to the register and stood behind his father as the woman left the store.

  “Yes?”

  “Eighty-five on the soft-shells.”

  “I heard you,” said Alex, swiveling on his stool to face his son. Johnny wore black slacks and a sky blue shirt. He looked like a guy about to order a martini, not a counterman. “That’s good.”

  “Don’t be so enthusiastic.”

  “No, I mean it. It’s good. We made a profit and some new friends. I heard positive comments from the customers. Not so much about the soup, though . . .”

  “I shouldn’t have gone with asparagus, I guess.”

  “It makes your pee smell funny. People don’t like it when their urine stinks, especially at work. They gotta share the bathrooms, remember.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  Alex tapped the side of his head. “Use your myah-law.”

  “You want that last order of soft-shells for lunch?”

  “Don’t eighty-six them yet,” said Alex. “A paying customer might want them.”

  “Right.”

  “But if they’re still around in a half hour, have Darlene set me up a plate with sides. She knows what I like.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Johnny?”

  “What?”

  “Are we done with your music for today? Because it all sounds like the same song.”

  “This is Thievery Corporation, Dad.”

  “I don’t care if it’s General Motors and IBM combined. We sell food here, not tabs of X.”

  “Tabs of X?” John chuckled.

  “That’s not the right term?”

  “Maybe you ought to stick to your own era. Love beads and bell-bottoms, like that.”

  “Son, that was before my time.”

  “I’m going to talk to Darlene.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “She’s stoked about tomorrow’s special: shrimp Creole.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “The shrimp’s on sale this week.”

  “Just don’t get too extravagant. This ain’t the Prime Rib.”

  Alex watched John walk down the rubber mats. He stopped to talk to an NAB executive on the way back to the prep area. He asked him about his meal, and what he’d like to see on the menu in the future. The executive seemed pleased that his opinion was being solicited. He had been eating here for years, and he and Alex had not exchanged more than a few pleasant but weightless words.

  By the grill, Darlene stood with her spatula pointed up at the drop ceiling, making a chin motion toward Johnny, then smiling at Alex. Beside her, Blanca was whistling as she began to wrap and store her colds. Rafael was doing some Latin Joe two-step back by the dishwasher. Okay, so they all seemed happier when Johnny was in the house. Not that Alex was a slave driver or a grouch. But the boy did brighten the place like a coat of fresh paint. Still, Johnny had plenty to learn.

  “Love beads,” said Alex as a customer stepped up to the register, guest check in hand.

  “What’s that?” said the man.

  “My son thinks I’m a dinosaur.”

  “Join the club. The difference is, mine has no ambition and he can’t cook.”

  “Come by tomorrow,” said Alex, experiencing an unfamiliar twinge of pride as the man pushed bills across the counter. “He’s doin something with shrimp.”

  CHARLES BAKER had gone into the nursing home for a few hours, on account of his PO, a nice-looking Latina gal, had scheduled a meet. It went all right. He told her he liked his job and had a real good attitude about the future, all the bullshit she wanted to hear. She said that the urine sample he’d given to the clinic had tested fine. It was no surprise to him that he’d dropped a negative. He drank just a little, which was legal for an offender, but did not smoke reefer. Even in his youth, he had not cared for it. It was just as well. The plans he had made were complicated, and for them to work out, his head needed to be right.

  His African supervisor covered for him, told the parole lady that Baker had fulfilled his duties and in general was one of his Johnny-on-the-spot employees. The PO went on her way, and as soon as her car was gone, so was Baker.

  He caught a crosstown bus where Branch Avenue met Pennsylvania. He was on it, headed west, when his cell rang, showing a blocked number. Baker answered his phone.

  “Yeah.”

  “Charles Baker?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is Peter Whitten.”

  Baker grinned. He cleared his throat. He sat up straight on the bench seat he was sharing with a dude who was wearing a coat that smelled like unwashed ass.

  “Mr. Whitten. Thank you for calling me.”

  “Just to be clear, this is the Charles Baker who left a note in my mailbox, isn’t it?”

  “It is me.”

  “I think we should meet face-to-face. How does that sound to you?”

  “My thoughts, too,” said Baker, going for refined.

  “What about tomorrow? Are you free for lunch?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “There’s a place I like. . . . Do you have a pen?”

  “I’ll remember it.”

  Peter Whitten gave him the name of the restaurant, its location, and the time of the reservation. “You should wear a jacket. I think they require it.”

  “Will do,” said Baker. “See you then.”

  He closed his cell. He stared out the window and felt himself smile. He had expected Whitten to be angry at first, if he responded at all. But the man sounded downright reasonable. People with money just did business differently. They acted civilized. Baker wasn’t accustomed to manners and reason, but he could get with it. Wasn’t always violence that got shit done.

  This was going to be easy.

  ALEX PAPPAS stood by the register, counting out the change drawers, his left hand cupped below the edge of the counter as he slid coins into it with the forefinger of his right. His lips moved as he calculated the amounts and entered them on a calculator the size of a paperback novel. The sun had passed, leaving him in the pale yellow glow of the overhead conical lamps.

  Alex cut the register tape at three to hide some profit from the tax man. He left enough money in a metal cash box to get started in the morning, locked the box in the stand-up freezer, and took the remaining cash home to Vicki, who managed their finances, just as he had delivered the chrimahta to his mother when he had first taken over the business. The system worked, and he felt there was no reason to change it.

  Juana and Blanca were gone, always the first to leave. Rafael had finished mopping and rolled the industrial-sized bucket and wringer out to
the back hall. Johnny and Darlene were by the grill area, working out a recipe in a notebook, Darlene having changed into her street clothes, an outfit complete with matching handbag. It was her routine to come back into the shop from the hallway bathroom, dressed nicely, before going home. Alex knew she wanted him to have a look at her, the way she’d done when they were teenagers. Telling him that she was a grill girl in a uniform but also a woman with a life outside the store.

  Rafael ambled down the other side of the counter and had a seat on the stool nearest the register. He too had changed into clean clothing and had doused himself with strong cologne.

  “Hey, boss.”

  Alex finished counting quarters and made an entry on the calculator.

  “Rafael. You got a little behind today on the deliveries. Was there a problem?”

  “Blanca send me too far away, all the way to Si’teenth Street. Then when I get there, the lady don’t have the money collected for the order.”

  “Sixteenth’s out of our delivery area.”

  “I know it!”

  “All right, I’ll speak to Blanca.”

  Rafael did not move to leave. Alex waited, knowing Rafael wanted one of two things. Advice, because he had no father in this country, or money, because he was always short on cash.

  “One more thing, boss.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m takin a girl out to dinner tonight.”

  “One of our customers or a round-the-way girl?”

  “I don’t mess with the customers.”

  “You try.”

  Rafael smiled shyly. “This a girl I meet in my neighborhood. We’re goin to Haydee’s. You know it?”

  It was a place that served Mexican and El Salvadoran food. The owner had come to America from El Salvador, worked as a waitress, and opened her first restaurant on Mount Pleasant Street and then a second on Georgia Avenue. Alex had taken the family to the Mount Pleasant location for dinner one night and bored them, no doubt, with his enthusiastic retelling of another immigrant success story.