Alex thought of the Monroes and the conversation that had gone on in the garage hours earlier. The usual topics discussed among men, the rhythmic banter, the gentle ribbing that went on between brothers. A look that had crossed Ray Monroe’s face.
And he thought: Something is not right.
Twenty
PETE WHITTEN walked into Pappas and Sons around two thirty, after the lunch rush, when most of the customers had cleared out. He took a seat on the stool closest to the register, where Alex stood counting cash. Alex stopped, put a stack of bills into the tens bed, and closed the register drawer. He reached across the counter and shook Whitten’s hand.
“Pete.”
“Alex. Long time.”
“Too long.”
It had been over twenty years. The last he’d seen Pete, not counting when he’d seen his photograph in the newspapers, was at the funeral of Billy Cachoris’s father, Lou Cachoris. Mr. Cachoris had died in the eighties, a dozen years after the incident in Heathrow Heights. Some said he deliberately drank himself into his grave after the murder of his son, but that was Greeks being Greek about death; the newspaper said that the cause of his passing was cancer of the brain.
It was at the viewing of Lou Cachoris, held at the Collins Funeral Home on University Boulevard, that Alex had run into Pete, recently married and sporting a wide-shouldered, wide-lapeled suit with a red power tie. His hair was gelled and spiked with Tenax, in the de rigueur “punk” businessman look of the time. If he had been outside he would have been sporting Vuarnets.
“Meet my wife, Anne,” said Pete.
Alex said hello to her, a good-looking blonde, thin waist, thin ankles, wearing something expensive, and introduced them both to Vicki, wearing something off the department store rack. They all seemed aware of their status and where their lives were or were not headed, though they were only in their twenties, and still, Alex was proud to be with Vicki and to show her off. She looked, well, nicer than Anne.
Alex had debated going to the service, knowing that he would be on the receiving end of the mootrah, the whispers, long faces, and stares from the Cachoris relatives. They all knew he had been in the car that day and had done nothing to help his friend. But he felt that it was proper, due to his relationship with Billy, to pay his respects to the father.
After talking with Pete and Anne, Alex went to the open casket. He kissed the ikona, did his stavro, and looked down at the corpse of Lou Cachoris. His face seemed to have been flattened by a mallet. Someone had slipped a photograph of a teenage Billy under the sleeve of his burial suit, and Alex impulsively bent forward and kissed Mr. Cachoris’s forehead. It felt as if he were kissing one of the artificial apples his mother had always kept on their dining room table. He said a silent prayer for Billy, and for the way things had gone for the father and son. As he opened his eyes, an uncle or cousin was standing next to him, telling him quietly and firmly that the family didn’t want him there and that it was time for him to go.
He looked around, not seeing Pete or his wife, who had already left the building, and got Vicki’s attention. They walked out together as the priest from Saint Connie’s arrived. Going down the center aisle of the viewing room, Alex felt many gazes directed at him, the boy who had not stood beside his friend against the mavres, who now carried the mark, the ugly eye. Out in the lobby, he heard the attendees begin to sing the “Everlasting Be Thy Memory” song, which was supposed to make everyone feel better but instead made them feel sadder than shit. That, at least, was how it felt to Alex whenever he heard that song thereafter. Sadness, and something close to shame.
And now Pete Whitten was in his shop, handsome, successful, and relatively unravaged by time. The suit would be a Canali, the tie Hermès, the sunglasses in the breast pocket Revos. His hair was perfectly disheveled, and his jacket fit him impeccably. Pete did look good.
“I’ve got to apologize,” said Pete.
“For what?”
“I’ve been working a few blocks from here for most of my career, and I’ve never stopped in to say hello or patronize the place.”
“It’s okay.”
“Mostly my lunches are business lunches. All of them expensed. So normally I’m in restaurants.”
“This is a restaurant,” said Alex.
“You know what I mean.”
“Sure.”
Pete took his arm off the counter and brushed something that was not there off his sleeve. He looked around and nodded his head approvingly.
“It looks good,” said Pete. “You’ve got a nice place here.”
“We keep it clean.” Alex pointed to the prep area, where Johnny and Darlene were looking at a book spread out on the colds board. “That’s my son John.”
“Good-looking boy. Named after your dad?”
“Yes. Johnny made a good tuna fish salad today. With curry in it. It’s a combination I never would have thought to try, but the customers loved it. Would you like me to have them make you a sandwich?”
“I’ve eaten, thanks.”
“So what can I do for you, Pete?”
“Alex, we’ve got some catching up to do. We should try and get together. You, me, our wives. Have dinner or something.”
“Okay.”
“But that’s not why I stopped in today. I have some rather disturbing news.”
Pete told him about the letter and the meeting he’d had with Charles Baker. Pete described the Baker conversation thoroughly, recounting the details as Alex would expect an attorney to do. Alex feigned surprise. It had gone, apparently, as Alex thought it might, given Pete’s professional experience and personality. Pete had, in effect, shown Baker the door and threatened him with legal action if he did not cease his attempts at extortion.
“And what was your impression?” said Alex. “Do you think this is over?”
“I have no way of being certain, which is why I’m here. I wanted to warn you that this Baker character was out there in the world. If I remember correctly, he’s the one who assaulted you.”
“Yes.”
“Well, he might come to you next. I’m saying, it’s possible. Of course, I clearly stated the ramifications of any further contact in my meeting with him. But my impression was that he’s not very smart. Also, he could be violent. He has a history of it, after all.”
“I see.”
“And there might be others involved. I’m speaking of the boy who shot Billy. And wasn’t his brother there, too?”
Alex took a moment, to give the appearance that he was thinking it over, and then nodded his head.
“The three of them could be in this together,” said Pete. “You know how these people are.”
“These people?”
“Criminals, Alex. You’re not going to get sensitive on me, now, are you? Because we’re talking about facts and statistics here. Criminals, in general, don’t change their stripes. I live in the real world, and I would think that you do, too. I’m only trying to make you aware of what’s going on here.”
“Okay,” said Alex. “The question is, what should I do if I’m contacted by Baker?”
“I gave him his last chance. If he contacts you, call the police immediately.” Pete reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card, which he slid across the counter. “And certainly you’re going to want to get me involved. I have, well, I have resources that you probably don’t have. Private detectives, police . . . I know people down in the U.S. attorney’s office. If Baker rears up his ugly head again, we can take care of this quickly.”
“I appreciate it, Pete,” said Alex, taking the card and placing it atop the deck of the register. “I do.”
“I felt it was serious enough to contact you. He came to my house in the Heights and delivered the letter himself, apparently.”
“The Heights?” Alex couldn’t resist.
“Friendship Heights,” said Pete.
“And the letter . . .”
“Was typed and printed off a computer. He thought h
e was being slick, but the printer can be traced. His prints as well.”
“Right.”
“It won’t be a problem. But you needed to know about it.”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s funny,” said Pete. “Meeting Baker brought back that day to me. I hadn’t thought too much about the incident as the years passed because, well, I guess it’s because I’ve changed so much. It doesn’t even seem like I’m the same person that I was at seventeen. Does it feel that way to you?”
“Yes,” said Alex, not wishing to prolong the conversation any further.
Pete slid off the stool and shook Alex’s hand. “I’ve got to get back to the office. Let’s do that dinner and catch up.”
“Sounds good.”
“Take care, Alex.”
“So long.”
Alex watched him go. There would be no dinner. Neither of them wanted it. Pete was still the person he’d been at seventeen, but he’d never know it. He had run that day and freed himself. He’d then gone on to college and law school, a solid and lucrative career, a house in the Heights. He was still running, in a way. Billy, on the other hand, had stood his ground. The last thing Billy had done before he was shot was point at Alex and tell him to go. Among the many things Billy had been, some not of his own making, he had been a friend. As for Alex, he had not acted. He was simply the kid in the backseat of the car.
“Dad?”
Alex turned. “Yes.”
“What did you think about the special?” said John Pappas.
“It worked. The curry was a nice, what do you call that, complement to the tuna. Only . . .”
“What?”
“You gonna turn this place into an Indian joint?”
“Yeah, Dad, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Next thing, you’re gonna throw away the silverware, and the customers will be eating with their hands.”
“That would be Ethiopian.”
“Oh, really?”
“I don’t think you have to worry.”
“I’m saying, you sold twice as many burgers and chicken cheesesteaks as you did tuna fish sandwiches today, right? Don’t forget your bread and butter. That’s all.”
“I don’t plan on it.”
“Good. Here you go.” Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys that worked on the front and back doors and the freezer. He handed them to Johnny. “I made these for you.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re doing a real good job.”
“Thank you.”
“So I’m gonna let you close today. I’ve got somewhere I need to be. I was thinking I’d take the rest of the afternoon off.”
“For real?”
“There’s nothing to closing. The help know their side work and cleanup duties. Darlene will help you with the ordering. Cut the register tape off in a half hour. As far as the money goes, tomorrow is not a day for bills, and it’s not payday, either. So leave about fifty bucks in bills and change, put it in the metal cash box, lock the box in the freezer, and take the rest home to Mom.”
“I can do that.”
“Don’t worry about making a mistake. Just make sure the doors are locked behind you. I can deal with anything else in the morning.”
“You trust me?”
“Sure, why not?”
“I don’t know. After you’re gone, we might all decide to, like, drop tabs of X or something.”
“You,” said Alex with a wave of his hand. Get out of here. You bother me. I love you.
John Pappas smiled at his father, walking down the mats. Darlene had her back to the grill board, watching Alex, twirling a spatula in her hand.
“I’m gone for the day, Darlene.”
“That’s a first.”
“Get used to it.”
He neared Rafael, using the overhead spray nozzle to power-wash a pot.
“You leave, boss?” said Rafael.
“Yeah. How was your date with that girl?”
Rafael smiled and winked.
“Good boy,” said Alex. He exited through the back door.
RAYMOND MONROE sat beside Kendall Robertson in her office, the two of them holding hands, talking quietly in the late afternoon. Kendall had drawn the blinds. She had been crying a little but was finished now and held a balled-up tissue in her free hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t apologize. Everyone around here deserves a good cry now and again. Not just the patients.”
“They’re stronger than I am, most times.”
“What did it today?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was with Private Collins again, the one they call Dagwood?”
“The young man thinking about the voluntary amputation.”
“He’s not on the fence anymore. I put in his request yesterday. I was just checking in on him, to see how he was doing with it.”
“And?”
“He’s fine. It was me who got angry, walking out of his room. And then that anger turned into emotion.” Kendall tossed the tissue into the wastebasket by her desk. “I was over on Wisconsin Avenue the other day, in Maryland, walking by a theater. It was the movie with the girl got the machine gun implanted in place of her amputated leg. And you just know young people were gonna be in that theater, watching it, clapping and laughing behind that bullshit. While young men and women are dying, losing arms and legs, and for what? So those well-off kids can put gasoline in the cars that their mommies and daddies bought them? So they can buy their two-hundred-dollar jeans?”
“They were told to do that,” said Monroe. “Take your tax cut and go shopping.”
“They’re supposed to forget that there’s a war. No coffins, no dead. I wasn’t around and neither were you, but didn’t this whole country contribute and sacrifice during World War Two?”
“My father used to talk about that all the time.”
“Used to be ‘Ask what you can do for your country.’ Now it’s ‘Let’s watch Dancing with the Stars. Let’s go to the mall.’ ”
“So if you give up,” said Raymond, “is that gonna make things better for these soldiers?”
“Please. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You do have fire, Kendall.”
“I need to burn off some of this negative energy.” Her finger traced a circle in his palm. “You coming over tonight? Marcus would like to see you, too.”
“You know I want to. But I got some issues with my brother that I need to keep an eye on. And I want to make sure my mother’s all right.”
“Man who’s fifty years old —”
“I’m forty-nine.”
“Still staying with his mother. I’d say it’s time for that man to reevaluate.”
“I get your point. But see, you of all people . . . You been talking about taking responsibility, how we all gotta pitch in. When someone sacrifices, the ones who didn’t, well, they need to show support.”
“I know, Ray. You got that thing that you’re carrying. But look, I’m not asking you for vows or a ring. I’m just tired of looking at your overnight bag on my floor. You could have your own dresser, for starters.”
“True.”
“And Marcus needs a man around full-time.”
“You think I fit the bill?”
“Stop playin. Marcus loves you, Ray.”
“I feel the same way. Far as he goes, I was thinking about taking him to a Wizards game. They’re about to make a home stand. Seats gonna be nosebleed, but hey.”
“He gets near that Verizon Center, he’s gonna smile.”
“You could come, too.”
“It’ll take more than a ten-dollar seat and a hot dog to buy me off.”
Monroe squeezed her hand. “Just give me a little time.”
Twenty-one
THE PRESIDENT of the historical society had an office in a civic building near antique-and-tea-shop row. The building was in a section of town filled with Victorians on lushly landscaped grounds. Within s
ight of the civic building sat a six-bedroom house once owned by a man named Nicholson. Thirty-five years earlier, Raymond Monroe, a kid from the all-black neighborhood nearby, had thrown a rock through one of the bedroom windows after being shortchanged by Mr. Nicholson on a lawn-cutting job. The policeman who came to the Monroe house had given him what was known as a Field Investigation and a stern warning, telling the boy’s father, Ernest Monroe, that his son was a “hothead” who would only be given one more chance.
Alex Pappas knew none of this as he sat in the small office of Harry McCoy, the society’s self-appointed archivist. McCoy was a large man with tattooed forearms and a gut; his wire-rimmed glasses lessened, somewhat, his stevedore appearance. He had enthusiastically welcomed Alex into his office, relishing the chance to talk local history. There were framed photographs of businesses, streets, homes, and residents, going back to the turn of the previous century, hung throughout the office. All of the people in the photographs were white. None of the photos, Alex assumed, depicted life in Heathrow Heights.
“You’re talking about Nunzio’s,” said McCoy after Alex had described the market with the wooden porch.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“It’s closed now, of course. Houses were built where it once stood. The man who was running it retired and sold the property, but he would have gone out of business eventually. He couldn’t compete with the Safeway up the road.”
“Do you have his name?”
McCoy had pulled a file and was inspecting its contents on his desk. “That’s what I’m looking for. Here it is.” He glanced over the tops of his glasses. “Salvatore Antonelli. His father, the man who founded the market, was named Nunzio.”
“Is Salvatore alive?”
“I don’t know, but it’s easy enough to find out. I believe they were locals. Unless he passed or moved away, that’s a name that should be in the phone book. You’re welcome to have a look.”
Alex scanned the white pages and wrote down some information on a pad.
“If you need more,” said McCoy, “there’s a man who lives in Heathrow Heights who’s kind of their historical caretaker.”
The Turnaround Page 19
