The Turnaround

by George Pelecanos

  A knock on any door would have told him what he needed to know. Longtime residents who took pride in their homes were always eager to point out the homes of those less inclined to take care of their properties. But he didn’t want anyone to remember him later on. Squinting his eyes, he noticed the mailboxes stuffed with flyers and letters. The mailman had an early route here, and that was good.

  Monroe got out of the Pontiac and adjusted his loose nylon jacket. The screwdriver, now tipped with cork, lay in the inner jacket pocket, handle up, point down.

  He walked to the first run-down house nearest his car and stepped up onto its porch, looking around at the streetscape as he moved along. He went directly to the mailbox and quickly checked its contents. A dog rushed to the closed door, barking. Monroe saw that all of the letters were addressed to a couple of individuals with the same last name, and he moved off the porch and back down to the sidewalk. The dog was still barking as Monroe crossed the street and headed for a house sided by pink and green Formstone. Its yard needed to be mowed, and there were old chairs set up on its porch. Monroe checked the mailbox. It held letters and advertising material addressed to several different male names. Raymond felt his heart race as he knocked on the door.

  A man with a comically long nose stood before him as the door swung open.

  “Yeah.”

  “Baker here?” said Monroe.

  The man blinked hard. “He’s here.”

  Monroe stepped into the foyer of the house. His eyes told the man to step aside and let him. Before Monroe was a long staircase. Beside him, through open French doors, was a living room that had once been nicely furnished but was now trashed. A big man sat in a shredded armchair with the sports section open in his lap.

  “Where’s he at?” said Monroe, looking at the man who had opened the door.

  “Who are you?” said the big man.

  “Where is he?” said Monroe to the man with the trombone nose.

  “He sleepin, most likely.”

  “You ain’t his PO,” said the big man.

  “What room is he sleeping in?”

  “You ain’t his PO and you got no right to be in here,” said the big man.

  “If I was talkin to you, you’d know it,” said Monroe.

  “I’ll call the police.”

  “No, you won’t.” The big man looked down at his newspaper. Monroe turned his attention to the man with the long nose. “What room does he stay in?”

  The man jerked his head up. “First door to the right of the bathroom.”

  Monroe took the stairs. The flame grew inside him as he hit the landing and went to the closed door and kicked it at the jamb. It did not crack, and he kicked it a second time. The door swung open, and he blocked it on the backswing as he stepped inside. Charles Baker, bare to his boxers, was throwing off the sheet, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. Monroe drew the sharpened screwdriver in one motion, tore off its corked tip, and leaped onto the bed. He punched Baker with a sharp left to the jawline that sent him back to the mattress. Monroe straddled Baker and pressed his left forearm to Baker’s upper chest. It pinned him there, and Monroe put the sharp end of the screwdriver to the top of his neck. He pushed it until it punctured the skin and Baker moaned. Blood trickled down over his Adam’s apple.

  “Quiet now,” said Monroe softly. “Don’t speak. I’ll push this pick straight up into your brain.”

  Baker’s hazel eyes were still.

  “Stay away from Pappas and his family. Stay away from my brother forever. I will kill you. Do you understand this?”

  Baker did not respond. Monroe pushed the weapon farther and saw the tip of the screwdriver go deeper into Baker’s skin. Blood flowed freely down his neck. Baker made a small high sound against the pain, but still his eyes were steady. It was Monroe who blinked.

  He felt sick and a sudden chill. The flame died inside him. He pulled the screwdriver out of Baker’s neck, got off him, and stood away from the bed.

  Baker wiped at the blood. He sat upright, his back against the wall. He rubbed at his jawline where Monroe had struck him and he stared at Monroe and smiled.

  “You can’t,” said Baker. “You could have once. But you can’t today.”

  “That’s right,” said Monroe. “It’s not in me and I’m not you.”

  “James and Raymond Monroe,” said Baker with contempt. “The good boys in the neighborhood. Sons of Ernest and Almeda. Lived in the clean house had the fresh coat of paint on it each year. Everything so clean and nice. Only thing missing was the apple pie gettin cool on the windowsill and the bluebirds flyin around it. Weren’t you the lucky ones.”

  “You got wronged when you were young,” said Monroe. “But that don’t excuse you now.”

  “I deserve things.”

  “Leave us alone, Charles.”

  “I’ll think on it,” said Baker.

  Monroe replaced the screwdriver in his jacket, exited the room, and went down the stairs. The men in the living room did not look at him as he left the house.

  In his room, Baker pressed fingers to his neck and walked to the landing at the top of the stairs.

  “Trombone,” Baker called down to the living room. “I need you up here, man. Bring some of that medical shit you got, too.”

  Trombone, the house mother, slowed the blood from Baker’s puncture wound as best he could, cleaned it and dressed it with Neosporin, and sprayed it with Mastisol, a liquid adhesive. Over that he taped a gauze bandage. Almost immediately the bandage became dotted with blood.

  “You better have someone look at that,” said Trombone.

  “Yeah, all right.”

  Baker dressed in black slacks, a lavender shirt, and the tooled leather shoes that looked like gators. He wore his deep purple sport jacket with the white stitching on the lapels. He was not shook up. Instead, he felt almost jovial as he prepared to leave the house. The visit from Ray Monroe had only confirmed what he knew. He was like one of those strong animals, walking proud in plain sight, a hunter who had no need to hide his intent. Because who was going to stop him? No one, it seemed, had the will.

  Charles Baker took Delafield east on foot. He’d catch the 70 on Georgia Avenue, go on over to Cody’s apartment. The boy was out delivering his weed, but he’d be back. There Baker would compose another letter, this one to Pappas, with none of the niceties that his letter to Whitten had contained. Cody could help him with the spelling and grammar. He wasn’t as smart as James Monroe, but he would have to do.

  Baker hummed a tune as he walked down the block, confidence in his step, his knobby wrists protruding from the too-short sleeves of his sport jacket, his hands swinging free.

  Twenty-Four

  ALEX PAPPAS had his head down, counting out ones below the counter, not with any real purpose but because he liked the feel of paper money moving between his fingers and thumb. As he worked, he turned the bills around so that all the heads of George Washington were facing the same way. For his father, it had been a meaningless fetish and it had become his as well.

  He could tell by the dying noise in the shop that the lunch rush was done. He knew this also by the touch of the sun that had just begun to come through the plate glass window. He didn’t need to look at the Coca-Cola clock on the wall to find the time.

  After the ones, he counted the fives, tens, and twenties, and replaced them in their respective beds. He took note of the sole fifty-dollar bill, which he had slipped beneath the change drawer. By figuring the average percentage of cash to credit card sales, he could calculate the take of the day. He had spent his adult life working this register and had become adept at retail math.

  Alex closed the register drawer and walked along the inner counter, his feet treading the mats. He said good-bye to Juana and Blanca, who were laughing at something one of them had said in Spanish, and came up on John and Darlene, who were discussing next week’s menu. All seemed to be in good spirits. It was Friday.

  “Grab your jacket,” said Alex to
John. “Let’s go outside for a few minutes.” To Darlene he said, “Where’s Rafael?”

  “Lover Boy’s out on a delivery.”

  “I saw the ticket. It was for Twenty-second and L, so he should have been back by now. Give him a call on his cell and tell him to quit socializing. The dishes and silver are backing up.”

  “Got it,” said Darlene. “We’ll see you on Monday, right?”

  “I’m opening,” said Alex. “Same as always.”

  Alex and John got their jackets off a tree by the dishwashing station, went through a break in the counter, and exited through the front door. Outside, John followed his father to the ledge decoratively bookended by shrubs. Alex had a seat on the ledge and looked at the shiny bits of quartz embedded in the concrete.

  “I used to jump over this thing all day long when I was a kid,” said Alex.

  “So did we,” said John. “Me and Gus. We’d be out here playing while you were working inside.”

  Alex could see them, John, eleven or so, and Gus, around six, John standing on the deep side of the ledge, ready to upright his younger brother in case he caught the toe of his sneaker on the concrete and tripped.

  “I remember,” said Alex. He rubbed at his shoulder unconsciously as he spoke.

  “Dad, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “All that running you did last night.” John chuckled. “With your shirt off.”

  “I looked good, didn’t I?”

  “Seriously, Pop. Your father died of a heart condition. You need to take care of yourself.”

  “Ahh.” Alex waved his hand dismissively. “My father smoked and had a poor diet. I stay in shape.”

  “I know it.”

  “But I’m not gonna be around forever. We do need to talk. About the future, I mean. I want to get things in order with you, in case I happen to kick.”

  “Dad, don’t be so Greek.”

  “I’m just sayin. I want you to know my intentions.”

  “Okay.”

  “You see that front window there?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you count the early days when I came to work for my father, I’ve been looking through that window, at this street, for forty years. It’s like I’ve been watching the same movie over and over again. It’s time for me to look at something else.”

  “You’re selling the business?”

  “No. But we’re gonna try something new, starting next week. It’s not doing either of us any good, the two of us working together. You’re not gonna learn much more with me around, and the way you’re catching on, I’m becoming as useless as tits on a mule.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “A mule is sterile. It can’t have little mules, so its teats are there for no purpose. There’s no offspring to suck on’em.”

  “I’m asking you, what are you trying to say?”

  “Why don’t we do this? Starting Monday, I’m gonna open the shop the way I always do. I like that time of day, and you’re a young man who still needs a social life. I remember when I was young, working down here, and I had to get up at five in the a.m. It made an impact on my love life because I couldn’t have any late nights out.” Alex casually pointed to his bad eye. “Plus, I had this.”

  “None of that stopped you from hooking up with Mom.”

  “That was just one of those chemical things.” Alex grinned lasciviously. “The first time she came into the magazi, she couldn’t take her eyes off me.”

  “Stop bragging.”

  “Anyway, like I said, I’ll open, and you can plan on coming in around eight, to work breakfast. I’ll stick around for the first hour of lunch and shove off by one o’clock. Little by little, I’ll pull back on my hours and grow yours. We’ll play it by ear, but I don’t think it’ll be too long before you’re able to run the whole thing by yourself.”

  “Dad, I . . .” John looked down at his feet.

  “You’re speechless, for once.”

  “I can’t say I don’t want this. I do want it. But I didn’t expect you to hand it to me. I never felt like I was entitled to it.”

  “You’ll do a fine job. I have no doubt. But you have to understand the magnitude of this commitment. We don’t own the real estate. Our equity is the business itself. Every day you’re starting all over again. Every day you’ve got to turn that key. The help gets sick, but you can’t. They take vacations, but you can’t. If you lock the front door and go on vacation —”

  “— ‘the customers are gonna try someplace new.’ ”

  “Make fun if you want.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I’m telling you, you’ve got challenges up ahead. The chains, you know about. You said yourself you can’t go head-to-head with them. The big unknown is the new landlord and the property management company. They’re tryin to raise the rent. Let Mr. Mallios negotiate with those malakas. Dimitri will put them on their knees.”

  John turned his head. Rafael was coming down N Street, walking and talking with a woman five to ten years his senior. She was a professional, dressed in a business suit, and seemed to be enjoying his company.

  “Kid’s girl crazy,” said Alex, trying for cynical but conveying admiration.

  Rafael said good-bye to the woman, broke away from her, and headed for the store.

  “You’re late,” said Alex as he neared.

  “I was just —”

  “I got eyes. You have dishes to take care of. Go on, Rafael, move it. Get on your horse.”

  Rafael nodded and motored in through the front door.

  “He’s a good worker,” said John.

  “They all are,” said Alex. “The best crew I’ve ever had. Look, you don’t make this possible and neither do I. The help does. You gotta take care of’em, John. There’s gonna be the occasional slow week; bills are going to come due. There are times when you might not be able to pay yourself. But even if it comes out of your own pocket, you’ve always got to take care of the help. Make sure they’re compensated in full on payday. Give them loans when they need it. On holidays, put extra in their envelopes so their kids and grandkids can have nice presents.”

  “Yessir.”

  “I’m giving Darlene a bump in pay.”

  “Absolutely. She deserves it.”

  “One more thing: I expect you to keep making the run to Walter Reed. The contact woman is Peggy, out at the Fisher House.”

  “I’ll leave some nice desserts with her after I get off work. I’ll do it every night if you think I should.”

  “The soldiers like sweet stuff. Peach pie, cherry cheesecake, things like that. Don’t get too fancy.”

  “Got it.” John looked at Alex sheepishly. “Dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you’re turning it over to me, I’m going to want to, you know, modernize the look a little bit. Make some alterations in the decor.”

  “I expected that.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Two things I’m gonna ask you not to change,” said Alex. “First one is the lights over the counter. I know you don’t like them. But your grandfather and I hung those lights together, many summers ago. Those lights mean something to me.”

  “All right.”

  “And the sign. The sign stays.”

  “I wouldn’t touch it, Dad. I’m proud of it.”

  “I am, too.”

  John Pappas’s eyes were heavy with emotion. Alex slid off the ledge and stood before his son.

  “What is it?” said Alex.

  “I’m going to get my own place to stay,” said John. “An apartment or a condo. I think it’s time.”

  “If you’d like.”

  “I’m twenty-five years old. It’s not cool that you’re still waiting up for me at night. I see the lights going out in your room when I pull up in front of the house.”

  “I can’t help it, Johnny. But listen, if you want to move out, I think you should.”

  “I’ve been considering it for a
while. I didn’t do it before because I thought it was best to stay with you and Mom. That you would want me to stick around, after Gus died.”

  “I know.”

  “You were so crushed. Because Gus was . . . well, I know that Gus was the most important person in your life.”

  “John, don’t.”

  “It’s all right for us to admit it. He was special. It’s okay to say that he was.”

  “John —”

  “So I thought it was important that I stay with you and Mom. The truth is, I needed you guys as well. I was pretty sick inside. I loved Gus, too, Dad. Gus was my kid brother.”

  “I know. But we’re better now. We’re going to be.”

  John took a step toward his father.

  Alex pulled his son into his arms and hugged him tightly. They held each other there beneath the sign.

  ALEX DROVE back out to Maryland. He stopped at the property once more to check on some questions of space and feasibility that had been nagging at him since the morning. When he was done measuring and eyeballing the interior, he was satisfied that his original instincts were sound.

  Going through Wheaton, heading for the nursing home where Elaine Patterson stayed, he thought of his son John and the pain that he’d been in since Gus’s death. How inward and selfish Alex’s focus had been. It hurt him that Johnny knew that Gus had been his favorite. Alex had not denied it, and this was something that John would carry, perhaps for the rest of his life. There would come a time when they could talk about their relationship more freely. For now, turning the store over to him, a gesture and an affirmation, was a start.

  But we’re better now. We’re going to be.

  It was not completely a lie. Alex was better than he had been. He had come to terms with his sadness. He’d become resigned to the knowledge that he would never be cured of Gus’s death. That he would grieve for Gus until his own passing.

  But he had Vicki and he had John. The wounds he’d suffered at seventeen were beginning to heal. A new challenge lay ahead. There was room for grief, and good things, too.