The Double

by George P. Pelecanos

  “I make do,” said Spero.

  “Because of the mess in Vietnam, our generation distrusted the military. In the seventies, to go into the service was just about the most uncool thing a young guy could do. Your dad never even considered it. And then, when you enlisted…”

  “What?”

  “He was proud of you, of course. Among other things, Nine-Eleven made many people look at military service in a positive way again. He understood why you felt you had to go and do your part. But he was still angry that we’d gone to war. He didn’t support the decision. He wasn’t fond of politicians who send young men and women to fight and die for an ideological experiment.”

  “I fought for my brothers.”

  “Even so. Your dad wondered how a man like you could be trained and ordered to kill, and then be expected to simply turn that switch off when you came home. He said it was like telling a lion to become a vegetarian.”

  “Most of the guys I served with manage to deal with it.”

  “How about you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you?”

  “Is this about college again? ’Cause I’m still not going.”

  His mother’s gaze was unyielding, but there was a hint of a smile on her face. “You always were stubborn.”

  “Family trait.”

  “Change the subject?”

  “Please.”

  “How’d you like the fayito tonight?”

  “The food was great, Ma. Thank you.”

  “How ’bout a little ice cream or something, for dessert?”

  “I’ve got a big day tomorrow,” said Spero. “I better go.”

  Eleni’s eyes softened. “Se agapo, agori mou.”

  “I love you, too.”

  At his apartment, late that night, Lucas phoned Billy King.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Spero Lucas.”

  “Lucas.”

  “Are you still at the house in Croom?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be here all day.”

  “I was thinking I’d stop by tomorrow night.”

  “You’re coming with what we discussed?”

  “I’m gonna bring it,” said Lucas.

  “Now you’re talking,” said King.

  “Say, just after sundown.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Lucas ended the call and set his phone alarm. He stripped to his briefs and got into bed. Staring at the ceiling, he thought of the coming day.

  You hit us, we hit you.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Since he’d been staying out in the Croom house, Billy King had gotten into a morning routine. He’d wake up early, down a cup of coffee in the kitchen, drive to a diner on 301, and load up with a full-on breakfast. After, he’d head over to the boat launch at Jug Bay, bullshit with the fishermen, talk bait, hulls, and engines. There wasn’t much marina action to speak of down there, which meant few loose women, but the Patuxent River area would have to do for sport until he could get himself to a livelier place. Deep water, powerboats, trim, and drink. It was what he was made for.

  King had never owned a boat, but he had ambition. As of yet, he hadn’t amassed the kind of cash a man needed to afford even a used runabout, let alone a Parker or Shamrock. The maintenance, the slip fees, winter storage, hell, the cost of gas alone…You had to have bank, or be born with it.

  The eighty thousand that Lucas was going to deliver would get King closer to his goal. He’d never had that kind of money, all at once, in his life. Now he was about to score.

  He’d grown up with only the bare essentials. Food on the table, little more. His old man was career military. Glenn King turned a wrench for the air force, and in Billy’s early years, the family moved quite a bit. It was a stretch to call it a family; there was little warmth in the dynamic, and Billy was an only child. His mother was a plain, quiet woman, submissive, obedient to the father, fearful of him when he drank. The father was a beer man who went for quantity, cans, and price over taste. Rheingold, Hamm’s, or Schlitz, depending on where they lived. At the end of the night, the father would sometimes go into his bedroom and wake up the mother, and Billy would hear the creak of the bedsprings and the father’s grunts. But never a sound from his mom.

  The father didn’t praise him or notice him much at all. Glenn was a big man, so Billy, who already had some bulk on him by the time he was thirteen, vowed to get bigger and started throwing weights as soon as he could get into a gym. By the time they moved to Florida, where Glenn was stationed at Eglin AFB, on the Emerald Coast, Billy had grown huge and was recruited to play high school football. In the off-season he wrestled as a heavyweight, and because of his strength and athleticism, he dominated the mats. But football was his sport. Being an accomplished football player meant something in Florida; he was known. He partied with kids who had money, sometimes on big, beautiful powerboats docked at exclusive marinas in the Gulf. The rich kids told him, in subtle ways, that he wasn’t one of them, which only made him more determined to gain entrance to their club. In the locker room, the other guys joked with him about his big pipe, and the word got out, which made him very popular with the girls. Billy banged them in cars, under the mangroves, on the beach at night, and in bathrooms at parties. He got a rep as a guy who could last. He liked to hear the noises the girls made when he was fucking them, and chuckled low when their faces changed as they were about to come. He laughed out loud when they begged and said please. He took little pleasure in the act himself. He’d never loved any of them, or even liked them. Females were whores to him, nothing more than holes.

  The important thing was, he’d outmanned his father. He knew how to cause a girl to make those sounds. He was bigger than his old man, and stronger. He drank bottled Heineken, not piss water in cans. He had a future. He’d never wear a military uniform or have a boss. Billy was going to own a boat.

  But he didn’t get to tell the old man any of this or shove it in his face. Glenn King died of a massive heart attack on base one day while Billy was at school.

  The way it turned out, high school was the highlight of Billy’s life. A torn ACL ended his football career. His grades were shit, so college was out of the question. He was slick but not smart. All he had left was his good looks and size. That got him out of town, and a long way further, for a while.

  Now he was an aging stud nearing his expiration date. He knew this. The sun had wrinkled him prematurely, and though he was as muscled up as ever, he was carrying too much weight. Time seemed to be moving fast. There’d come a day, not too far off, when women would stop wanting Billy King.

  But he had a plan. Secure the money from Lucas, take care of him, and get out of this house. Head back down toward Cobb Island and shack up with Lois. Use her till she was dry, pinch her for her jewelry, and get gone. Move to the South, where life had been good for him. He’d heard the Flora-Bama coast was real nice. Settle somewhere down there, maybe even get a job. Buy himself a boat.

  King went to his bedroom dresser and opened its top drawer. There he kept his cash and a shoe box that had once held his first pair of Chuck Taylors. In it were the things that meant the most to him since his childhood. A baseball signed by an Atlanta Brave, a buffalo nickel coin collection, a pen with multicolored ink that he’d saved up for as a kid, and a cardboard crown. The crown had been made just for him and put on his head at a homecoming dance, when they’d named him Senior of the Year. In sloppy, glittered letters, someone had written “King Billy” on the front of it. King looked at the crown and issued a small smile. This faded as a familiar feeling dropped through him like a black curtain, an emptiness that could never be filled.

  He reached under his socks, took some cash from a roll, and closed the dresser drawer.

  Billy walked downstairs to the living area of the house. He’d cleaned it up as best he could. In a closet he found an aluminum bat he’d purchased the previous day. He leaned this against t
he couch. The couch back had been shot to hell. A .45 with a full magazine was wedged beneath one of the cushions. He’d placed it there himself. Though King wasn’t good with guns, it was there for insurance. He could overpower Lucas. He’d do it with his hands. Or use the bat.

  Billy went to the kitchen in the back of the first floor and made himself a cup of instant coffee. When he was done drinking it, he locked up the house, got into his Monte Carlo, and headed for the diner and a full breakfast. He was going to fortify himself with some food. Come back and dig a hole in the woods. Wait for night, and Lucas.

  By the time King returned it was close to noon. The sun was overhead and the trees from the surrounding forest threw no shadows in the yard. He unlocked the front door of the house, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

  He walked up the stairs and turned the corner, where the plaster wall had been decimated by buckshot. He was going to change into a T-shirt, jeans, and steel-shank work boots, so he could start digging that grave. He moved through the hallway, a large, empty space.

  As he neared the entrance to his bedroom he heard something behind him. His blood jumped as he turned around.

  Lucas was standing in the open doorway of Serge’s old room. He was holding a revolver in his hand, his finger inside the trigger guard. It was a .38, and it was pointed at King’s middle.

  “You came early,” said King calmly.

  “Yep.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Louis gave me a key.”

  “And all you brought was one measly revolver?”

  “It’s all I need. I’ve been out on the edge of those woods since six A.M. When you went out, you made this easy.”

  “I don’t see my money.”

  “I didn’t bring it.”

  “You plan to shoot me?”

  “That depends on you. If you leave right now, we won’t have a problem. That is, if you leave and don’t come back to D.C.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Right.”

  “And if I come back?”

  “Then this is gonna go on.”

  “Why don’t we just settle it right now, then?” said King.

  “We probably should.”

  “You’re not the type to murder me in cold blood.”

  “No.”

  “You want to try me. Don’t you?”

  “I’d say the same thing right now if I was you.”

  “You are me, fella. You’re as close to me as I’ve come across in a long while.” King smiled and pointed his chin at Lucas’s gun. “Now why don’t you throw that gun away and let’s get started.”

  Lucas tossed the .38 onto the bed in Serge’s room. He stepped out of the doorway and into the hall.

  King barked a laugh. “God, you’re stupid. You just made the last mistake of your life.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m gonna break your fuckin neck.”

  Like rams, they charged. Lucas bounced off King as if he’d hit concrete.

  “How’d that feel?” said King.

  Lucas came in again, tried to wrap up King’s arms, but King windmilled and broke free. King moved forward, backed up Lucas, and got him in a hug. He picked him up off his feet and threw him into a wall. The plaster cracked and Lucas felt a sting. As he turned his head he came into a punch that split his ear. Lucas righted himself, got square, and covered up, his elbows tucked into his chest. King, close in, threw a roundhouse and got nothing, then went high and hit Lucas square in the jaw, and Lucas saw white explode in his head. He felt a tooth loosen; his mouth filled with blood. King faked a right, and when Lucas brought up his arms to cover, King threw a left into his ribs and a right that stood Lucas up.

  King dipped and went low for Lucas’s legs. Lucas threw his legs back and pancaked against the shot, but King was too strong, and he drove Lucas back to the wall and put him up against it. Lucas smelled sour breath as King squeezed him in a crushing hug. He fought for air, and in a panic he drove his forehead into King’s face. Lucas did it again, this time with fury, and he felt the cartilage give way on King’s nose; King released him and put a hand to his face. A great deal of blood leaked through his fingers.

  “Okay,” said King. He dropped his hand.

  They circled each other in the center of the hall.

  King was in a stagger stance, his right leg farther forward than the left. Lucas circled to the trail leg. King came forward and grabbed Lucas by the shoulders, and Lucas cross-faced, pushing on King’s cheek with his right biceps. King grunted in frustration and broke free, and as he did his hand raked Lucas’s face.

  King came in strong, faked a shot, and charged bull-like, his massive legs propelling him forward in a steamroller rush. He danced Lucas back toward the stairwell. At its opening Lucas dragged King’s right arm at the same time he dropped and held on, pulling King with momentum, and they both tumbled down the stairs.

  For a few seconds, maybe longer, Lucas blacked out. He was lying at the foot of the stairs. He came to and got to his feet. The room spun. He shook the spin from his head. His left shoulder felt wrong. Blood covered his T-shirt. He swallowed blood and coughed.

  King was standing, cradling his right hand. It was bent unnaturally at the wrist. Bone pushed out against bluing skin. He willed the pain from his face when he saw Lucas staring. He stood straight and smiled. His teeth were pink. His nose was a stew of smashed bone and blood.

  Lucas walked toward King. He knew that King had only his left hand. But the left came fast, and he couldn’t stop it. Lucas’s head snapped back. The tooth that had loosened was now free, and Lucas spit it out onto the hardwood floor. King wheezed in laughter.

  Lucas came back in, threw a wild right that missed and carried him too far, and King hit him with his left fist, once, and again, a granite head blow and a glancing punch to the split ear. Lucas staggered and righted himself, and got back into a straight stance, his weight on his back foot. He balled his fists and touched the thumb of each hand to his nose, his eyes dead on King. Lucas was finding his hands.

  King jabbed with his left, and Lucas stepped away from it. He moved in quickly, grabbed King’s left triceps in a monkey grip, and with his free hand got hold of King’s broken wrist and twisted it. King screamed. Lucas dropped to one knee, shot one arm behind King’s leg, and hooked him there. In one motion he put his good shoulder into King’s torso and exploded up, and with rage and adrenaline he lifted King and tripped him. They both tumbled back to the floor, with Lucas on top. He punched through King’s nose, aiming for the back of his head. He punched him again and again until his hand was slick with blood.

  Lucas rolled off of him and stood. He looked down at King, lying still on his back. His face was unrecognizable, his breathing ragged and labored.

  Lucas turned and went up the stairs, gripping the handrail for support. He found his .38 on Serge’s bed, hefted it, and held it by his side. He rested for a moment, then walked back down to the ground floor.

  Billy King was standing in the center of the room, a .45 in his right hand, an aluminum baseball bat held loosely in his left. One of the cushions of the couch had been pushed aside.

  Lucas raised the S&W and pointed it at King.

  “Fucker,” said King, a hint of regard in his voice.

  “It’s over.”

  King winced and let go of the bat. It dropped and rolled across the floor.

  “Almost,” said King.

  “Drop the gun, Billy.”

  “I can’t do that, fella,” said King, and his gun hand went up.

  Lucas squeezed the trigger of the .38. The slug entered King’s chest. He stumbled and fell. Lucas walked forward and fired, the cylinder of the revolver advancing with each shot. When the hammer clicked on an empty chamber, Lucas lowered his gun.

  King sat with his back against the couch, blood flowing down his shredded polo shirt and into the lap of his shorts. He stared at Lucas as he took short, desperate breaths and the light leaked from his
eyes. King stopped breathing. Lucas kicked him viciously between his legs and there was no reaction at all.

  Lucas picked up King’s Colt, turned it on its side, and racked the slide several times. There had been no chambered round. With only one good hand, King hadn’t managed to ready the gun.

  Lucas holstered the Colt in the small of his back and dropped his .38 in the pocket of his Dickies. He searched the living room floor and found his tooth, and pocketed that as well. There was nothing else he could fix or do. From the kitchen’s refrigerator he liberated a plastic bottle of water, drank half of it down, refilled it with tap water, and walked from the house.

  He entered the woods, short of breath and in pain, and slowly navigated his way back to his Jeep. An hour later, he found his vehicle, parked in the lot of the shuttered gas station, a half mile away.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Lucas stood before the bathroom mirror of his apartment. One ear was torn and bloody, and several knuckles were raw and skinned. His face had sustained scratches from the close-in fight. His jaw was swollen and bruised. It was difficult to fully bite down. When he raised his arms to remove his T-shirt, his left shoulder pained him greatly, telling him that his rotator cuff had been strained or torn in the fall down the stairs. It hurt to take deep breaths. When he smiled he could see the space where his incisor had been. He looked like a hillbilly meth dealer who’d taken a beat-down at the hands of police.

  Lucas took a long shower. After he’d dried off, he phoned Marquis Rollins.

  “I could use some help,” said Lucas. “I’m at my apartment.”

  “What do you need?”

  Lucas gave him a list. “No questions, Marquis.”

  Marquis said, “Right.”

  Lucas was in bed when Marquis knocked on the door. He got up with effort and let him in. Marquis took a look at him and shook his head. But he asked him nothing.

  Straightaway, Lucas ate a couple of the Vicodin that Marquis had been given at the VA Hospital. They went into the bathroom, where Lucas sat on the edge of his tub while Marquis worked on his friend. He poured hydrogen peroxide on his cuts, his torn earlobe, and knuckles, applied Neosporin to the same areas, and gauzed and taped him where it was needed. Lucas himself rubbed Anbesol on the bloody gap where his tooth had been, and Orajel on the cuts inside his mouth. Marquis wrapped Lucas’s chest with tape. He could do nothing for Lucas’s shoulder.