The Man Who Came Uptown

by George Pelecanos

  “I’m going to take some notes,” said Ornazian, opening the Moleskine notebook with lined paper that he carried with him. “For me only. No one else will ever see them. Okay?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ornay-jun.”

  “Call me Phil.”

  “Phil.”

  “Where do you work?”

  She told him. It was a row house on a mostly residential street in Columbia Heights, just inside Georgia Avenue, northwest of Howard U.

  “Describe the layout,” said Ornazian.

  “There is a bar and place to sit on the first floor where we present ourselves. Four small rooms upstairs where we work.”

  “Security?”

  “A couple of men, always. And Gustavo and his man, when they come.”

  “His man?”

  “Cesar. His segundo and bodyguard. Gustavo has a business down the street. Little more than a bar and a pool table. Is called the Nine Ball.”

  “He comes to collect the money?”

  “He comes to do whatever he wants. Sometimes he comes to pay others.”

  “What others?”

  “For protection. The MS-Thirteen.”

  “They’re in the brothel all the time?”

  “Only to pick up their money. Twice a week.”

  “Is there a lot of money coming in and going out?”

  Marisol shrugged. “I don’t see the money. But I think so.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t see the money?”

  “I don’t touch it. Some of the other girls keep half of what they make, after they’ve paid the house for condoms and wipes. I’m working off my entry to this country. I keep nothing. Sometimes I get tips.”

  “Where does the money go?”

  “Gustavo and Cesar take the money out in a leather briefcase at the end of every night. On the weekends there are two briefcases.”

  “Take it out where?”

  “I don’t know.” Marisol reached into a small handbag and produced a slip of paper. “But here is where Gustavo lives.”

  Ornazian took the paper and scanned a Hyattsville, Maryland, address. “You’ve been here?”

  “For his parties.”

  “Why did you write his address down?”

  “Because I hoped this day would come.”

  “What do you want?” said Ornazian.

  “Money,” said Marisol. “For me and my baby girl. I have a brother in Houston. He works the construction. I will go to him.”

  Ornazian thought it over. “It would be good for me to get a look inside that brothel.”

  She shook her head. “You cannot come in. No gringos.”

  “What if I send a Hispanic man in?”

  “Only El Salvadorans. If a Mexican or a Nicaraguan comes in, they know it is some kind of police.”

  “So where do the customers come from?”

  “They find them at bus stops. Or the spots where the men wait for work. Home Depot. Seven-Eleven. They bring them to the house in vans. Even a man who is out of work can find thirty dollars if he is lonely for a woman.”

  “You speak good English.”

  “I lived near the embassy in Guatemala City from when I was young. I cleaned apartments. There were many Americans.” Marisol looked around once again and leaned in close to Ornazian. “No one can ever know we spoke.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I’m afraid.” She bit her lip. Shyly she said, “What will I get?”

  “A thousand dollars. Clear the message you texted me along with your photo. Clear out my contact information from your phone. From here on in, I’ll reach out to you if I need you.”

  “So you will help me.”

  Ornazian said, “I need to think it over.”

  But in his head he said Yes.

  Thirteen

  ANNA AND Rick Byrne had wanted to get some dinner out and maybe a drink after their meal, so they walked over to the strip on Eleventh Street, where there were choices. Rick was in the mood for one of those wood-oven pizzas they made at the District Line, and Anna, who liked the food there, was fine with that. The plan was dinner at the DL, then maybe a beer afterward at Wonderland or Meridian Pint. They had done this very same thing many times before.

  At the restaurant, they sat at the bar, their preference. The ginger-haired tender set them up with silverware and they ordered two personal-size pizzas and a couple of D.C. Brau pale ales. Anna had her hair down and was wearing mostly black and a pair of distressed short Frye boots. Rick was wearing his gear: track pants, a white pullover sporting the Callaway logo, and gray New Balance 990s. To strangers, they appeared to be a couple going in two different directions, and that assumption was not incorrect. Rick’s trajectory was toward a retirement golf community in Florida, where the people looked like him, had five-thirty cocktails and early-bird specials. Anna preferred to live out her life in a city where there was diversity and culture. But this was undiscussed because it was so far away.

  The place was busy, but no one was in the weeds. The bartender was playing a long jam over the house stereo. It sounded like African music, and Rick said, “Who is this, Paul Simon?” and the bartender said, “Fela Kuti.”

  “Paul Simon,” said Anna, and chuckled.

  “What?” said Rick.

  He talked to her about a corporate case he was involved with. Something to do with insider trading. He might have to travel down to Atlanta soon to take a deposition. She kept the conversation going politely. She was interested in what he was up to, but her mind had wandered to her book club, which was coming up in the chapel that week. She had chosen a literary novel for the men, and she wondered if she had erred, as the book was very well written but light on plot. Also, she was second-guessing the mostly nonfiction books she had staged that afternoon for the GED unit and that she was set to deliver the next morning.

  She was staring off, thinking on her job, when Michael Hudson appeared at the service end of the bar, a rack of glassware in his arms. He was wearing a watch cap and an apron over a T-shirt, and his face was sheened with sweat. He placed the glassware rack on the bar and looked out into the dining room. He saw Anna and smiled. She felt herself smile back with spontaneous affection. So Michael was out in the world, working. He hadn’t transitioned to a federal prison.

  Michael grabbed what looked like a clean bar rag, wiped his face dry, and walked down to where Anna and her companion were seated.

  “Michael,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it firmly.

  “Miss Anna.”

  “Just Anna, please.”

  “Okay. Anna.”

  “This is my husband, Rick.”

  Rick, a gentleman and a fan of ritual, got off his stool to shake Michael’s hand. They were both tall men.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Rick, and then he looked to Anna for an explanation.

  “Michael was one of my clients.”

  “Anna turned me on to books,” said Michael.

  “Cool,” said Rick, and he sat back down.

  “So, you’re working here,” said Anna lamely.

  “Yeah, I’m down in the kitchen. Been here since I got out.”

  “I didn’t know what happened to you.”

  “My charges got dropped,” said Michael. “I’m not on parole. Just, you know, done. So it’s all good, you know?”

  “I’ll say. Congratulations.”

  “I been reading. Got a library card and everything. Bought a couple of those books you turned me on to so I can start my own collection. I’m staying at my mother’s house over on Sherman.”

  “We don’t live far from here either. We’re in Park View.”

  Anna could feel Rick’s eyes on her and she decided to say no more. She was just making conversation but she knew her husband would find it odd that she’d give out such information to an offender. She barely knew Michael but she trusted him.

  They all felt the silence.

  “I better get back to it,” said Michael, adjusting the watch cap he wore jaun
tily cocked on his head. “The dishes are backin up. You got any recommendations for me?”

  “We’re reading The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears in the book club. It’s by a young Ethiopian writer, set in D.C. I think you might like it.”

  “Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears,” said Michael, repeating the title like he used to do when Anna would give him verbal tips in lockup. “I’ll check it out. Thanks, Anna.”

  “You’re very welcome,” said Anna.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Michael to Rick, and once more he shook his hand.

  “You too,” said Rick.

  Michael went back toward the hallway. He glanced over his shoulder and met Anna’s gaze one more time, then entered the hall and descended the staircase. When she’d looked into his eyes, Anna felt something stir inside her, and it confused her. Rick’s voice nearly startled her.

  “What was that about?” said Rick.

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “He’s a criminal. And you told him where we lived.”

  “I identified our neighborhood, that’s all. He doesn’t even know our last name. I go by Anna Kaplan in the jail, remember? Besides, Michael would never bother me.”

  Rick shook his head. “Don’t be so naive, Anna.”

  Maybe she was naive. But she thought Michael Hudson was one of the good guys, and she was happy for him. It seemed like he was doing fine.

  Later, after the restaurant had closed, Michael approached the bartender, Callie, who was using the soda gun to rinse out her nets and asked her if he could have a look at the credit card receipts from the night. It was probably against the rules, but Callie liked Michael and she let him do it.

  AFTER MIDNIGHT, Ornazian and Thaddeus Ward sat on a street off Georgia Avenue in Columbia Heights, near a bar that was identified solely by an illustration of a nine ball on a light box. Its plate-glass window had been tinted nearly black and the window was mostly covered with posters advertising twenty-dollar buckets of Corona and single bottles of limed-up Bud Lights for two seventy-five. The writing on the posters was in Spanish and there were small-statured men going in and out of the spot and some who stood outside the door catching smokes. There was a video camera mounted above the door.

  Ornazian and Ward were in a Lincoln Mark, one of Ward’s black cars. They were parked tightly behind an SUV that was blocking a view of their front license plate. Down the street toward Georgia, a half a block away, stood a simple, unremarkable row house. A preteen boy sat in a chair beside the front steps, cell phone in hand. Above the front door was a short pole holding a rolled-up flag. A video camera was mounted on the brick wall over a second-floor window.

  “Lotta cameras on this block,” said Ward.

  “Lot of cameras everywhere,” said Ornazian. “Takes the sport out of the game.”

  A white windowless van pulled up in front of the house. The boy got on his cell and spoke into it, and then five Hispanic men got out of the van and entered the house.

  “That lookout kid just talked to someone inside,” said Ward. “And I’ll bet if that flag is unfurled, it’s some kind of sign too. Like, ‘We got lawmen on the premises, don’t come in.’ They got this shit wired up tight. You said they using MS-Thirteen for security?”

  “They call it security. But I think it’s the opposite. It’s payoff money to keep MS-Thirteen off their backs.”

  “You reckon our boy Gustav got his own men in there with iron?”

  “I would think. But we’re not going to take him off in the whorehouse.”

  “Would be good to get a look inside it.”

  “They don’t let anyone in but El Salvadorans.”

  “Remember my employee Esteban?” said Ward. “You met him. He’s from that neck of the woods.”

  “Esteban is Spanish for Stephen.”

  “For real?”

  “I’m sure he’s a nice guy, good school spirit and all that. But we don’t need Esteban.”

  “You mean you don’t want to cut him in.”

  “That too.”

  “We could darken you up some and send you in. But then you might have to partake. And I know you wouldn’t do that. ’Cause you’re—what’s that word? Monogamous.”

  “It’s from the Greek. Monos means ‘alone.’ Gamos means ‘marriage.’ But gamo is also the Greek vulgar for ‘fucking.’ So monogamous means ‘one fuck.’ If you want to get deep about it.”

  “You call that deep?”

  Ornazian got into the photos in his iPhone and found what he was looking for. He handed the phone to Ward. “Here. That’s why I don’t stray.”

  Ward looked at the photo. It was Ornazian’s wife, Sydney, lying nude on their bed in a provocative pose.

  “Damn, boy. She’s finer than a motherfucker. How did an ugly-lookin dude like you hook up with that?”

  “I’m like a can of Coke down there.”

  “You mean when you shake it, it pops off.”

  “Funny.”

  Ward handed Ornazian the phone.

  Soon three men walked out of the Nine Ball and headed down the block toward the brothel. A swaggering overweight man with a cat mustache, wearing an ill-fitting sport jacket and a thick tie, was clearly the leader. Another man, short of stature, built, with the clean-shaven face of a native Central American, walked beside him. A third man, predictably goateed and with gelled hair, trailed them.

  “The fat man would be Gustav,” said Ornazian.

  “So that Wladislaw-lookin cat next to him would be his top gun.”

  “Wladislaw?”

  “Charles Bronson in The Dirty Dozen. Like everything I speak on, it’s before your time.”

  “If that’s Gustav’s segundo, his name is Cesar.”

  The men entered the brothel.

  “We’re gonna need a driver,” said Ornazian.

  “This does look a little more complicated than our usual thing,” said Ward. “You got someone in mind?”

  “Yeah. There’s a guy who owes me a favor. Stand-up dude, can handle a car.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He was up on felony charges and was looking at five years. Pulled a rip-and-run on a marijuana dealer.”

  “And?”

  “The dealer called 911 on my man and his partner as soon as they robbed him.”

  “That’s against the code.”

  “You’d think. Police arrived on the scene and gave chase as he and his partner were pulling away. My man lost them but they made his plates. He was driving his mother’s car.”

  “That’s not smart.”

  “I think he’s aware of that now. When he was arrested, he refused to give up his partner. My man took the gun charge even though he told me he never touched one.”

  “And why does he owe you?”

  “I got him off.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “I found the marijuana dealer and told him that he needed to think very carefully of the health and welfare of his family.”

  “In so many words, you threatened his wife and kids.”

  “Semantics. I would never have done anything to his spouse or his children. You know that. The point is, he made the right decision and opted not to testify.”

  “And you did this why? Sayin, what was the reasoning behind you sticking your neck way out for this driver?”

  “I was banking a favor. The way things are for you and me, we got a little business going now. Like any business, we’re gonna grow. The jobs get more complex, we’re gonna need help. I knew this dude could handle a car. And I saw that he would stand tall if he got under the hot lights. What I’m telling you is, he was a find. I knew I could use him up the road.”

  “Huh,” said Ward.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Witness tampering. You could get a dime for that. When’s the last time you took a job and did it clean?”

  “It’s a war out here,” said Ornazian. “I’m trying to feed my family.”

  “I been in a war,
young man. This ain’t it.”

  “Feels that way to me.”

  “The more you cross the line, the harder it is to come back. Believe me, I know.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  Gustav, Cesar, and the third man came out of the brothel and went toward a black Range Rover Sport that was parked across the street. Cesar was carrying a leather briefcase. He got behind the wheel and Gustav took the passenger seat. The third man got into a blue Mustang GT and cooked the ignition. The SUV started and pulled off the curb. The driver of the Mustang followed.

  Ward ignitioned the Lincoln, waited, then followed the Range Rover north on Georgia.

  “Keep it loose,” said Ornazian. “I don’t care if we lose them. I have his home address. He lives out in Hyattsville. I want to see if he makes any stops before he goes to his house.”

  Ward side-glanced Ornazian. “Can I see your phone again? I just want to look at something.”

  Ornazian ignored this and settled into his seat.

  Gustav and his men did not stop. They went directly to his house. Ornazian and Ward surveilled the residence and talked about a plan.

  Fourteen

  ONE DAY, walking home from work, Michael Hudson saw an unfinished, three-level, freestanding bookcase that had been placed out on the curb in front of a restored row home on Sherman Ave. It had a piece of notepaper taped to it and on the paper, written in black Magic Marker, was the word Free. Michael guessed it had been put out by one of the new residents in the neighborhood. Those folks tended to throw things away before it was time.

  Michael inspected the unit. It was a piece from Ikea or someplace like it, fitted together with barrel dowels. He knuckled one of the shelves. Felt like wood and not particleboard. He lifted up the bookcase and carried it away.

  A couple of blocks from his mother’s house, he came up on Carla Thomas, who was on the porch of her grandmother’s place with her daughter, Alisha. Carla called his name. Michael put the bookcase down and walked up the steps to her porch.

  “Hey, Michael.”

  “How you doin, Carla? Hi, baby girl.”

  “Hi,” said Alisha shyly.