Down By the River Where the Dead Men Go

SEVENTEEN

Theodore Roosevelt Island is a nature preserve, eighty-eight acres of swamp, forest, and marsh in the middle of the Potomac River, between Virginia and D.C. I took the GW Parkway to the main lot and parked beside Barry’s Z. A couple of immigrant fisherman sat with their rods on the banks of the Little River, and a Rollerblader traversed the lot, but typical of a midweek day in midsummer, the park looked empty.

I took the footbridge over theI. I river, then hit a trail up a grade and into the woods, to the monument terrace. I crossed the square, walking around the seventeen-foot-high bronze statue of a waving Teddy Roosevelt that sat on a high granite base, and walked over another footbridge spanning a dry moat. Then I cut left onto a wide dirt path that wound through a forest of elm, tulip, and oak and took the path down to where it met the swamp trail that perimetered the island. I stayed straight on in, toward the water. Barry was there, wearing a white T-shirt and shorts, sitting on a fallen tree, beneath a maple that had rooted at the eroded bank.

“Hey, Barry.”

“Hey, man.”

I sat on the log, my back against the trunk of the maple. Barry watched me as I shook a cigarette out of my deck and struck a match. I rustled the pack in his direction. He closed his eyes slowly and I put the pack away.

Across the channel, the Georgetown waterfront sprawled out, with K street running below the Whitehurst Freeway. Behind it were buildings of varying size, with the smokestack tower of the Power House rising above the skyline. To the right was the Kennedy Center; to the left, Key Bridge; and on the hill beyond, the halls of Georgetown University. Barry stared at the crew-graffitied bulkhead on the D.C. side, transfixed by it, or maybe not thinking of it at all.

“You come down here a lot?”

“Yeah,” he said. “This here’s my spot. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“Sure.” I thought of my own place, the bridle trail off Oak Hill.

“Use to be, I’d ride my bicycle across town, come down here, when I was in junior high and shit, just look up at Georgetown U. Patrick was playin’ then, and Michael Graham. I used to dream about going to Georgetown some day, playin’ for Coach Thompson. ’Course, I never even thought you had to get the grades, the scores on the tests. Didn’t know that shit was all decided for you, even before the first day of elementary school. Just some kind of accident, where you get born, I guess.” Barry chuckled cynically to himself. “And you know what, man? I never could play no ball, anyway.”

“What about now?”

“Now? I come down here just to get away. You still see some of the city on this island-the drug deal once in a while, and sometimes those sad-eyed old motherfuckers, walking around the trail, lookin’ to make contact with some boy. But mostly, over here, it’s clean. It makes me feel good, for a little while, anyway. And jealous, too, at the same time. I look across this river, I see the people on the freeway in their cars, and sometimes a plane goes over my head, takin’ off from National-everybody but me, goin’ somewhere.”

I blew some smoke down toward the water. A breeze came off the river and picked it up. “You’re not doin’ so bad, Barry. You’ve got a steady job, and you’re sticking with your family. It means something, man.”

“My job. You know how I feel sometimes, workin’ there, with these young drug boys comin’ in, parkin’ their forty-thousand-dollar shit right outside the door, makin’ fun of me, of my uniform?”

“I know it can’t be easy.”

“Then I read the Post, these white liberals-so-called-talkin’ about this brother, wrote this book, talkin’ about how he went into some Mac Donald’s with a gun, stuck up who he called the ‘Uncle Tom’ behind the counter, then went to prison, got reformed and shit, became a newspaper writer himself.”

“I read about it.”

“That man behind the counter, he was no Uncle Tom. He was probably some young brother like me, just tryin’ to do a job, maybe pay the bills for his family or have a few dollars in his pocket to take his girl out on Saturday night. And that punk calls him an Uncle Tom? And those white boys at the Post, print that magazine they got, they be glorifyin’ that shit. Makes him wanna holler? Man, that shit makes me wanna holler!”

“What you’re doing,” I said again, “it means something.”

Barry looked in my eyes. “You really believe that tired shit, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“I know you do. That’s why I called you up. You got this one way of lookin’ at things, like it’s right or it’s not, and nothing in between. I guess, in my own way, that’s the way I got to look at things, too. I mean, somebody’s got to, right?”

I hit my cigarette hard and ground it under my shoe. “What did you want to tell me, Barry?”

Barry picked up a twig lying at his feet and snapped it in his hands. “About Calvin.”

“Yeah?”

“He was mulin’ powder.”

I felt something twist in my stomach. “For who?”

“I don’t know. But I do know this: The powder’s for the white man, and the rock is for the niggas. You know it, too. Even got separate laws for that shit.”

“Muling it where?”

“Into the projects, man, straight to the cookin’ house.”

“You got names?”

“Uh-uh,” Barry said. “You?”

“No. But I found out he was involved in some other things, too. Prostitution, and pornography.”

“That was Roland,” Barry said hatefully. “That punk.”

“Roland got him into it?”

Barry nodded, spoke quietly against the sound of the current lapping at the bank. “The man in charge, the man with the drugs-whoever he is-he favored boys. Told Roland that if he and Calvin got into this… movie shit, they could mule the powder for him, too. Calvin came to me-he wanted the money, man, he wanted to get out of his situatiof h Even gon in a big way, like we all do, where we live. He didn’t know about that other shit, though. Calvin wasn’t no punk. Roland could do it, man, without a thought, ’cause inside he always was a bitch. He told Calvin, ‘Just do it, man-it’s only lips.’ I got no thing against a man who is that way-understand what I’m sayin’? Matter of fact, I got this cousin like that, over in Northwest, and the man is cool. But Calvin wasn’t about that. I told him, ‘Don’t be lettin’ no man suck your dick, not for money or for nothin’, not if you don’t want to.’ ”

“Calvin went ahead with it, though, didn’t he?”

“The last time I saw him, he was scared.”

“When was that?”

“The night he died. He told me they only did this shit once a week, and he had to make his mind up right then, or the mule job, and the money, was out. I told him not to go with Roland that night. He did, though. I got to believe he changed his mind, but too late. I think he tried to get out of the whole thing. And they doomed his ass because of it. They put a gun in his mouth and blew the fuck out of that boy.”

I said, “And you don’t know any more than that.”

Barry said, “No.”

I lit another cigarette and took my time smoking it, staring across the river. When I was done, I got up off the log and stood over Barry.

“I’m going back,” I said.

“You go on,” he said.

“Don’t you have to work this afternoon?”

“I got a four o’clock shift.”

I glanced at my watch. “You better come with me, then.”

“Yeah,” Barry said, smiling weakly. “Don’t want to be late for work.”

I put out my hand and helped him up. We took the trail back into the upland forest and walked across the island under a canopy of trees.

I bought a can of beer at the nearest liquor store and drank it on the way home. In my room, I drew the blinds, undressed, and lay down on my bed. I was sick-hot and tired, and my head was black with bad thoughts. I closed my eyes and tried to make things straight.

I woke up in a sweat, lying naked on top of my sheets. The fading light of dusk lined the spaces in my blinds. I took a shower, made a sandwich and ate it standing up, and changed into jeans and a loose-fitting short-sleeved shirt. I listened to my messages: Lyla and Jack LaDuke had phoned while I was asleep. I left a message with LaDuke’s answering service, and ten minutes later he called me back.

“Nick!”

“LaDuke. Where you been?”

“I went looking for Eddie Colorado.” ‹"0e? p height="0em" width="27"› “And?”

“I found him.”

I had a sip of water and placed the glass down on the table, within the lines of its own ring. “What’d you do to him, Jack?”

“We talked, that’s all. I put an edge on it, though. I don’t think Eddie’s gonna be hanging around town too much longer.”

“What’d you find out?”

“Roland Lewis is still alive, and still with them. Calvin tried to get out-that’s what got him killed. They’re filming tonight.”

“I know it. I found out a few things, too. The porno’s just a sideshow compared with their drug operation. Calvin and Roland were delivery boys. The cops have been following that angle. I’m not sure if they know anything about the warehouse on Half Street, not yet. We’re one step ahead of them there, but it’s a short step. They’ve got informants, and I imagine they’re working them pretty good. So we don’t have much time.”

“Say it, man.”

“I know we told Samuels we’d wait till tomorrow. But you and me, we’ve got to go in there… tonight. We’ve got to get Roland away from that place before the cops dig deep and bust that operation, put that kid into a system he’ll never get out of. We’ll get Roland out, get him back home, straighten his shit out then. You with me?”

“You know it.”

“You got a gun?”

“The one I held on you that night. And more.”

“Bring whatever you got.”

“I’ll be right over,” he said.

“We’re gonna need a driver,” I said. “I’ll call Darnell.”

LaDuke said, “Right.”

I phoned Darnell at the Spot. I gave him the Roland Lewis story and described the kind of trouble the kid was in.

“You interested?”

“First I got to get to these dishes, man.”

“We’ll pick you up around ten.”

“Bring your boy’s Ford,” Darnell said. “I’ll be standin’ right out front.”

I went into my room and got my Browning Hi-Power and the two loaded magazines from the bottom of my dresser. McGinnes’s benny spansules were on my nightstand, next to my bed; I swept them off the top and dropped them in my pocket. The phone rang. I took the gun and ammunition back out to the living room. I picked up the receiver and heard Lyla’s voice.

“Nick.”

“Hey, Lyla.”

“I’ve been calling you-”

“I know. Listen, Lyla, I’ve been busy. Matter of fact, I’m heading out the door right now.”

“What’s going on with you, Nick?”

“Nothing. I’ve got to go.”

“You can’t talk to me, not for a minute?”

“No.”

“Don’t do this to me, Nick. You’re going to fuck up something really good.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Bye, Nick.”

“Good-bye.”

I hung up the phone, closed my eyes tightly, said something out loud that even I didn’t understand. When I opened my eyes, the red of LaDuke’s taillights glowed through my screen door as the Ford pulled up along the curb. The clock on the wall read 9:40. I slapped a magazine into the butt of the nine, safetied the gun, and holstered it behind my back. LaDuke gave his horn a short blast. I killed the living room light and walked out to the street.