The Cut

SEVENTEEN

The body of Earl Lee Nance was found around sunup by an employee of the church arriving in advance of Sunday service. The Fourth District station sat one block south of the church, so uniformed officers quickly secured the scene. A homicide detective and mobile crime technicians arrived shortly thereafter. Parishioners who showed up later, unaware of the incident, were told that they could not park their cars in the lot, so they walked up the gravel road to the church on foot and, when given the reason for the police presence, tried to shield their children’s eyes from the sight of the victim. But, being curious about death, as the very young often are, many children managed to get a look at the corpse, its head unnaturally angled, its hands clawed in the throes of death. Some of them did not think of it after that day. For a few unfortunate others, this twisted sight would visit their dreams for years to come.

In the morning Lucas went outside and picked up the two newspapers left on the front lawn of the house. He dropped one on Miss Lee’s doorstep and took the other up to his apartment. Over coffee he read the Metro section of the Washington Post, guessing correctly that the event would not have made the morning edition. He went to his laptop and brought up the Crime Scene page of the Post ’s website. There was a small item carrying the byline of veteran reporter Ruben Castaneda that told of the discovery of a body in the lot of Emory Methodist that was being treated as a homicide. No further details were available.

Lucas took a hot shower; despite the shape he was in, he had woken up sore. Afterward, he had a good look at himself in the bathroom mirror. The crook of his right arm was reddish and irritated. His face was bruised around his eye and temple where Nance had landed a particularly vicious blow. He expected to see his mother that day and would have to come up with a lie.

He dressed in a blue suit and drove across town to his church, St. Sophia, the Greek Orthodox cathedral at 36th and Massachusetts. He went through the narthex, greeting one of the board members who manned the inner doors, and found a spot in a pew on the left side of the nave, far in the back, beside a white-haired woman who had once been his Sunday school teacher. He spotted a couple of the guys with whom he’d played GOYA basketball, standing with their wives. He saw their parents and a few of their grandparents. He could see his mother, Eleni, standing beside Leo, center section, in one of the rows close to the altar. Leo brought her here nearly every Sunday. The good son, thought Lucas, without any feelings of sarcasm or rancor.

Lucas followed the liturgy in a book he found in a wood box on the back of the forward pew. He recited along with the Creed, which he knew by heart, and the Lord’s Prayer in English and Greek. He knew what was going on behind the sanctuary and in front of it because he had served as an altar boy at the age of fourteen and occasionally in the years that followed. He listened to the familiar voices of the priests and the beautiful singing of the cantor and her choir during the Communion Prayer, and when it came time to kneel and pray, he dropped the padded bar before him and got onto his knees. With his elbows on the pew lip, he put his cradled hands to his forehead and closed his eyes.

He would not ask forgiveness for the taking of another man’s life. Just like those who had shot at him in Iraq, the man in the parking lot had intended to kill him. In fact, when Lucas prayed he never asked for anything. He had not even begged for a miracle while his father was dying of the brain cancer that had quickly claimed him. Instead, he silently said the same prayer he had always said in church, in the privacy of his home, and in the Middle East: Thank you, God, for the gift of life you’ve given me, and the gift of life you have given to my family and friends.

Lucas did not have the absolute faith his mother and his brother Leo possessed. He had seen too many bodies zipped into rubber bags, seen so much random death that he was no longer certain of an afterlife. But he did feel that the life he had, here on earth, was no molecular accident. It had been granted to him and it was a blessing. He came to church to give testimony to that, to express his gratitude, and to be a part of this community that had meant a great deal to him throughout his life. He saw his people here. In the fathers of others he saw his own father in the church.

Later, during a post-liturgy ceremony for a parishioner who had been deceased for forty days, Lucas did his stavro, the sign of the cross, three fingers for the Trinity touched to the forehead, chest, right shoulder, then left.

“… for there is no man who lives and sins not,” said the priest.

And Lucas thought, Amen.

The brothers took their mother to brunch at a restaurant she liked, high on Wisconsin near a cigar store and the Gawler’s funeral home. The food was in the French vein, the dining room was tastefully designed, and the service had a European elegance. Eleni ate a goat cheese omelet and her sons both had eggs Moroccan, served over easy with sausage and tomato sauce. Leo and Spero had juice; their mother was working on a chardonnay.

Spero had told them out on the front steps of the church that he had “had a few” the night before and walked into a door in the darkness of his apartment when he’d gotten home. Eleni took the story at face value, but Leo clearly did not. After they ordered, Eleni got up to use the restroom, and when she was out of earshot Leo brought up the bruise.

“What really happened, Spero? I know a door didn’t hit you upside the head.”

“I was a little wasted. I was in a place I shouldn’t have been down around Petworth. Some guy standing next to me at the bar thought I looked at him funny or somethin and he just coldcocked me.”

“Big strong guy like you?”

“Yeah, I know. You would have been proud of me, though. I didn’t even retaliate. I let the bouncer get rid of him.”

“What was the name of the bar?”

“Huh?”

“Place you were at had a sign out front, didn’t it?”

“Man, I don’t even know. I guess I was pretty gone.”

“Uh-huh.”

Eleni Lucas returned, sipped at her wine, double sipped. Spero shot a glance at Leo, but Leo didn’t bite.

“My men,” said Eleni, placing her glass on the table. “I’m so lucky to have you both here in Washington.”

“We’re not goin anywhere,” said Leo.

“Your dad would be proud of both of you,” she said, and Spero stared down at his plate.

“But a little more proud of me,” said Leo. “Tell the truth.”

“Well, you both have your positive attributes,” said Eleni. “You are certainly different from each other, but your father loved you equally. Leonidas, he called you Cool Breeze-”

“Because it felt like a breath of fresh air when Leo walked into a room,” said Spero, robotically repeating something he had heard many times before.

“Don’t be jealous,” said Leo.

“You did get the tightest nickname,” said Spero.

“And your dad called Spero ‘my thereeyaw,’ ” said Eleni. “Its literal translation is ‘wild animal.’ But he meant ‘my wild one.’ Your dad used to love to watch you wrestle. He said you had the killer instinct.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Spero, still not looking in her eyes.

Eleni ordered another glass of wine. They quietly finished their meals.

Bernard White hadn’t heard from his partner the night before, which he found strange. For White, doing jobs was just a way to make extra money, and he took no pleasure in the process. But Earl had pride in his work and he relished the details. He would’ve called Bernard after he’d done the dude, bragged on it, too. By mid-morning, White knew in his gut that the hit had gone wrong.

He got a call from Ricardo Holley on his disposable. Earl Nance was dead. The TV news was saying that it was a homicide committed during an apparent act of robbery. They’d found Earl in a church parking lot. Larry had gotten the unofficial word and told his father that Nance had died of asphyxiation and possibly a broken neck. Ricardo said that Larry was quite “upset.”

Fuck that punk, thought White. He said, “What are we gonna do now?”

“Sit on it overnight,” said Ricardo. “We need to think on this before we act. Come over to the warehouse tomorrow at lunchtime.”

“Larry comin, too?”

“Think I’ll speak to him alone,” said Ricardo. “Look here: I’m sorry your boy got his self chilled.”

“He knew the risks,” said White, and he ended the call.

Bernard White sat in a big chair in his Marlow Heights apartment, a crossword puzzle and pen in hand, looking out the window. Thinking of the day ahead, and how empty it would be without his ugly little friend.

Most of the commercial and retail businesses back in the Edmonston industrial section were closed on Sundays, but Beano Mobley kept his place open, because working folks used their free time on the weekends to get their vehicles correct. Also, an open and active business meant less suspicion when one of his side customers came to call.

Mobley had been at the firearms thing for a while. Indirectly, it was how he’d met Ricardo Holley. He and Ricardo had struck up a conversation one night at the club out New York Avenue, the one near the dog shelter that had the best all-ass dancers in town. Ricardo had mentioned that he was looking for a heater, and when Mobley asked him if he was police, Ricardo said, “I used to be, but don’t hold that shit against me.” They ended up bringing a couple of the dancers back to Mobley’s warehouse and partying in the far back room, where Beano poured mid-shelf liquor and Ricardo cut out lines of coke he had copped at the bar. Beano had put Brick and some Cameo, shit he liked from his day, on the stereo and cranked it up. Both of them were on the old side, but that night they tossed those freaks like they were young. The cocaine helped. Ricardo and Beano had the same taste in women-the bigger in the back the better. They liked them young, too.

Their friendship solidified, Ricardo began to talk partnership. He liked the fact that Mobley had real estate, a base of operations, and a gun thing that was recession proof. Ricardo would bring his knowledge of law enforcement and his ambition to the table. Both of them felt it was a good fit.

Lately, though, Mobley was beginning to wonder if he had made an error in joining up with Ricardo. Mobley had enjoyed a nice quiet run, selling firearms out the back of his warehouse to gangsters, studio gangsters, and plain old dudes who wanted protection for their homes and shops. He wasn’t too worried about someone flipping on him because of the code. At first he was down with Ricardo’s marijuana scheme, but when murder got attached to it, Beano wanted to walk away. Problem was, he couldn’t.

Beano wanted his old life back. To own his detailing business, move a few guns now and again, drive his Cadillac DTS, watch his beloved Redskins on Sundays, party with women and girls in his warehouse when he could, and grow old with some kind of dignity. He wanted a divorce from Ricardo Holley, but he didn’t know how to make it happen.

Mobley was outside standing in his lot, where his employees, a few ex-offenders he was trying to give a break to, were working on an SUV, when Larry rolled in, driving his Escalade. Dickless Larry, thought Mobley, watching as Larry’s window rolled down, seeing that the boy was agitated.

“Where’s Ricardo at?” said Larry.

“Waitin on you,” said Mobley. “In the back.”

Mobley watched with amusement as Larry got out of his ride and crossed the parking lot, trying to Walk Tall with an exaggerated swagger, a presidential candidate in elevator shoes and rolled-up sleeves, an actor trying to play a man. Larry, a tit with no milk.

“Sit down,” said Ricardo.

“I’ll stand,” said Larry.

They were in the main office of the warehouse, Ricardo seated behind his desk.

“You lied to me again,” said Larry.

“No, I didn’t. I kept you out the loop. That’s not the same thing.”

“You’re always twistin your words around,” said Larry.

“I have to, with you.”

“How could you let this shit happen?”

Ricardo shrugged. “Earl thought he had a solution to our problem. I let him give it a go. Looks like the dude he tried to down was better than him.”

“You’re talkin about Lucas.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We got real trouble now.”

“I expect we’ll be all right, son.”

Larry shook his head gravely. “Don’t call me son.”

“You’re my blood.”

“It’s not like I’m proud of it.”

“Neither am I. You look like me, but you ain’t me.”

“That’s for damn sure.”

As they always did, they came to a verbal stalemate. Ricardo leaned back in his chair. “Anything else?”

Larry’s posture slackened. “No.”

“If I need you, I’ll call.”

Larry left the room. Ricardo could only shake his head.

Beano Mobley entered the office shortly thereafter. “Your boy stormed out of here.”

“What can I say? Larry’s a woman.”

“Do I need to be concerned?”

“I got him under control,” said Ricardo. “But I rue the day I tapped that heifer he calls Mom.”

“We all got regrets.”

“Shoulda pumped my nut into a dirty sock instead.”

“You can pick your nose,” said Mobley, “but you can’t pick your gotdamn relatives.”

Feeling philosophical, Ricardo and Mobley met at the bar cart and poured themselves a couple of drinks.

Lucas took a long bike ride late in the afternoon and returned warily to his apartment. There were no patrol or unmarked cars on the street. He had not expected police to be waiting for him there, but he allowed that it might be a possibility. He was certain no one had witnessed the event in the parking lot, and though he had probably left DNA evidence behind, it would only be connectible if he was a suspect. It had been less than a day, but Lucas knew that if the MPD had made him, he would be in the box by now in 1D, being videotaped, answering seemingly polite questions, listening to the psychological head music that D.C. homicide detectives orchestrated so well.

Lucas went inside and took a shower. As the hot water calmed him, he speculated further: Ricardo Holley and his mob knew who had killed Earl Nance, but they wouldn’t give that information up to the law. If Larry Holley was going to do his job as a police officer and turn in Lucas’s name to Homicide, he would have done so by now, but that would also incriminate him. Ricardo could plant an anonymous tip, but Lucas had the feeling that it would be emotionally unsatisfying on his part to set in motion such a cheap and cowardly resolution to what was becoming a game of wills.

If it is a game, thought Lucas, perhaps now is the time to step it up.

He had been hired to get the money or the product back. He had been sidetracked to a degree that he had stalled in achieving that goal. He had seen Ricardo leave his house on 9th with an envelope that appeared to bulge with cash. That same day, he had observed the man who could be Mobley, Nance, the big man driving the Tahoe, Ricardo, and Larry Holley all congregated at the detailing building, which perhaps also functioned as their base of operations. Since Ricardo had taken money there, the meet might have been for the purpose of a payday, set in a place where they could come together to cut it up. He assumed that Ricardo, being the senior member of the group, was in charge. Ricardo damn sure didn’t use a bank. Ricardo distributed the cash from the reserve that he kept at his house. For Lucas, the next step was obvious.

He came out of the shower and dried off with a large bath towel. He put on some jeans, went out to the living room, picked up his cell, scrolled through his contacts, and found the friend he had last seen at the American Legion bar.

“Bobby Waldron.”

“It’s Spero Lucas.”

“Hey, man.”

“I could use your help.”

“You need somethin?”

“For now I need you. I got a tail-and-surveil job.”

“Thought you use Marquis for that sort of thing.”

“His lack of mobility is an issue.”

“I could use the work.”

“You free tomorrow?”

“Affirmative.”

“Let me give you some background.”

Lucas told him some of it. They agreed to meet early the next day.