The Cut

SIX

The next night, Lucas was buzzed through the camera-monitored security entrance of the American Legion, Cissel-Saxon Post 41, on Fenton Street in Silver Spring. Fifteen minutes later, he sat on a stool beside an army veteran named Bobby Waldron, not long back from Afghanistan. Waldron was stocky, muscled up, heavily inked, kept a military haircut, and had close-set eyes. He lived with his parents in Rockville and worked occasionally as a uniformed security guard. He’d been treading water since his return to the States.

Beers in brown bottles sat on the bar in front of Lucas and Waldron.

“So this guy, the manager of the appliance store,” said Waldron, “he decides to give me my instructions. They were about to have a tent sale on Saturday and they needed someone to guard the merchandise they had brought outside on Friday. My orders were to be on the premises overnight. I guess my boss had told him I was a vet, ’cause this dude was trying to speak his idea of my language. Secure the perimeter. Hold your position, shit like that.”

“You see much action that night?”

“Tons. Those appliance thieves were crawling across the parking lot on their bellies once the sun went down. Had Ka-Bars clenched between their teeth.”

“How could you see them if it was dark?”

“I was wearing my night vision goggles.”

“I saw those in Call of Duty. They’re cool as shit.”

“I know.”

The room was large, dimly lit, and had no decorations to speak of. It looked more like a rec center than it did a saloon. Unless there was a special event, the bar stayed sparsely populated and was usually patronized by men. One didn’t have to be a combat veteran to be an American Legion member. If a person served in the military, they were eligible. Sons, daughters, and spouses of vets were also welcome. Of those who had served in theaters of war, Middle East, Vietnam, and a few Korean veterans were the main customers. Once in a while a WWII man would shuffle in, often accompanied by a relative or a walker. If a woman entered, the drinkers were momentarily filled with hope, even if she was plain or unattractive. If the woman was under thirty, tongues scrolled out of the drinkers’ mouths like those of cartoon dogs.

Guys constantly went in and out the side door, which led to a fenced yard with a barbecue grill and patio. Out there they could smoke.

The beer was very cheap. People came here to drink at 1960s prices, but also to be among their own. The post was a place of comfort if you wanted to be around people who understood. Some, like Bobby Waldron, only felt right in this atmosphere. One young Texan, an Iraq veteran, showed up twice a month, driving all the way from Brownsville. He said this was his favorite post. Lucas came here occasionally, and to the VFW Post 350 at Orchard and Fourth in Takoma Park, to meet friends. Today he was waiting on Marquis.

Waldron was in Lucas’s ear about his girlfriend, who worked out at the Kohl’s off Route 29.

“Ashley’s her name,” said Waldron.

“Yeah?” said Lucas. He knew it would be Ashley or Britney. He sipped at his beer.

“Nuthin upstairs,” said Waldron, himself at the bottom of the bell curve. “But down below? God.”

Thankfully, Marquis Rollins soon arrived. As he came into the room, a sort of half-assed salute was issued by a couple of the guys at the bar. Rollins was tall and, if not exactly handsome, always well groomed. He was wearing a matching outfit, silk shirt and pants, earth-tone print, looked like expensive pajamas to Lucas, with New Balance running shoes. His left pants leg had little inside it. There was a plastic knee and a titanium shin pole, fitted to one of the sneakers, beneath the fabric. Marquis walked stiffly but more proficiently than many amputees. He said hello to Waldron and eased himself onto the stool on the other side of Lucas. Lucas noted, without saying so, that Marquis smelled nice.

“Gentlemen,” said Marquis.

“A beer for my friend,” said Waldron.

“Bud Light,” said Marquis to the tender. “Wanna maintain my good looks.”

“You do look tight,” said Lucas. “Where do you get an outfit like that?”

“Nowhere you shop.”

“Ali Baba wants to know who stole his shit.”

“Ho!”

“Gotta give you credit. I couldn’t get away with wearing a getup like that.”

“Who don’t know that? ”

The bartender served Marquis his beer. The three veterans tapped bottles.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Marquis. “Had to go out to Seven Locks and pick up my nephew. My sister’s son?”

“What he do now?”

“Possession with intent to distribute. His second arrest, so it might get serious. The boy stayed overnight ’cause I had to secure the bond. I’m hoping one night in that jail out there was enough to scare him. But who knows? Another baby gangster, thinks he knows somethin.”

“They all do.”

“And they all get caught. He had to pee in a cup every week since his last conviction. Told me he had that beat, too; something about a syringe of clean urine he taped under his nutsack. Like those parole people ain’t seen that trick. They nailed him for that and violated him, and then they gave him another chance. And now he blew that chance.”

“How’s your sister?”

“On her last nerve. I’m gonna stay on that boy now. Get him involved with my church.”

Marquis would get a substantial disability check from the government for the rest of his life. He also had a business, traveling up to car auctions in Pennsylvania and making luxury auto purchases for buyers back in the D.C. area. The savings for the customer were substantial, and Marquis took a flat thousand-dollar fee. He spent part of his free time with community outreach programs, working with fellow members of his congregation, and the rest trying to snake women. At thirty-two, he had the need.

“ I could do some stuff at your church,” said Waldron. He was tapping the base of his beer bottle on the bar. On his left forearm were a multitude of “dots,” shrapnel bits embedded under his skin. He had added many other dots in ink. Both his biceps were inked in tiger stripes.

“Like what?” said Marquis.

“Help out, somethin,” said Waldron.

“What about your job?”

“I can’t stand that security guard thing I got. First of all, there’s that stupid uniform. And they gave me a can to hang on my belt-can you believe it? The shit postmen spray at dogs.”

“We can’t pay,” said Marquis. “But we can always use help.”

Waldron nodded, a familiar look of disappointment on his face. He stared ahead, then threw his head back and killed his beer. He signaled the bartender and was served another. Then he patted his breast pocket, where a pack of Marlboro Reds showed through the fabric of his cheap white shirt.

“I’m gonna go have a smoke,” said Waldron.

He picked up his fresh beer off the bar. They watched him exit through the side door to the backyard.

“You hang with him much?” said Marquis.

“Nah,” said Lucas. “Bobby’s got a girlfriend.”

“For real?”

“She’s got the fire down below.”

“Like in the song.”

“He’s there if I need something,” said Lucas.

“He still goin to those gun shows?”

“I believe he is. He makes a lot of interesting contacts.”

“You can buy damn near anything from those folks.”

“Seems that way.”

“Your man sure is all wound up,” said Marquis.

“He doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind. In the Korangal he got up every morning, took orders, and knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Here he’s got nothin to do. You know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

It was a common problem for many of the vets. Overseas, in the thick of it, they talked about going home. What they would do when they got back, the anticipation of their favorite Mom-cooked meal, the Chevy or Ford truck they were going to buy, how high they’d get, which girl they’d fuck first. Once home, some said that their time overseas was the most exhilarating and rewarding of their lives. It felt as if nothing would ever fill them up like that again. So they looked for it. Lucas and Marquis had been lucky to find something. Most did, eventually. The ones who couldn’t were in for some long hurt.

“You feeling all right?” said Lucas.

“Better than a year ago. Much better than in the beginning, when they had me in a harness and on a leash. It’s no house party, walking on a stilt.”

“Looks like you’re maintaining.”

“Praise God, I’m here.”

Marquis Rollins had taken a direct hit from an RPG. It had come right through a doorless, unarmed Humvee that Marquis was driving, ferrying wounded back from a hot spot of houses under heavy insurgent fire near the Jolan graveyard. He knew immediately that it was bad; he could feel the blood pooling beneath him, but he kept driving, weakening by the minute, never once looking down. He had a mission: to get the wounded back to safety. He felt the task would keep him alive. HQ kept him talking on the radio, kept him conscious until he brought the men in. Later, they told him that a piece of shrapnel the size of a cell phone had entered his thigh. The surgeons couldn’t stop the resultant infection. Two weeks later they took his leg off above the knee.

Marquis was from Suitland in PG County and had grown up fifteen miles from Lucas, but they met for the first time in the war, both serving in the 2/1, the Second Battalion of the First Marine Regiment assigned to Fallujah. Their shared geographic background had made them close fast.

“What about you?” said Marquis. “You maintaining?”

“I’m fine.”

“ ’Cause it’s hard to tell with you, man. The way you hold all your shit tight inside you.”

“What do you want me to do, speak on my feelings about the war?”

“You can, with me.”

“Ask me a question. Not any old question. The question.”

“Okay. You ever kill anyone over there?”

“I did, Marquis. I killed someone.”

“More than one, I remember correct.”

“Course, they were all trying to kill me.”

“Pretty simple,” said Marquis. “Now, when you get to the why of it, that’s somethin else. But it’s better if you stay with the basics: We fought to win and we fought for each other. That’s how we do.”

“Except they didn’t let us finish it. In Fallujah they sent us in, pulled us back out, and sent us in again. The brass and the politicians played games with marines. They were concerned with perception, all those images on TV broadcast around the world. They let Al fucking Jazeera influence their strategy.”

“That’s better,” said Marquis with a chuckle. “That’s my boy.”

“Fuck it,” said Lucas, letting himself wind down.

“Right,” said Marquis. “So I guess you are maintaining.”

Lucas had a swig of his beer. “I’m keeping busy.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Workin on a thing. I need any help, I’ll let you know.”

They drank slowly. Marquis nodded toward the side door. “Waldo been out there a long time.”

“Bobby’s gunnin those smokes in tandem.”

“He chews, too.”

“But not at the same time.”

“Yeah, that would be unseemly.”

Lucas finished his beer, left money on the bar, and slipped off his stool. “Tell him I said good-bye.”

“You gonna leave me here with him?”

“I’m meeting a lady friend,” said Lucas.

“That’s why you got that shirt on?”

“You like it?”

“Looks like a tablecloth to me.”

“It’s gingham.”

Marquis held out his hand. “Two-One, man.”

“Two-One.”

They bumped fists. Lucas left the bar.

Constance Kelly was waiting for him outside his house. She got out of her Honda, crossed Emerson, and walked toward his Jeep. Her hair was down and she walked with energy and looked first-snow clean. Lucas felt a little light-headed, looking at her. Goddamn, she was mint.

“Hi,” she said, settling into the passenger bucket.

“Hey,” said Lucas. He kissed her mouth. “Hungry?”

“You know it,” said Constance.

They drove down to the U Street corridor, where he found a spot on a residential street. Lucas took her into Busboys and Poets, the bookstore and cafe that was bustling with activity, all sorts of faces and types, the D.C. most folks had wanted for a long time. He bought her a couple of novels: Lean on Pete and The Death of Sweet Mister.

“Is there a reason you picked these out?” said Constance as they stood before the register.

“You mean, am I sending you a message.”

“Yeah, like when a guy makes a mix tape for a girl.”

“Good clean writing, is all. I thought you’d like them.”

He had a table reserved at Marvin on 14th, but they were early, so they went up the stairs to the rooftop bar. It was warm enough to be outside without the heat lamps on, and not yet summer. The space was crowded for a reason. It had a beach atmosphere and a city vibe. The people were attractive, and that night’s music, seventies soul and funk, was bottom heavy and tight. A snaky trombone solo had come forward, and everyone was moving their feet and hips. They couldn’t help themselves.

The bar specialized in Belgian ales. Lucas wedged out a spot for him and Constance, ordered her a blonde and a Stella for himself. He left a five on the bar and asked the tender who was on the stereo.

“Fred Wesley and the Horny Horns. ‘Four Play.’ ”

“Righteous,” said Lucas.

“You know those people had fun back then.”

Lucas flashed on images, photos he had seen of his father as a young man, smiling with his friends out in one of the Blackie Auger clubs, his hair longish and curly, stacks on his feet, baggies, an open rayon shirt, a crucifix and mati hung on a chain resting on his hairy chest.

“You here?” said Constance.

“Just thinking on someone,” said Lucas.

“Think of me.”

Lucas felt the vibration of his iPhone buzzing in the front pocket of his jeans. He retrieved it, looked at the screen. Tavon Lynch was calling in. Lucas answered.

“Hold up, Tavon,” said Lucas. To Constance he said, “I gotta take this, a work thing. I promise, just this one time tonight.”

“Go ahead.”

Lucas left the rooftop, walked passed the doorman, took the steps down to the main floor, and went out on 14th, where he stood on the sidewalk and resumed his conversation.

“What is it?” said Lucas.

“We lost another one,” said Tavon.

“Another one what? ”

“ ’Nother package. Off the porch of a home east of Capitol Hill. More like Lincoln Park.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re in Northeast right now.”

“How much did you lose?”

“Thirty-pound package, like the last two.”

“What’s goin on?”

“Huh?”

“I’m askin you, what do you think is happening?”

“I don’t know, Spero. I don’t.”

“Somebody knows what you guys are doing.”

“That’s impossible. Only me and Edwin do.”

A crowd of folks approached, loudly, and Lucas waited for them to pass.

“Look,” said Lucas, “I’m with a friend right now, about to have dinner. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”

“A’ight.”

“You guys watch yourselves.”

“We’re good.”

“ Listen to me, Tavon. Don’t go trying to work this shit yourselves. We’re talking about some weight now, and big money. Whoever’s behind this is not going to play.”

“We got it, Spero. Me and Edwin can handle it.”

Lucas, exasperated, let it go. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, hear?”

“Is she pretty?”

“Who?”

“Your friend.”

“Yes.”

“My man,” said Tavon.

Lucas ended the call. He stood there on the sidewalk, thinking things over. Something was not quite right.