The Double

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.

“I’m no doctor,” said Marquis.

“For real?”

“Sayin, you need to see one.”

“This is going to have to do me for now.”

“You start pissin blood...”

“I know.”

“I don’t like that your chest hurts, man. If that rib broke and pierced your lung...”

“I know. Help me up.”

Marquis reached his hand out and Lucas took it. They moved to the living room, and Lucas sat on his couch.

“Couple of cold ones would be nice,” said Lucas.

By the time Marquis returned with two beers, Lucas was in the process of rolling a joint. They smoked it down to a roach, and Lucas lay back on the couch. Marquis went to the stereo and put on an Ernest Ranglin CD that he knew Lucas liked. That was what Lucas was listening to when the Vicodin, alcohol, and weed kicked in and gave him a nice slow kiss.

When Lucas next woke it was the middle of the night. Marquis was still with him, sleeping in a chair.

He spent the next several days in relative quiet. When his phone rang he checked the ID, but didn’t pick up. Every morning, Lucas went outside to get his morning Post off the front lawn, and once hit the Safeway on Piney Branch Road for beer and essentials, but pretty much stayed inside his apartment. He read, watched movies, and allowed himself time to recover.

It no longer hurt when he breathed. He threw the rest of the Vicodin away. Marquis didn’t use them, and Lucas didn’t want them anymore.

He scoured his laptop for any up-to-the-minute news. The first hit came on the Crime Scene blog of the Washington Post’s Internet site. A body had been discovered in a house in Croom, Maryland, when the home’s owner had stopped by to check on his tenants. The item said only that local police were treating the death as a homicide.

In the following day’s print edition of the Post, a longer, more detailed article appeared inside Metro. The piece did not give the victim’s name but simply described Billy King as an adult white male, the victim of multiple gunshot wounds.

Lucas knew that the crime scene, a forensic professional’s nightmare, would pose a great challenge to investigators. Three bedrooms, three men wearing different-size clothing, two men missing. The house contained stolen paintings, other burgled goods, guns, and probably drugs. Its furnishings were riddled with rounds, and sections of the walls had been torn away with buckshot. King had been both beaten and shot. Police would surmise that the victim had been involved in some sort of criminal enterprise. That he was murdered in a home invasion. A retaliation, or a turf war, or a message kill. He was in the business and he’d paid a price.

The story deepened the next day, when uniformed police and dogs, combing the surrounding woods, came upon a shallow grave. In it was a lime-covered body in a state of decomposition. Again, the victim went unidentified in print. But the unfolding event had now made the television news, and the column inches grew in the Washington Post. DEA agents were said to be on the scene. A spokesman said that they had been investigating drug rings and bikers in the largely rural area, and were exploring a possible connection to this crime in which two men had violently died.

Lucas put down the newspaper.

Two dead.

They were trying to kill me.

But he’d made the first move. He’d gone out to the house, twice, and sought out conflict with Bacalov and King.

You want to try me. Don’t you?

It was true. He’d wanted to test himself with King.

You are me, fella.

No, thought Lucas. I’m not.

At first, he’d paced the apartment, pulled back curtains, and eyed the street. But soon he willed himself to put the outcome of his raids out of his mind. Short of Louis Smalls coming forward with information, the police had no concrete way to connect him to Bacalov and King. If the law came, he’d lawyer up with Petersen. Make do the best he could.

A week passed, and the law didn’t come.

When he finally reentered the world, he spent the first two days with various doctors and medical technicians. He started with Dr. Tanya Nikolic at the clinic in Manor Park. Lucas stripped to his boxer briefs and waited for her in the small white room.

“How did you sustain these injuries, Mr. Lucas?” she said, as she examined him. “You fall down in a bunch of glass again?”

He was lying on his back on a papered table. She was poking around his stomach.

“Car accident,” he said.

“Okay. That’s possible, I guess. But these abrasions and ecchymoses are not new.”

“Ecky what?”

“Your bruises. The nature of their coloration suggests you’ve had them for some time.”

“The accident happened over a week ago.”

“You waited a week to come in?”

“I’m shy.”

“Open your mouth.”

“Aaah,” said Lucas.

She shined a penlight there. “See your dentist. As for today, let’s get some chest X-rays. We can do that here. For your shoulder I’m going to have to send you to an orthopedist. He’ll probably want an MRI. You might need therapy or just a shot of cortisone. That’ll be up to Dr. Abend. He’s up in Wheaton.”

“But I don’t want to go to Wheaton,” said Lucas. “I want to stay here with you.”

Dr. Nikolic smirked. “Who told you to take your pants off?”

“Was that presumptuous of me?”

“Put ’em back on. A nurse will be in to take care of your X-rays. I’ll talk to you in a little bit.”

She returned a while later. She told him he’d cracked a rib. It hadn’t punctured his lung. It would hurt for a while and it would heal itself. The ear was gnarly, and he’d have a scar, but that would heal, too. The shoulder injury was going to be stubborn.

The next day, he got an MRI at an open-air facility in Silver Spring. In Wheaton, he saw Dr. Abend, who studied the pictures and told him that they revealed inflammation and strain. The doctor administered a cortisone injection there in the office. A few hours later, back at his apartment, Lucas began to have more mobility in his shoulder as the steroid did its work.

He was beginning to feel whole again. He went to bed early that night and slept soundly till morning.

While he’d been asleep, he’d gotten a message from Tom Petersen, asking him to stop by. Lucas phoned to check that he was in, dressed, and drove downtown.

Lucas sat in a rickety chair in the offices at 5th and D. Petersen was in non-court attire, a mix of jeans, cowboy boots, and a flowery shirt imported from the U.K. His feet, and the boots, were up on his desk.

“Calvin Bates got twenty-five years,” said Petersen. “The jury convicted him of second-degree murder.”

“It’s a win, in a way. Right?”

“It’s better than life. I would have preferred a dismissal. You were instrumental in getting the sentence reduced. The information you dug up on Brian Dodson and his vehicle changed the tenor of the trial.”

“I planted a seed of doubt.”

“Yes, Mr. McCoy.”

“Where’s Calvin going?”

“They’ll ship him to the Federal Transfer Center in Oklahoma City. Then he’s headed for Leavenworth. When Lorton was open, a special Metrobus ran out there from the city every day. Inmates could visit with family and loved ones. Now, the convicts are spread out all over the country.”

“Could he get parole?”

“He’s eligible, sure.”

“If Calvin was to come forward with information related to a homicide...”

“That might help,” said Petersen, and left it at that. He was honoring the unspoken contract he had with Lucas. “I’ve been calling you.”

“Been layin low this past week.”

“What happened to you?”

“I got in a street fight,” said Lucas, with a sheepish shrug.

“Looks like you caught the worst of it.”

“You should see the other guy.”

Petersen folded his hands on his belly. “‘Some men like to hear a cannonball a roarin’.’”

“‘Whiskey in the Jar,’” said Lucas. “Thin Lizzy. My dad loved their live record.”

“Phil and the gang did a version of it, yes. The definitive version, I’d say.” Petersen eyed Lucas curiously. “So now you’re rested.”

“I’m coming around.”

“That’s good. I just picked up a case. It could use your special talents.”

“Give me a little time,” said Lucas, and he got up out of his chair.

“You look different, Spero.”

“I took some punches.”

“I don’t mean that.”

“See you around, Counselor.”

Petersen watched Lucas walk away.

When Lucas returned to his apartment, he got on the website Homicide Watch D.C., founded by journalist Laura Amico. Amico and her staff kept the victims of violent crimes in the public eye, no matter what part of the city they hailed from, long after the traditional media had stopped writing about them. He typed in Cherise Roberts and reread the details of her murder, the location of the Dumpster in a Fairmont Street alley where she’d been found, and looked for any updates on the investigation. No progress had been made on the case. He studied her photo, a smiling, magnetic young woman standing in front of the Cardozo High School sign, HOME OF THE CLERKS, at the top of the 13th Street hill.

At dusk, Lucas rode his bike down to Park View and swung off the saddle at Georgia and Princeton. It was his first ride since he’d been injured. He felt the bumps and potholes in his shoulder and rib cage, but it was bearable and close to fine.

He checked his watch. September had arrived and the sun was setting earlier now. If Percy Malone was still in his usual routine, this would be the time for him to leave his place for his evening walk.

Percy, dressed in a wrinkled, long-sleeved shirt, emerged unkempt and spidery from the gray row house where he stayed and walked up Princeton toward the rec center. He stopped to light his weed. Lucas kept far back and walked his bike up the hill. At Warder he looked right and saw Malone turning the corner at Otis, and Lucas followed, and watched Malone cut right into the short alley at 6th. He’d then go down the alley that ran behind Princeton, reappear at the bottom of Otis, and cross Georgia to visit his liquor store.

Lucas didn’t need to see the rest. He peddled home in the night.

He’d gotten a call from Amanda Brand, so he phoned her back. Grace Kinkaid had been released from the hospital and was convalescing in her condo in Adams Morgan. She’d asked to see him. She wanted to settle up her debt.

Lucas said he’d drop by.

The painting hung on the pale green wall in its original spot. Grace Kinkaid sat on her couch, a large glass of Chardonnay in hand, her legs folded under her. She wore green slacks and a white blouse buttoned to the neck. Through the sheer material of the shirt, bandages of some kind were visible. Grace’s face was drawn; she’d lost more weight.

Lucas sat in a chair, nursing a bottle of beer. WPFW came softly from the living room stereo.

“I know you visited me in the ER,” said Grace. “I appreciate it.”

“I’m just happy you’re coming along,” said Lucas.

“After they reinflated my lung, the main danger was infection. But my doctor is pleased with my progress. There’s some reconstruction to be done. I’m not afraid of surgery. I’m grateful to be alive.” She cocked her head oddly. “Do you think they’ll get the man who did this to me?”

“Hard to tell.”

Lucas watched her empty half of her wineglass. She licked her lips and placed the glass on the table before her. She looked up at the painting on the wall and her eyes grew bright.

“My painting’s back home, thanks to you, but not for long. After the buyer paid me, I persuaded him to let me keep it for a few more days. Don’t you think it looks nice?”

“It does.”

“Do you know why it’s called The Double?”

“Because of the two men,” said Lucas, lamely.

“But it’s not a painting of two men. Not really. The dark and the light colors in the background represent a man’s complex nature. It’s one man. Don’t you see?”

Lucas studied the painting.

“Yes,” he said. But he wasn’t sure.

“Would you like another beer?”

“No. I should be on my way.”

“Let me get you your money.”

She left the room and returned with an envelope thick with cash. Lucas had stood and had no intention of sitting back down. As was his custom, he counted the money to ensure that there would be no misunderstanding later on. He told her that it looked fine.

“Thanks again,” she said. She hugged him carefully and kissed him on the side of his mouth.

Lucas nodded, looking into her unfocused eyes. She walked him to the door.

On the elevator ride down, he looked inside the envelope again.

Eighty thousand dollars, less ten each for Marquis and Winston, less expenses. He’d walk with fifty-five, fifty-six thousand. Tax-free.

Lucas slid the goddamned money into his jeans.

The next morning, Lucas took the guns, armor, and gear back to Bobby Waldron in Rockville. In his basement bedroom, Waldron inventoried his goods and got a look at Billy King’s Colt, which Lucas had brought along.

Waldron inspected the .45. “I like this.”

“It’s clean,” said Lucas.

“Why’d you bring it?”

“I was thinking I’d keep the Beretta.”

“What’s the deal?”

“How ’bout I straight trade you the Colt for the nine.”

“I could do that,” said Waldron. “What about the silencer?”

“I’ll take that, too.”