The Sweet Forever

Thirty-One

There goes Brad Daugherty,” said Dimitri Karras. “You believe he went first?”

“Cavaliers needed a center,” said Marcus Clay. “Not a bad choice, you think about it. Got that Dean Smith pedigree, too. And you know Bias is goin’ next.”

Karras stood beside Clay, who was seated at his desk in the back of Real Right. They were watching the televised NBA draft selections on the beat-up house set.

“Look at that,” said Clay. “One of Red Auerbach’s people is whispering something in Bias’s ear.”

“‘Get ready to go,’ he’s sayin’.”

“Most likely. Damn if that isn’t a pretty ice green suit Lenny’s got on.”

“Should be Celtic green. The color of money.”

“Here we go,” said Clay.

Bias’s name was announced. Karras clapped Clay on the shoulder and watched his friend smile ear to ear.

“From Northwestern High School to the world-champion Boston Celtics. Can you believe it, Dimitri?”

“With Bird and McHale and Parish down below, he’s gonna have to start off as the sixth man.”

“Be better for him that way.”

“Wonder if Clarence is watchin’ this,” said Karras.

“He’s probably sittin’ in traffic right now, tryin’ to get into town. Since he moved out to Maryland he’s been spendin’ most of his time in his Cutlass.”

“He did the right thing. With the schools here the way they are, it’s better for Denice in the suburbs.”

“Seems like everybody’s either movin’ out of D.C. or thinkin’ on it.”

“Speaking of that, I got a letter from Donna Morgan a few days ago.”

“What, from Florida?”

Karras nodded. “Outside of Orlando. She and Golden are renting a little house. Got a swimming pool in the backyard under one of those bug tents.”

“Sounds like a winner.”

“She always wanted to go to Florida. She’s selling watches in a department store. And Eddie’s installing dishwashers. Takes him a little longer than it used to on account of that bum wrist of his. But as far as I could tell, they’re doin’ all right.”

Applause came from the television’s tinny speaker.

“There goes Chris Washburn,” said Clay.

“Golden State. Bet it’s nice out there in California.”

“Oh, so you thinkin’ of leavin’ town, too?”

“You know me better than that.”

“’Cause I need you, man.”

“I am the glue that holds this operation together.”

“Wouldn’t go so far as all that.”

The phone rang on the desk, and Clay picked it up. “Real Right. Hey, Cheek. Any action over there? Good. Uh-huh... How’s our boy doin’? That right. Well, you make sure and praise him when he’s on it and point out to him when he’s not. I want him to stay with it... Yeah, me and Dimitri were just watchin’ it. Happy for him, too. Take care, Cheek.”

Clay cradled the phone.

“What’s up?” said Karras.

“Cheek says they’re doin’ some business over at Dupont Circle.”

“How’s it goin’ with our new employee?”

“He says he’s comin’ along. Yeah, I think Alan’s gonna be all right.”

Karras grinned. “Long as you can keep him away from Denice.”

“Knock that shit off, man. Rogers backed away from that his own self. Boy’s got self-control, unlike you.”

They watched Chuck Person get called up by the Pacers; then Kenny Walker went to the Knicks.

“We doin’ anything out on the floor?”

Clay shook his head. “Cootch says we haven’t rung but one or two sales all day. If it wasn’t for Georgetown and Dupont, we’d be hurtin’ bad. We’re hurtin’ as it is.”

“You still talkin’ to Record City?”

“They’re comin’ back in next week. Say they’re interested in ‘testin’ the urban waters’ with a couple of small locations before they come to town with that superstore concept of theirs. They’re talkin’ buyout, but we’ll see.”

“Would you do it?”

“Get out of the way or get run over, that’s the way I’m lookin’ at it now. Like I say, we’ll see.”

Karras frowned, looking at the set. “Phoenix took William Bedford over Ray Tarpley?”

“I’m a little surprised at that one myself.”

Cootch’s head appeared in the doorway. “Boss?”

“Yeah.”

“Got a man out here from the mayor’s campaign office, wants to put some of those posters in our window.”

“Tell him we don’t do that,” said Clay. “We don’t do it for anybody. Explain it to him like that.”

“Right,” said Cootch, returning to the floor.

“He’s gonna get reelected,” said Karras. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Sure. Runnin’ against Mattie Taylor in the primaries and Carole Schwartz — a white Jewish Republican from Ward Three — in the general elections? Damn right he’s gonna win. Meanwhile, city services are down to nothin’, and the school system is fallin’ apart for real. And George Dozier tells me that crack’s already come to the District, ahead of schedule. Murder rate’s gonna accelerate now like we’ve never seen.”

“And the people are gonna put the mayor back in office.”

“Nero fiddled while Rome burned, Dimitri; our mayor took cocaine.” Clay looked up at Karras. “But you know somethin’? We’re all to blame. ’Cause in the end, years from now when it’s way too late, we’re gonna see that we did nothin’ to stop all this. We were so busy makin’ money, ignorin’ the ones who needed help, lookin’ out for ourselves. So busy lookin’ the other way.”

Karras jingled the change in his pocket. “Yeah, well, what’re you gonna do?”

“Just keep talkin’ about it, I guess.”

“Look, I gotta jet. Gonna make the rounds, check on the stores. There’s that Replacements show I want to catch at the 9:30 tonight, so I won’t be back in.”

“You talkin’ about that guy, looks like he can’t get a comb through his hair?”

“Westerberg. Steve Earle’s openin’ things up. Should be a helluva show.”

“Whatever.”

“Nice day out. You ought to see some sunshine yourself.”

“Fixin’ to, man. Gonna do some ball.” Clay eyed Karras. “You’re lookin’ a little on the thin side, you know it?”

“Way you’re workin’ me, man.”

“I’m serious. You all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Karras, avoiding Clay’s eyes. “Listen, you think you could come by one night this week, get the rest of your shit out of the apartment?”

“Why, you expecting company?”

“You never know.”

“Okay, man, I’ll try. Know how tidy you like to keep things over at the Trauma Arms.”

“Thanks, Marcus.”

“Ain’t no thing.”

Clay and Karras locked hands, gave each other their old double-buck shake.

“Take care, man.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

Clay watched Karras leave the room. He turned to the corkboard over his desk, stared at the Washington Post photo of Len Bias smiling into the camera, palming two basketballs.

Clay’s eyes moved to the photograph pinned to the right of Len’s: a grinning, happy Anthony Taylor, holding up a catfish he had hooked from a Georgia creek, his sisters on either side of him, his mom behind him, her hand resting on his bare, wet shoulder.

Marcus Clay leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and smiled.

Clay parked his car on Takoma Avenue, along the railroad tracks in Takoma Park. He locked the car, stopping to admire it before he crossed the street to Jequie Park.

Kids played on brightly colored equipment while parents sat on nearby benches reading paperbacks. In the open field a dozen shirtless El Salvadorians were engaged in a game of soccer, while at the adjacent roughed-out baseball diamond a father pitched a whiffle ball to his young son. A freight train passed, its click-clack muting the children’s squeals and laughter and the bird sounds coming from the tall trees at the edge of the park.

Clay went to the half-court square of asphalt set near a sheltered picnic area, where a man dribbled and shot, laying the ball up off the painted wooden backboard and getting ragged net.

“Marcus.”

“How you doin’, man?”

“Workin’ on it.”

“You up for a game?”

“You ain’t gonna play me soft, are you?”

“Wouldn’t do that.”

Kevin Murphy bounced the pill to Clay. “Go ahead and shoot for ball.”

They played to eleven, Clay coming out on top by four. The second game was more even, with Murphy tying it up, ten-ten.

“Gotta win by two, right, Marcus?”

Clay nodded. “Your ball.”

Murphy won the game on a shot from the top of the key.

“You gave me that one.”

“No, I didn’t.”

But Clay was lying; he was playing Murphy soft, avoiding contact with the man’s left side. It bothered Clay, seeing Kevin like that, knowing that this was Murphy now, and it was him forever.

Murphy’s game, though, it was improving fast. He’d spent the last month dribbling, getting his balance back, driving to his left, learning how to move in a different way.

“Rubber match?” said Murphy.

“Right.”

They sweated through their T’s, going full out in the best of three. Murphy made a good effort, but he lost his wind halfway into the game, and Clay turned it on. He rejected the ball when Murphy drove left and tried to lay it up. Clay sank the next bucket, a shot that bounced straight up off the rim, came down, and went right through.

“Got some forgiving buckets here,” Clay said, shaking Murphy’s hand. “You almost had me.”

“Never could go to my left. Told you that.”

Clay and Murphy had a seat on a grassy slope by the street.

“So how’s it goin’?” said Clay, lifting his T-shirt and wiping the sweat from his face.

“It’s okay. Workin’ this summer youth program down in Ward Eight. Got plenty of young brothers I’m tryin’ to guide. Funny how quick I got attached to ’em.” Murphy looked out across the park. “Almost like havin’ sons of my own.”

“Thanks for that picture of Anthony,” said Clay.

“Thought you’d like it,” said Murphy. “Lula Taylor sent me an extra.”

Clay spit to the side. “They payin’ you down at that program?”

Murphy shook his head. “It’s volunteer work. I don’t need the money. Got my pension, and the disability payment alone’s gonna carry me for a long time. You lose a limb, man, it’s more valuable than if you lose your life.”

“Sweet how the department took care of you.”

“Had to. Oh, they knew somethin’ was off about me and Tutt. Couldn’t prove it, but they knew. Course, you went and tore up that note. Another thing I need to thank you for, besides sending the troops in like you did. Them gettin’ there so quick, it saved my life.”

“Good thing you passed out.”

“Yeah, IAD never did have a chance to talk to me alone. When I woke up in the recovery room, Elaine was right by my side, holdin’ my hand, tellin’ me to keep my mouth shut. She and that other lawyer—”

“Williamson?”

“Yeah, him. One who looks like El DeBarge? He did a helluva job for me.”

Clay laughed. “Man does look like DeBarge. But he’s a damn good lawyer.”

“And Elaine, don’t forget her. None better than your wife.”

“She is somethin’.”

Murphy stroked his mustache, salted now with gray. “In the end, I guess the department figured it was easier to give us medals than it was to prosecute. Considering what’s goin’ on out there now, they thought it was better for the public’s morale, too. Made heroes of me and Tutt. You believe that?”

You are a hero, thought Clay.

Murphy pulled grass from the ground and shook his head. “One thing’s for sure. Tutt would have loved that fancy procession they gave him, all those officers cryin’ over him and shit.”

“‘When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’ Heard that in this Western I saw one time, down at the Keith’s.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Hell, man, I don’t know.”

Clay and Murphy smiled.

“How’s Wanda doin’, Kevin?”

“She’s got her days. They’re tryin’ to treat her with pills now, so we’ll see. I’m not givin’ up, Marcus. No matter what goes down in this life, there’s always hope.”

“There it is.”

“Come on, man. Got to fix Wanda dinner. Need to be gettin’ home.”

“Yeah, I need to be gettin’ home, too. You got wheels?”

“Not anymore. I walked over from Whittier.”

“I’ll drop you, man. My short’s right across the street.”

“It’s all the same to you, I’ll walk home. But I would like to check out that ride.”

They crossed the street and stood by the trunk of the car, the boat-tail rear waxed and beautiful in the golden-time light.

“Damn,” said Murphy. “That’s a pretty-ass Riviera. Seventy-three?”

“Seventy-two. Elaine bought it for me. It ain’t exactly like the one I owned. But it’s close enough.”

“Tell you somethin’. You got a woman like that, you don’t ever want to let her go.”

“I know it, brother. Believe me, I know.”

“See you next week?” said Murphy.

Clay said, “Bet.”

Kevin Murphy turned and walked east along the railroad fence, the atrophied stub of meat dangling from the sleeve of his T-shirt.

Clay watched him go, then drove away.

Marcus Clay slipped the sound track to Claudine into his tape deck and headed down to Mount Pleasant. Gladys singin’ Curtis, nothin’ could be better than that. He bought a couple of Boston creams — Elaine’s favorite — at Heller’s Bakery and then stopped at Sportsman’s Liquors, where he picked up a bottle of cabernet on the recommendation of Tasso and Leo, the genial brothers who owned the store. He drove over to Brown and parked his car.

Elaine sat on the stoop out front while Marcus Jr. ran around the rectangle of worn front yard, a small burgundy-and-gold football tucked under his arm. Clay took the concrete steps, waving to Pepe, his neighbor, who was working on a bottle of beer out on his porch.

“Daddy!” said Marcus Jr.

“What’s goin’ on, M.J.?” said Clay, going up the walk and handing the Heller’s box, cross-tied with string, to Elaine, who was moving one foot to “Black Satin,” coming from the open door of the house.

“What’s that I hear, On the Corner?”

“I do love my Miles.” Elaine felt the weight of the box. “Thanks for thinking of me, Marcus.”

“I’m always thinkin’ of you, girl. Proud of you, too.”

“Come here.”

They kissed and then Clay went out into the yard. Marcus Jr. threw him the football. Clay threw an underhand spiral back.

“I’m the Redskins,” said Marcus Jr.

“I know you are, son.”

“Who are you?”

“Anybody but the Cowboys.”

“Tackle me, Daddy.”

“Okay.”

Marcus Jr. took off toward his father, and Clay caught hold of his arm. But he didn’t tackle him; he hugged him tightly and kissed him roughly on the cheek. He smelled his son’s hair.

Clay remembered, just then, the words that Kevin Murphy had spoken: No matter what goes down in this life, there’s always hope.

“Daddy, you sad? Why you cryin’?”

“I’m not cryin’,” said Clay. “I’m happy, that’s all.”

Thirty-Two

The sun woke Dimitri Karras early Thursday morning. Raising himself up on one arm, he read the face of the watch strapped to his wrist: ten A.M.

Karras licked his dry lips. He’d been dreaming of cool water in a tall glass, out of reach.

He withdrew a tissue from the box on the nightstand and blew blood from his nose. He dropped the tissue on the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed.

Karras rose and took a long shower, hot water first and then cold. His stomach flipped, and he leaned his weight against the tiles.

“Stupid,” he said.

He dressed and walked out to the kitchen. The message light on his answering machine was blinking; it was Marcus, most likely, calling to find out why he was late. He decided not to listen to the message. He’d think of something or other to tell Marcus by the time he got down to U.

Karras tried to drink a cup of coffee but couldn’t get it down. He poured the coffee out in the sink and rubbed his face.

God, he felt like shit.

It was going to be a long workday on three hours’ sleep. He could use a little bump to get through it. Just a little, to straighten out his head.

Karras took Connecticut Avenue uptown, the air conditioner’s blower the only sound in the car. He turned right on Albemarle Street and parked near the entrance to the Soapstone Trail. He got out of the BMW and walked west toward the apartment building where his dealer, Billy Smith, had his place.

While waiting for the light at the corner, Karras looked across Connecticut to the Nutty Nathan’s store. Nick Stefanos stood on the sidewalk out front, his hand resting on the shoulder of some bandanna-wearing black kid, both of them watching the bank of televisions in the display window of the shop. Karras hadn’t seen Stefanos since March, or thanked him for the work he’d done.

Karras crossed the avenue, approaching Stefanos and the kid from behind. As he neared them, Karras saw the televisions in the window were all tuned to the same image: Len Bias, wearing that jazzy ice green suit of his, standing out of his chair at the calling of his name.

All right, it was news. But why were they running the draft highlights again, two days after the fact?

“Nick?” said Karras.

Stefanos and the boy turned their heads. The black kid was crying freely, tears running down his cheeks.

“Dimitri,” said Stefanos, his eyes hollow and red.

Karras felt hot and suddenly nauseous in the sun. He backed away to a government oak, leafy and full, planted by the curb. Karras stepped into its cool shade.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. It was better there, standing in the darkness pooled beneath the tree.