The Turnaround

Sixteen

Raymond Monroe stepped out of the therapy room a little after noon, intending to call Kendall and have lunch with her down in the cafeteria. As he pulled his cell from his pocket, he passed a young man, blinded in one eye, shrapnel wounds forming crescent scars around the socket, his head shaved and stitched on the side.

“Pop,” said the young man.

“How’s it going?” said Monroe.

“Awesome,” said the young man without sarcasm or irony, and he walked on in a square-shouldered stride.

At the elevator bank, Monroe waited for the down car beside a man his age who stood with his hands on the grips of a wheelchair. A young woman of about twenty sat in the chair, her hospital gown worn over a T-shirt. She had short black hair, blue eyes, and a bit of a mustache, most likely a growth spurred by steroids she had been taking postinjury. Both of her legs had been amputated high in the femur, not far below the trunk. One stump was badly burned and scarred with “dots,” small bits of shrapnel still embedded close to the skin surface. The other stump did not appear to have been burned but was twitching wildly.

“Hey,” said the young woman, looking at Monroe.

“Afternoon,” said Monroe. “How’s everybody doing on this fine day?”

“How am I doin, Daddy?” said the young woman.

“She just got fitted for her new legs,” said her father. His eyes were the same shade of brilliant blue as his daughter’s. “Won’t be long before Ashley’s walkin again.”

Both Ashley and her father had deep southern accents. Both of them smelled strongly of cigarettes.

“And after that,” said Ashley, “I’m gonna swim from one shore to the other and back again.”

“She wants to swim in the old lake,” said the father. “We got a nice clean one down by our home.”

“I will, too,” she said.

“Next summer, maybe,” said the father, as he reached down and touched her cheek. He smiled, his lip quivering with melancholy pride.

“Maybe you and I will get a chance to work together in the pool,” said Monroe.

“I’ll make you tired,” said Ashley.

“My little girl is game,” said the father.

“No doubt,” said Monroe. As the elevator doors opened, Monroe’s cell phone chimed in his hand, indicating that he had a message.

Outside the main building, he checked his messages. Alex Pappas’s voice told him he’d like to meet. Monroe hit auto-return and got Alex on the line.

“Pappas and Sons.” He sounded stressed amid the considerable noise in the background.

“It’s Ray Monroe.”

“Mr. Monroe, you got me in the middle of my lunch rush.”

“Call me Ray. Look, I didn’t know -”

“If you’d like to talk again, I’m stopping by Fisher House after work. Same time as the other night.”

“Okay. I was thinking we’d take a drive, go visit my brother.”

“I can’t talk now. I’ll see you then.” Pappas abruptly cut the connection. Monroe stood looking at the phone for a moment, then dropped the cell back into his pocket.

He went into building 2 and took the elevator up to Kendall’s floor. When he knocked on the open door to her office, he could already see that she was not there. Gretta Siebentritt, the outpatient therapist who shared the office with Kendall, swiveled her chair to face him.

“What’s up, Ray?”

“Lookin for my girlfriend. Is she hiding from me?”

“Hardly. She’s in conference with Private Collins. He’s been occupying a bit of her time.”

“The soldier about to do the voluntary amputation?”

“Him. Anything you’d like me to tell her?”

“I’ll get up with her later.”

Monroe ate lunch alone, thinking about James, Alex Pappas, Baker, and the trouble that was bound to come.

For his lunch appointment, Charles Baker had chosen to wear a deep purple sport jacket with white stitching on the lapels, triple-pleat polyester black slacks, a lavender shirt, and a pair of black tooled-leather shoes that almost looked like gators. He had put the outfit together over the past year, shopping at thrift places and the Salvation Army store on H Street in Northeast. He had never before had the occasion to wear the rig in full, and looking in the mirror on the way out of his group home, he felt that he looked clean and right.

“Where you off to?” said a man called Trombone, a recovering heroin addict with a very long nose, one of the four men on paper with whom Baker shared the house. “You look like folding money.”

“I got people to meet and places to be,” said Baker. “And none of’em are here.”

Baker did feel like a million dollars, walking out of the house.

But when he got downtown, coming off the Metro escalator at Farragut North, moving along into the bustle of Connecticut Avenue, he got that feeling again, the feeling he had whenever he left his insular world, that he was out of step and wrong. Around him, workingmen and women of all colors, finely and effortlessly attired, carrying soft leather briefcases and handbags, walking with purpose, going somewhere. He did not understand how they had gotten here. Who taught them how to dress in that quiet, elegant way? How did they get their jobs?

Baker put his thumb and forefinger to the lapel of his purple sport coat. The fabric felt spongy. All right, so he wasn’t in step with all these silver spoons down here. He’d dazzle Mr. Peter Whitten with his personality and force of logic. Flash him some Dale Carnegie smile.

The restaurant was an Italian place with an O on the end of its name, on L Street, west of 19th. He entered to the sound of relaxed conversation, the gentle movement and soft contact of china, silver, and crystal. Murals had been painted on the walls, looked to Baker like those fancy old paintings he’d seen at a museum he’d been to once, when he was coming in from the cold, wandering around, down on the Mall.

“Yes, sir,” said a young man in a black suit, stepping up to meet Baker as he walked through the door.

“I’m havin lunch with somebody. I got an appointment with Mr. Peter Whitten.”

“Right this way, sir.” The man made an elaborate movement with his hands and swiveled his narrow hips. The word prey flashed in Baker’s mind, but here was not the place to be scheming, and he followed the young man through the maze of tables, along the granite-top bar, where a solid-built dude in a leather blazer sat, eye-fucking him as he passed. Even the brothers down here took him for ghetto, thought Baker. Well, fuck them, too.

Peter Whitten was waiting at a two-top covered with a white tablecloth, close to the bar. Everything about him, from the natural drape of his suit to the carefully cut, just-over-the-ear hairstyle, said money. His face was neither friendly nor confrontational, and all of his features were straight. His hair was silver and blond, his eyes a light blue. Like an actor cast as the wealthy father on a soap opera, he was handsome in a predictable way. He didn’t get up but stretched out his hand as Baker arrived.

“Mr. Baker?”

“It is me,” said Baker, taking his hand and giving a smile. “Mr. Whitten, right?”

“Have a seat.”

The young man had pulled his chair out, and Baker dropped into it and maneuvered his legs under the table. Baker touched the silverware before him, moved it a little, and almost at once another man in a tux was beside the table, setting down a menu and asking Baker if he would like something to drink.

“Would you care for a beer or a cocktail?” said Whitten helpfully.

Baker looked at Whitten’s glass.

“I’ll just have water,” said Baker.

“Flat or sparkling?” said the waiter.

“Regular water,” said Baker.

The waiter drifted. Baker opened the menu, looking to do something with his hands, not knowing how to start the conversation. He was aware of Whitten staring at him as his eyes scanned the menu. Prima piatti, insalata, pasta e risotto, secondi piatti. How’d they expect an American to know what to order in this piece? Fagottini… Baker knew there was something he didn’t like about this restaurant.

“Do you need some help with the menu?” said Whitten. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something like a smile in his eyes.

Baker had made an error. He shouldn’t have met Whitten here. It was wrong, arrogant even, for him to presume he could play on the man’s home court.

“I’m all right,” said Baker. “It all looks so good. I just need some time.”

“Maybe we better talk first,” said Whitten, folding his hands on the table, at peace in his world.

Baker closed the menu and laid it down. “Okay. You read the letter, so there’s no mystery as to what this is about.”

“Yes.”

“I’m lookin for a little help, Mr. Whitten.”

Whitten stared at him.

“I feel like I got some, uh, reparations comin to me, if you know what I mean. Since that day you and your friends drove into our neighborhood, my life has been hard. It’s not like I haven’t tried to make it, either. I’m not a bad person. I have a job.”

“What do you want?”

“Some compensation for what you and your friends did. I think that’s fair. I’m not tryin to break the bank or nothing like that. I mean, look at you; obviously you’ve done good in life. You sure can spare it.”

“Spare what?”

“Huh?”

“How much do you want?”

“I was thinking, you know, fifty thousand dollars would be about right. That would do it. A good foundation for me to build somethin on. Get me back on the track that I would have been on from the beginning, if you and your friends hadn’t come into our world.”

“And what would you do if I said no?”

Baker’s face felt flushed. The waiter poured him water from a pitcher, and Baker drank a long swig at once.

“Are we ready to order?” said the waiter.

“We ain’t ready just yet,” snapped Baker.

The waiter looked at Whitten, who shook his head slightly, telling him that everything was all right and that he should leave.

When the waiter was gone, Baker allowed his emotions to subside.

“Don’t take me wrong,” said Baker.

“No?”

“We’re just having a conversation here. I’m asking you, gentleman to gentleman, for some help.”

“Your letter said something about damage to my reputation.”

“That wasn’t a threat. That was just, you know, an incentive for you to contribute. I was just referring to… Look, you wouldn’t want those people at your law firm knowing about your past, would you? You don’t want those kids you reach out to, those black kids you help, to know what you did. Do you?”

“They already know,” said Whitten. “All of them. They know because I’ve told them about it, many times. It’s an element in my journey. I want the kids to know that there are second acts in American lives. That they can make mistakes, but it’s not the end. They can do dumb things and still have success, make a positive contribution to society. I think it’s important that they know.”

“Oh, you do.”

Baker felt his mouth turn up in a smile. The kind he used to punk anyone who had a dream about stepping to him. The kind that usually gave men pause. But Whitten’s expression did not change.

“Yes, I do,” said Whitten. “I believe in second chances. Which is why I agreed to meet with you today. Because I do know that you’ve had a hard life.”

“You looked into my life, huh.”

“My associate Mr. Coates did. Mr. Coates is a private detective my firm uses in various capacities. He’s sitting right behind you. He’s the fellow wearing the black leather jacket, at the bar.”

Baker did not turn his head. He knew who the man was.

“You’re on parole right now, Mr. Baker. Do you know how severely you’d be violated for attempting to commit extortion and blackmail? I have all the ammunition to put you on the road back to prison, immediately. I recorded our conversation yesterday, in which you stated that it was you who sent me the letter. It may or may not be admissible as evidence in court, but nevertheless the tape is in my possession. I have the letter and the envelope, which most likely hold your fingerprints. The printer you used can probably be traced to your residence.”

“So?”

“I’m giving you a break. Walk out of here right now, quietly, and do not pursue this further. Don’t ever contact me in any way again. Don’t come near my house or my place of business. If you do, I’ll take swift and decisive action.”

“Fancy man with your words.” Baker’s voice was soft and controlled. “Tryin to act like you doing me a favor.”

“Mr. Baker, consider very carefully what you say and do here. For your own sake.”

“Motherfucker.”

“We’re done.”

“Coward-ass bitch. Throwin pie out a car window and running your bitch ass away. Leavin your friends behind.”

Whitten’s face grew pale. His fingers were now tightly laced together. “Do something right. Be smart and go.”

Baker got up carefully from the table, so as not to spill his water or rattle the silverware. He walked past the man in the black leather jacket and did not look his way. He did not want to see the hint of a smile or victory because he would then be tempted to steal the man in the face. He wasn’t about to get violated for something cheap like that. Because he wasn’t ready to go back to the joint. He wasn’t done.

He stepped around some folks who were grouped by the host stand, mindful not to make physical contact, and he pushed on the front door and went outside.

His mistake had been to try and reason with Whitten. If this life had taught him something, it was to take from the weak. That the things he wanted could only be got through intimidation and force.

A man in a trench coat was coming toward him on the sidewalk, talking on his cell. Baker bumped the man’s shoulder roughly as he passed and got the desired reaction. There was fear and confusion in the man’s eyes.

This is what I know. This is what makes me feel right.

Baker laughed.