The Turnaround

Twenty-Eight

Three men sat in an alley under the light of a security lamp and a crudely painted sign reading “Gavin’s Garage.” Two of them, Alex Pappas and Raymond Monroe, were on upended crates. The third, James Monroe, sat in a foldout sports spectator chair that Alex had brought from the back of his Jeep. All of them were drinking beer. James had his resting in a holder cut into the sailcloth arm of the chair.

Raymond had told Alex about Kenji’s e-mail but was careful not to go on about it, mindful of the fate of Alex’s own son.

“Kenji’s got a long way to go before he comes home,” said Raymond. “They’ll be extending his tour, I expect.”

“God protect him,” said Alex, his usual comment when speaking of the young men and women serving overseas. Knowing, rationally, that God took no side in the human folly of war.

James took a pull of beer and wiped the excess from his chin. “This is nice and all that. Sitting out here in the fresh air, having a cold brew. But I’ve got to finish replacing the belts and hoses on that Courier.”

“You said this was important,” said Raymond to Alex, completing James’s thought.

“Yes,” said Alex.

“You got something you want to tell us?” said James.

“I’m sorry,” said Alex. “That’s the first thing I want to say. It occurred to me that I’ve never said those words to the two of you. I thought it was time.”

“Why?” said Raymond.

“Funny,” said Alex. “Miss Elaine asked me the same thing today. I wasn’t sure what the question was, but I can guess. Why did we do it? Why did we have to drive into your neighborhood that day?”

“Well?”

“The simple answer is, we were all dumb kids. High on beer and pot on a summer day with nothing to do but find trouble. We didn’t have anything against you guys. We didn’t know you. You were the ones on the other side of town. It was like throwing a rock at a hornets’ nest or something. We knew it was wrong and dangerous, but we didn’t think it was going to hurt anyone.”

“Not hurtful?” said James. “Your friend screamed nigger out the window of his car. It could have been directed at my mother or father. How is that not hurting anyone?”

“I know it. I know. Billy was…” Alex tried to find the word. “Billy was crippled, man. His father made him that way. It wasn’t even hate, because he didn’t have that kind of thing in him. He was a good friend. He was looking out for me, even at the end. I really believe that he would have turned out fine. If he had lived, if he had gotten out of that house and into the world, on his own, he would have been fine. He’d be sitting with us here today, having a beer. He would. If he had only lived through that day.”

“What about you?” said James. “What’s your story?”

“My brother’s sayin, why were you with them?” said Raymond. “Because we’ve talked about it. And both of us remember that you were just sitting in the backseat. You didn’t yell anything and you didn’t throw anything. So why were you there?”

“I wasn’t an active participant,” said Alex. “That’s true. But it doesn’t absolve me. I could have been stronger and told Billy to stop what he was about to do. I could have gotten out of the car at that stoplight, up at the entrance to your neighborhood. If I had just done that and walked home, I wouldn’t be carrying this goddamn scar. But I didn’t. The truth is, I’ve always been a passenger, riding in the backseat. That’s no excuse. I’m telling you, it’s who I am.”

James nodded, his eyes unreadable. Raymond stared down at the stones in the alley.

“What about you guys?” said Alex. “Anything you want to say?”

Raymond looked at James, imposing and implacable in his chair.

“Okay,” said Alex. “I’ll just keep going, then. You know the other night, when we were in the garage? The night I met you, James. You and your brother were revisiting your lifelong argument, the Earl Monroe versus Clyde Frazier thing. Raymond, you were talking about it, and I saw a shadow cross your face.”

“That was just a tiny shadow,” said James, forcing a smile. “That was the little man Gavin walking into the garage to give me hell. Man throws dark on all of our worlds, doesn’t he, Ray?”

Raymond Monroe did not respond.

“That’s what I thought, too,” said Alex, “at the time. But then I got thinking further. I’m talking way back, to when I was a teenager. In the seventies, you couldn’t buy replica jerseys like you can today. Maybe upper-class kids could, but I don’t recall seeing any. We used to make our own, with Magic Markers. Put the name and numbers of our favorite players on the front and back of our white T-shirts, go to the courts, and play ball like we were those players. I know you guys did the same thing. I had one I made with Gail Goodrich’s name on it. Small shooting guard for the Lakers.”

“White boy out of UCLA,” said James. “They called him Stumpy. Had a nice jumper, too.”

“Yeah,” said Alex. “Goodrich wore number twenty-five. I also made an Earl Monroe jersey. He was number fifteen when he played for the Knicks.”

“We know that,” said Raymond. “Why don’t you tell us where this is going?”

“I got hold of the partial court transcripts from the trial,” said Alex. “The transcript said that the shooter was wearing a T-shirt at the time of the murder.”

“So?” said James. “I was wearing the shirt when I got arrested. That’s no secret.”

“I’m not finished,” said Alex. “Miss Elaine told me that the boy with the gun was wearing a T-shirt had a number that was hand-printed across it. She has very good long-term memory, despite her stroke. She said that the number on the shirt was the number ten.”

“Say what’s on your mind,” said Raymond.

“You might have been wearing that shirt when you were arrested, James. But there wasn’t any way you would have put on a Clyde Frazier T-shirt when you got up that morning. You were an Earl Monroe man all the way. You still call him Jesus. I’m talking about Earl when he played for the Knicks and wore the number fifteen.”

“Make your point,” said James.

“You didn’t shoot Billy Cachoris,” said Alex. His eyes went to Raymond. “ You did.”

“That’s right,” said Raymond Monroe evenly. “It was me who killed your friend.”