The Way Home

NINETEEN

Ben and Renee woke up late on Sunday and spent most of the day indoors, lounging, ordering in, and making love. They watched a Martin Lawrence movie that Renee had brought with her and several innings of a Nationals game on cable. Ben walked her to the parking lot in the early evening and kissed her good-bye through the open window of her Hyundai. They had laughed all day and were right for each other in the bedroom. He was thinking that she might be the one.

Ben went back to his apartment. On his nightstand he found a paperback novel, Blood on the Forge, that he had been struggling with at first but getting into of late. He rubbed his fingers over the handsome cover. To him, it was like touching gold.

He was challenging himself these days to take on reading material that was a bit more difficult. Ben knew who he was and where he wanted to go. He was never going to be accomplished by society’s standards, or rich by anyone’s, but he was comfortable with his limitations. For many, life was about the pursuit of status, but it was not so for him. Ben’s was all about the quest for knowledge, and his vehicle was books.

He thought of work as a means to acquire food and shelter. Friends and Renee kept him socialized and sane. He tried not to stress on his broken childhood or troubled teens, and mostly managed to steer his mind clear of dark places. He was past that, and looked forward to learning something new every day.

Ben sniffed the short-sleeved Timberland button-down he’d worn the night before, decided that it did not stink, and put it on. He went to the front door and took his keys off a peg bar mounted on the wall. He had his cell, his wallet, and his book, which he had slipped into the back pocket of his jeans.

He left the apartment, crossed the street, and walked along a black iron fence. In the apartment house parking lot, from inside an aging sedan, two men watched.

Ben entered the cemetery gate at Rock Creek Church and Webster, walked down the wide road around the church, and took the very narrow road to the Adams Memorial. As it was a weekend, the memorial had visitors, an elderly couple whose car was parked nearby. Ben moved on, finding a spot atop a stone retaining wall near a large pond. He began to read.

Shadows lengthened as the sun dropped. A Hispanic groundsman finished his edging and, his day done, drove a motorized utility cart up the slope toward the physical plant. A little while later, a security car rolled by, and its driver, a middle-aged gentleman who knew Ben on sight, tapped the face of his wristwatch, telling Ben by signal that it would soon be time to go.

Ben waved at him and held up five fingers. The driver nodded and drove on.

Ben stayed longer than he intended. Though the light was dying, he was at a point in the novel that he could not walk away from. In the book, three black brothers, country boys from the South, had come north to work in the steel mills, and now their fates were being laid bare. Ben was transfixed.

An old black car drove slowly down the road. It came to a stop near Ben and sat idling like a crow at rest. Ben looked down at the pages of his book. He looked back at the car. The engine had cut off. A big man with a walrus mustache got out of the driver’s side, and a small man with wiry tattooed arms and a bushy mustache stepped from the passenger side. The big man, wearing a windbreaker and jeans, looked around, saw no one, and walked toward Ben. Ben put the book down and eased off the stone wall. He stood with discomfort, unsure of what to do or where to put his hands.

As the big man neared him, Ben said, “Somethin I can help you with?”

“I sure hope so.” The man drew a semiautomatic pistol from where it was holstered beneath his windbreaker. He pointed the gun at Ben, then waved its barrel toward the old sedan. “In the car.”

“I didn’t do nothin,” said Ben.

“Yes, you did.” He waved the barrel in the same direction once again. “Do what I say. Quick.”

Ben looked around. It was near dark and no one, visitor or employee, was in sight.

The big man locked back the pistol’s hammer. “Run, you got a mind to.”

Ben willed himself to walk toward the vehicle. The man with the gun was behind him as the little man opened the passenger door to let Ben in.

“Up front,” said the big man.

Ben got in and the door shut after him. In his side vision he saw the big man hand the little man the gun. He heard the little man get into the backseat as the other one settled into the driver’s seat.

“Remember this,” said the big man. “My friend will shoot you dead.”

Ben couldn’t speak. He felt the car lurch forward. His fingers dented the red velour seat. They drove slowly through the cemetery, up the hill and around the church. The security vehicle came just as slowly in their direction as the big man deftly went through the gate and pulled out onto Webster Street.

“We just made it,” said the little man.

“Yeah, they’re about to close that gate.” The big man with the high cheekbones looked over at Ben. “What’s your name, fella?”

“Ben.”

“You can call me Sonny.” His smile showed perfect gray teeth.

They drove around without apparent destination until it was full dark. Ben listened to the random, pointless banter between the two men, much of it concerning female singers, the discussion starting with the merits of their talent and quickly veering off toward cup size. The little one smoked and commented frequently on what he saw out the window. The city and its residents did not please him.

Ben tried to think of the reason for his abduction, and he could not. He had no enemies that he knew of. He’d been straight for a long time, and in his recollection had done no one wrong.

The car stank. His abductors had awful body odor, and Ben suspected that he did, too. He had sweated into his shirt.

At several stoplights he considered jumping out of the Mercury but decided against it, fearing that the little one with the stove-in face would shoot him. He would have to sit here and hope that these two would not harm him. There was nothing else he could see to do.

Sonny caught Ben noticing the shamrock tattoo on the crook of his hand, wrapped around the fake-fur-covered steering wheel.

“You dig my ink?” said Sonny.

Ben did not answer.

“C’mon, fella. Ain’t no need to be silent. We gonna converse, eventually.”

They drove south on a downward slope of North Capitol and traveled under the New York Avenue overpass.

“You know what my tattoo is?” said Sonny.

“It’s a four-leaf clover,” said Ben.

“Why don’t no one ever get that?” said the little man.

“It’s a shamrock,” said Sonny. “Means I’m part of a club.”

“He’s talkin about the Aryan Brotherhood,” said the little man.

“Shut up, stupid,” said Sonny. “Let me tell it how I want to.”

“My name is not Stupid.”

“Shut up, Wayne.”

Sonny stopped at the red light on K. A panhandling drunk came across the street from the east corner of North Capitol, out of the shadows of a shuttered church. As he neared the driver’s side of the Marquis, Sonny turned his head to him and said, “Get your dirty ass gone.” The man retreated without a word.

On the green, Sonny turned left onto K Street. They entered an old tunnel with water-stained walls, lit by globe-topped streetlamps. From above, Ben could hear the clomping sound of a train moving on tracks.

“I hope you’re not frightened,” said Sonny.

“I’m not,” said Ben quickly.

“I’m glad you’re not,” said Sonny. “I want you thinkin clear. We gonna go someplace now and have a quiet conversation. Okay?”

Sonny drove several blocks, hooked a left onto 6th Street, and parked along the curb. They were beside an old, boxy, three-story building surrounded by a chain-link fence, standing out in a residential neighborhood of row homes. Metal security screens and plywood were fitted in its large windows, and a sign announcing the coming of the Ward Six Senior Wellness Center was posted on the south face. Ben had seen buildings such as this, shuttered or laced with creeping ivy, around the city. He guessed that this one, like the others, had once been a school.

“Wait,” said Sonny. Two young men were walking down the sidewalk in their direction, talking loudly, and when they had passed, Sonny tossed the keys over the seat to Wayne and said, “Get the things.”

Wayne handed Sonny his gun and got out of the car. Sonny kept the gun low and pointed at Ben. The trunk opened, and Ben could hear Wayne ratfucking through it.

Wayne returned and opened the passenger door. He was wearing latex gloves and tossed a pair to Sonny.

“Don’t worry,” said Sonny, noticing a twitch in Ben’s lip and the sweat bulleting his forehead.

“Put your hands behind your back,” said Wayne.

Ben looked at Sonny.

“It’s all just a pre-caution,” said Sonny, fitting the gloves on his hands.

Ben allowed the little man to cuff him. When Sonny was satisfied that the street was clear, Wayne pulled on Ben’s arm and brought him out of the car. Wayne locked the Mercury, and the three of them went north on the sidewalk, along the school, whose main entrance faced 6th. Ben made out a naked flagpole mounted over the wide front doors, and big letters that spelled out “Hayes School.”

“Round the side,” said Sonny. Wayne pushed on a gate that had been padlocked but was open because its chain had been severed by a pair of cutters, now in the Mercury’s trunk. Ben moved off the sidewalk and walked onto the asphalt and weeds of the property.

“Hey,” said Ben. He was encouraged by the sound of his own voice, and he screamed, “Hey!”

Wayne jumped up and punched him behind the ear. Ben stumbled, and Sonny grabbed his left arm and righted him.

“That wasn’t smart,” said Sonny. “Now, you just relax.”

From a nearby porch, out front of one of the houses on 6th, Ben heard someone laugh.

They went to the north face of the school, out of the glow of streetlamps. There were two windows on the ground floor covered by heavy wire screen, and one in the center holding a square of plywood painted white. Wayne removed the plywood, which he had kicked in earlier that day. Ben saw only complete darkness there and in fear he turned away from it, but Sonny spun him and pushed him from behind. As Ben fell into the room, it was illuminated, slightly, by the beam of a mini Maglite held in Wayne’s hand. Wayne moved the flashlight beam and it hit on eyes that glowed. Ben heard the fluttering of clawed feet and saw animals, big as cats, scatter back into the shadows. His stomach dropped.

“Rats gotta live someplace, too,” said Sonny.

Wayne used his butane lighter to put fire to candles pushed into the necks of beer bottles placed in a circular shape on the concrete floor. A child’s chair with a plastic seat and steel legs was set in the center of the circle. As the old classroom revealed itself, Sonny gestured to the chair and said, “That’s for you.”

Wayne refitted the plywood to the frame as Sonny helped Ben down into the chair. Its seat was small, and Ben had to rest on the edge of it to accommodate his arms, cuffed behind his back. His rolled his shoulders to alleviate the ache in his neck. He saw a bottle of water standing on the floor and he licked his parched lips.

“I know it’s uncomfortable,” said Sonny, standing before him. Sonny picked up the bottle, drank from it, then placed the bottle back on the floor. “So let’s get this over with and we’ll all go home.”

Wayne moved through the light and crouched down on one knee, half of him in darkness. Then he stood and moved beside the chair. Ben did not look at him. He focused on the big man. He seemed to be reasonable and he was the one in charge.

“You know that thing I told you ’bout my tat?” said Sonny. “You ride with the rock, you take a blood oath to the Aryan Brotherhood. Well, I didn’t take no oath. I put this ink on after I got out the federal joint. If any genuine AB saw me carryin it, he’d cut my throat. I just put it on my hand to make an impression with folks that need to get a certain message. Like Mindy Kramer. You know her, don’t you, Ben?”

Ben’s eyes betrayed him, and Sonny chuckled low.

“Course you do.” Sonny shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I wasn’t bad enough to be Aryan Brotherhood. I’m not ashamed to say it. I don’t even sub -scribe to their notions of race. I don’t hate African American people. Want you to know that. This here ain’t got nothin to do with the color of your skin. Truth is, the modern Aryan Brotherhood ain’t even about hatin blacks, Mexicans, or Jews. It’s about power, money, and control. Now, Wayne here, he does have a bit of a problem with, what’s that they call it, people of color. Wayne wanted to get in, but they don’t let itty-bitty boys like him into the club. I’m a big man, as you can see, but I look like queer bait next to them ABs. They are some big specimens. They’re honest-to-god animals, Ben.”

“Can I get a drink of water?” said Ben.

“Not just yet,” said Sonny. “To finish my point: Me and Wayne were just cogs in the machine at Lewisburg. We did favors for the bad boys. Runnin errands and such. They called our kind peckerwoods.”

“They called you it,” said Wayne.

“Not that I wasn’t capable of doing bad things,” said Sonny. “Wayne, too. Got to give it to my little friend, because he can be fierce. But I wasn’t interested in that power thing. I only wanted to have what I worked for. I like a roll of folding money in my pocket, and when I get it I expect to keep it. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I had some money,” said Sonny. “Fifty thousand dollars, give or take. Me and an associate, fella named Leslie Hawkins, took off four jewelry stores in the Baltimore area over the course of, I don’t know, five or six months. Wasn’t any kind of trick to it. You put a gun up in someone’s face, they gonna give you what you askin for. I was a young man at the time, about your age, and I had a kind of energy comin off me that was very convincing. The Jews and the slopes who we were robbin, they knew we meant business. Me and Hawk, we made over a hundred grand on those jobs after we fenced it out. I gave him half, even though the only thing he did was drive a car. And it was all clean. I wore a mask when I was workin, a hood with cutout eyes, like a hangman’s bag. So the cameras didn’t pick up on shit. The problem wasn’t that the law knew who I was. The problem was Leslie Hawkins. I should have known better than to partner up with a man had a girl’s name.”

“Please,” said Ben, sweat stinging his eyes. “Can I get some water?”

“When I’m done,” said Sonny. “Hawkins got pulled over one night by a state trooper for a busted taillight. Leslie panicked and booked, thinking they had made his vehicle from the robberies. Led the police on one of those high-speed chases you see on the tee-vee, and of course he got caught. Dumbass had his share of the money in the trunk of the car. He spilled soon as they got him into a room. Hawkins put me in for the robberies. That wasn’t no surprise. Through the underworld telegraph, I’d heard he got picked up, and I figured it was just a matter of time before the law got around to me. So I went to visit my uncle, who lived here in D.C.”

“Hot in here, ain’t it?” said Wayne.

“It is stuffy,” said Sonny, and he removed his windbreaker and tossed it aside. The semiautomatic was holstered in a leather rig looped over his shoulder and chest.

“I need a drink,” said Ben, desperation entering his voice.

“My uncle came from the same place I do,” said Sonny, ignoring the request. “What passes for mountain country, way up in Maryland. Ever been there, Ben?”

“No.”

“Well, my uncle had one of those alternative lifestyles, and they don’t exactly tolerate that kind of thing up there. So he moved down here to the city, got a job managing a fancy furniture store, had a partner for a while, bought a house. Carved out a nice life for himself. I never had no problem with him or who he was. Matter of fact, I loved him. Now that he’s gone, makes me feel a little bad that I buried my money without his knowledge in that library-slash-den of his before I got arrested. He died while I was in the joint, and then his home went to auction. But I won’t go on about it. You know the rest. Don’t you, fella.”

“I didn’t take that money,” said Ben.

Sonny drew the gun from its holster. It was an S amp;W. 45 with a black grip and a stainless steel slide and body. Sonny worked the slide and dropped a round into the chamber. He squinted as he inspected the gun.

“Shaved numbers,” said Sonny. “I reckon I’m in big trouble if they pick me up.”

Wayne laughed.

“Plus, I’m a parole violator,” said Sonny. “I haven’t reported to my supervisor but one time since I got out. Never did pee in no cup. I just left and picked up Wayne, my old cell mate, and came straight down to War-shington via West Virginia to get my money. Imagine my surprise when I found out that my money is gone.”

“I didn’t take it.”

“Yeah, I’m in a world of trouble if I cross paths with the law.” Sonny stepped close to Ben. The flames from the candles reflected in his black, empty eyes. “But I don’t care. I want you to know it. I plain don’t give a fuck.”

“I saw it,” said Ben. “It was in an old gym bag. But I didn’t take it.”

“ ’Scuse me if I can’t believe that.”

“We left it there.”

“You mean, you and your partner, Chris. The both of you.”

“That’s right,” said Ben, holding Sonny’s stare. “We saw it, but we left it where it was at. Someone broke into that house after and took it. I know because we had to go back and fix the carpet.”

“It wasn’t you. It was someone else.”

“Yes.”

“So you told someone ’bout the money.”

“No,” said Ben.

Sonny cocked back the hammer of the gun and locked it in place. He touched the barrel to the corner of Ben’s eye. Ben turned his head, and Sonny pressed the tip of the barrel tighter to his flesh.

“Liar,” said Sonny. “I’m only gonna ask you one more time. Who took my money?”

“I… don’t know.”

Sonny held the gun in place. Ben heard clawed feet gaining purchase on concrete, and a scampering sound. He closed his eyes.

“I was wrong about you,” said Sonny, standing straight, dropping the gun to his side. He took several steps back. “I thought you was a soft one. I guess now I’ll have to talk to your friend Chris. ’Cause you damn sure ain’t gonna talk. Makes me think you got the code of the jailhouse in you. You ever done time, Ben?”

“Juvenile,” said Ben softly.

“Me, too,” said Sonny. “They had me up in that boy’s reformatory in Sabillasville. I wasn’t so bad when I went in. But they cured me of any goodness I had by the time I came out. That’s what that place did for me. It made me well.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“I know it, fella.” Sonny holstered his gun. “Wayne?”

Wayne’s tattooed arm arced into the light. Ben gasped as he saw the blade swing toward him, and his eyes crossed as the knife pierced his chest and entered his heart.

The force of the blow knocked Ben off the chair. Wayne stood over him and with his face contorted, he grunted and came down with the knife, rabbit-punching, stabbing Ben’s torso, his abdomen, his neck. Ben writhed and cried out, and Wayne did not stop. Ben went into shock, and chopping sounds filled the room as Wayne worked on.

“Wayne,” said Sonny.

Wayne stood, spent with exhaustion. His latex gloves and forearms were dark with blood. The front of his T-shirt was soaked with it. Bloodied hair had fallen about his face.

“He ain’t nothin now,” said Wayne, his eyes bright. “Is he, Sonny? Is he.”

“You did end him,” said Sonny. “Get his wallet and cell if he has one. Seal this shithole up and I’ll meet you out at the car.”

Ten minutes later, Wayne Minors crept out of the shadows of the school property, opened the gate, and looped its padlock and chain through the links of the fence so that it appeared to have been undisturbed.

On the street, Sonny Wade sat patiently behind the wheel of his Mercury, waiting for his little friend.