The Way Home

TWENTY-TWO

Chris was quiet on the ride back to the city. It was more than circumspection. There was something on his mind beyond Ben and the awful memories rekindled at Pine Ridge.

“What’s going on with you, man?” said Ali.

“I’m thinking on something,” said Chris. He thumb-stroked the vertical scar above his lip. “When you spoke to that detective this morning, did you tell her about Lawrence Newhouse?”

“No. I had a conversation with him last night. He said he didn’t know anything about Ben’s murder. He said he didn’t want to talk to police. I expected that, and I had to respect his wishes.”

“How was he when you gave him the news about Ben?”

“Bad,” said Ali. “He cried, and he didn’t care if I heard it. He was blown.”

“I gotta tell you something, Ali. I didn’t say it to you before because I didn’t think it meant anything. But now I’m not so sure.”

Chris told Ali about the money in the gym bag. He said that they had left it in the row house, but that Lawrence had gotten Ben wasted and Ben had told him where it was. Chris and Ben believed that Lawrence had gone to the house and stolen the money. They had done nothing about it because they felt that there was nothing to do.

When Chris was done, Ali said, “And now you think there’s something with that money that connects Lawrence to Ben’s murder.”

“I’m not sayin that.”

“Lawrence loved Ben. When Lawrence was getting his ass beat by everyone and their brother at Pine Ridge, Ben stood up for him. He was the only one who did. If there was one dude who Lawrence considered a friend, it was Ben.”

“I know that.”

“ What, then?”

“Maybe they went out together and were spending the money. Maybe they ran their mouths off at a club or during a card game. Lawrence could have been braggin on what he had. Or someone thought the cash was Ben’s and tried to take him off.”

“That’s thin.”

“Shit, Ali, I don’t know what I’m talkin about. I’m sayin there might be some kind of connection.”

“You’re speculating.”

“Yeah.”

“Then you need to talk to Lawrence. I know you don’t like to, but there it is. And if Lawrence does know something, he needs to tell it to the law.”

“Right.”

Ali looked at his friend. “What else you got on your mind?”

“I don’t know,” said Chris. “It’s like a finger is tapping the side of my head, trying to remind me that… I know something, Ali. Damn if I can remember it.”

“You will.”

They came off the Beltway and headed down Colesville Road toward the District line, traffic gathering thickly around them. Oddly, the congestion made them both more comfortable.

“Any plans for Ben’s funeral?” said Ali.

“My father is taking care of it,” said Chris. “When the police release the body, my dad is gonna have Ben cremated over at Rapp. He’s getting him a spot at Rock Creek Cemetery.”

“That’s where Ben got took, right?”

“Yeah. My father spoke to that homicide detective, and she said that the Rock Creek security guard recalled an old black sedan leaving out the place at the end of the night. He didn’t happen to see if Ben was inside it. He didn’t say that he found it suspicious at the time. He just remembered it ’cause it was the last car out.”

“Safe to say that it started there, though.”

“But it wouldn’t have changed Ben’s opinion of the cemetery. That was his spot. It’s where he would have wanted to be buried.”

“I thought you had to be rich or connected to get put in that place,” said Ali.

“So did I. But my father looked into it and found something that was available. Like anything else, all it takes is money. It’s not gonna be a fancy monument or in the prime section of the grounds. It’ll prob’ly be a small marker, something like that. Important thing is, Ben will be there.”

“That can’t be cheap.”

“It’s thousands.”

“Your father’s a good man,” said Ali.

“He’s like most people,” said Chris. “He’s trying to be good, and most times he is.”

“Like you.”

“But he wanted me to be better than him. Turns out I was human, just like him.”

“That’s behind y’all.”

“It is for me.”

“You gonna lie there all day?” said Marquis Gilman.

“I might,” said Lawrence Newhouse. He was on his single bed, on his back, in the room he shared with Terrence and Loquatia. Marquis had entered the room, held aside the privacy sheet, and stood at the foot of Lawrence’s bed.

“Let’s go shoot around some.”

“Nah, I’m too tired.”

Marquis could see that Lawrence’s eyes were pink. He hated to think that his uncle had been crying.

“Mama told me ’bout your friend.”

“Uh.”

“You know who did the thing?”

“No.”

“Whoever did it needs to be got.”

Lawrence turned his head sharply toward Marquis. “That ain’t for you to speak on, boy.”

Marquis looked down at his Nikes. “I didn’t mean nothin.”

Lawrence’s eyes softened. “This is on me.”

“You not workin today?”

“I’m done with it.”

“ ’Cause I could help you.”

“I don’t want you washin cars. You better than that. I’m still tryin to get you hooked up with my mans. You could learn the carpet trade, ’stead of doin mule stuff.”

“I’m sayin, I can work.”

“Go on, Marquis. Go play ball.”

Marquis left the room.

Lawrence Newhouse hadn’t washed and detailed one car since he’d taken the money. The young man he worked with, Deon Miller, was upset with him, because together they’d built up a nice little business. But he couldn’t tell Deon why he’d lost his ambition. He’d known Deon since he was a kid, growing up at Parkchester, and smoking weed one day on Stevens Road, they’d made grandiose plans about this thing they were going to do, starting small and ending, in their minds, with a string of locations in Southeast and PG. They’d be known as the entrepreneurs who owned the spots to get the nicest cars in D.C. cleaned and shined. They’d be to cars what Murray was to steaks.

It hadn’t turned out so big, but they’d done all right.

Lawrence and Deon took their business to the car owners. They used grocery carts they’d stolen from the Giant, and stocked them with everything needed to impress. Lawrence would go to the big auto parts store, buy their cheap house brands of liquid detergent, wax, wheel cleaner, and tire shine, and pour them into empty bottles of recognizable brand names, like Armor All and Black Magic, that he’d found in the trash. They called their business Elite Shine. If they had a sign, it would have read, “Only the finest materials used to detail the very finest cars.” Lawrence had thought of that when he was high.

They were getting a rep around Southeast. Seeing the same customers getting their cars done. What they called “repeat clientele.” So it was natural that, just as they were beginning to lift off, Deon would be disturbed and disappointed when Lawrence told him that he didn’t want to work no more.

“What, you just gonna give up on everything we built up?” said Deon.

Lawrence said, “I’m retired,” and left it at that.

That was before Ben got done. Now that he was gone, nothing mattered. Not even the money.

Lawrence draped his forearm over his eyes. He was sweating and he could smell his own stink.

Why would someone do his boy like that?

Why? was the first question. Then came, Who?

Lawrence burned to know.

Chris Flynn returned to his apartment, put his shoes neatly under his bed, changed his clothes, and went to sleep. When he woke, the bedroom had darkened. He went to the window and opened the blinds and saw that it was night. He had slept heavily for several hours and could not recall if he had dreamed.

Chris phoned Katherine. She asked if he wanted company, and he said that he preferred to be alone. It was not that he did not want to see her. He knew that he would not be good with anyone tonight.

“I’m worried about you,” said Katherine.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” said Chris.

He showered, microwaved a Celeste pizza, and ate it standing up. He thought of smoking some marijuana he kept in his nightstand but decided against it. His head would be up for a while, but then he’d get to that overthinking phase, and he didn’t want that. He grabbed a few bottles of Budweiser out of the refrigerator and put them in a six-pack-sized cooler, along with some ice. He dropped his cell into the pocket of his shorts and left his apartment.

Out on the front porch of the bungalow, Andy Ladas, the black-haired, middle-aged tenant of the three-family home, was sitting in a high-backed chair, drinking an Anchor Steam and smoking a Winston. Beside him was a steel stand-up ashtray of the type once common in barbershops. This was Ladas’s position and activity for a couple of hours every night.

“Hey, Andy.”

“Chris.”

“We alone?”

“The kids got a gig,” said Ladas. He was referring to the musician couple, Tina and Doug Gibson, who had the top floor. They were older than Chris but did not look it.

“Case you fall asleep with that cigarette in your hand and catch fire, I’ll be out back.”

The house was on a corner of the street, at an intersection featuring a four-way stop that was frequently ignored. There was a police station nearby, and it seemed the main offenders were cops. They were the most aggressive speeders, too. Neighborhood activists had petitioned for road humps to slow the cruisers down, which had improved things slightly.

Chris walked through the side yard to the back, where he put down the cooler and took a seat in a green metal rocking chair beside a brick grill. The yard went deep and it had been landscaped by the Gibsons and maintained by all the tenants. It was a nice spot, and he frequently sat here on summer nights. With a view unencumbered by the branches of trees overhead, he could look up at the stars. The sky was clear, and the moon cast a pearl glow on the property.

Chris drank a beer. He thought of Ben and the day at Pine Ridge, and as the alcohol kissed him he felt his shoulders relax. He tossed the first bottle into the grass and reached into the cooler for another. He twisted off its top and emptied its neck.

Chris heard a vehicle come to a stop and looked to his right. An old black sedan had parked on the street and its engine died.

Chris reached into his pocket, retrieved his cell, and flipped it open, its buttons and screen illuminated. Because he was of a generation that was dexterous with keyboards, he quickly found the contact he was searching for.

Two men, one large and one small, got out of the car, crossed the street, and walked toward him in the yard. Chris studied them and continued to text with his fingers.

He was not thinking of police. He was a boy, and he was calling his father.

He typed the words I’m at home.

And: Signal 13.