The Way Home

TWENTY-EIGHT

Ali Carter stood inside the storefront window of his office on Alabama Avenue, watching William Richards mixing with the young men and women on the street. He had just met with William, and it had not gone well. He’d tried to convince him to return to his job with Party Land, which William had recently walked away from once again, refusing to wear the shirt with the balloon-and-clown logo. Ali was pretty certain that William was back to dirt and running with his boys. He had heard that William was beefing with someone and that this problem was about to boil over. William was too proud and stupid to walk away from it. His future, most likely, was grim. Anyway, Ali had tried.

Ali could not help everyone who came through his doors. Being completely honest with himself, he would admit that he could not help most of them or lead the majority of them to productive futures. If he were to think in terms of grandiose objectives, he would have to give up. It was impossible to pull large groups of young men through tiny keyholes. Ali had modest goals because that was how he got through his day.

Lawrence Newhouse’s hooptie, the old Cavalier, pulled up in front of the office, a bike tied to its roof.

Ali watched as Lawrence, in a white T-shirt under a lightweight, rust-colored jacket, got out of the car. Lawrence opened the trunk and withdrew a gym bag. He walked toward the storefront, ignoring the snickers from the young ones on the sidewalk around him.

“Come on,” said Ali, though no one else was in the room. “Come inside.”

Lawrence entered the office. A chime sounded from a bell mounted over the door.

“Ding,” said Lawrence, with a smile. He shook his braids away from his face. “Heard you been lookin for me.”

“Come sit,” said Ali.

They crossed the spartan room. Ali sat behind his desk, and Lawrence took a chair before it.

“I’m here,” said Lawrence.

“Where’s Chris at?”

“I had to drop him. That’s right. Me.”

“What do you mean, drop him? ”

“I didn’t shoot him or nothin like that. I put him down with my hands. He was tryin to stop me from doing this thing I got to do. Gettin all high-horse on my ass.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s breathin. He fell down and hit his head. He ain’t as rough and tough as he thinks he is. But he’s gonna be okay.”

“Where is he?” said Ali.

“On a bike trail, under a bridge. Near the Peace Cross, out by Colman Manor.”

“Where exactly?”

Lawrence described the short way in and Ali wrote it down. Ali picked his cell up off the desk, and Lawrence listened as Ali spoke to Chris’s father with urgency and gave the father directions to his son. As Ali talked, Lawrence took a black Sharpie from a leather cup filled with writing utensils and slipped one into the pocket of his North Face. Ali ended the call and placed the cell phone back atop the desk.

Ali’s eyes went to the floor, where the gym bag sat. “What’s in that sack?”

“My valuables. You don’t think I’d leave them in my car, do you? In this neighborhood?”

“It’s not so bad. Me and my mother live across the street.”

“I know it. Gotta hand it to you, ’cause you got out.”

“You could, too.”

“It’s too late for me.”

“It’s not,” said Ali. “You don’t have to do this.”

“But I’m about to.”

“I could call the police.”

“And have me arrested for what? Thinkin on a murder?”

“I bet if they searched your car, they’d find a gun. That’s an automatic fall for you.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Killing those men is not what Ben would’ve wanted.”

“Don’t start with me,” said Lawrence. “You don’t even want to put your hand near the flames I got inside me today. Chris did, and he stretched out.”

The chair creaked beneath Ali’s shifting weight. “Why’d you come here, Lawrence?”

“To appeal to your sense of right, I guess. To ask you one more time to get my nephew someplace good.”

“I’m tryin to. But it takes baby steps to get where Marquis needs to be. Wasn’t no leap from where I was to that house across the street, or this job I got right here. You can’t just snap your fingers and make it happen.”

“Take care of him the best you can. That’s all I’m askin.”

Ali nodded slowly. “I will.”

Lawrence picked up the gym bag and stood from his chair. “Where the bathroom in this piece?”

“In the back.”

Lawrence walked past the desk. Ali listened as the toilet flushed and the sink water ran. A couple of minutes later, Lawrence emerged from the bathroom without the bag and stood across from where Ali was seated.

“Place is dirty. You could use some new furniture, shit like that. Maybe a TV set that ain’t broke, so the boys could chill in here.”

“You forgot your bag.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“What’s going on, Lawrence?”

“Take care of your little niggas, hear?”

“I’m doin my best.”

Lawrence held out his fist and reached across the desk. “Unit Five.”

“Unit Five,” said Ali softly. He dapped Lawrence up.

Lawrence grinned. “See you later… Holly.”

Ali smiled a little against a sinking feeling as he watched him step to the door. The small bell chimed as the door pushed out and Lawrence hit the sidewalk.

Ali got out of his chair and walked into the bathroom. There on the closed toilet lid sat the open gym bag, filled with cash. And on the mirror, written in black: Your boy, Lawrence

Ali jogged out of the bathroom, went to the front window of the storefront, and looked out onto the street.

Lawrence Newhouse was gone.

Sonny Wade walked into a bedroom of the white rambler in Riverdale. Wayne Minors sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless and taut. He had been napping, and Sonny’s heavy fist on the closed door, ten minutes earlier, had woken him up. Beside Wayne, the girl named Cheyenne slept nude atop the sheets. Raspberries of acne dotted her bony back.

“You been dozing?” said Sonny.

“I get tired after,” said Wayne.

“I told you not to take no postcoital naps.”

“Huh?”

“We got work and I want your head straight. Here.” Sonny reached into his windbreaker and drew a Taurus. 9 from where he had slipped it against his belly. “You’re gonna need that.”

“I got my knife.”

“That’s only good for close work. ’Less you plan to throw it.”

“I could.”

“This ain’t no carnival. Take the gun.”

Wayne took it and placed it beside him on the bed. He reached over to the nightstand and picked up the hardwood-handled knife with the spine-cut steel blade. He fitted it in its sheath, hiked up one leg of his Wrangler jeans, and strapped the sheath to his calf. He put on his black ring-strap Dingo boots, stood, and drew a black T-shirt over his head. He folded up the sleeves of the T-shirt one time to show off his arms and touched his wallet, chained to a belt loop, to make sure that it was secure.

“Say good-bye to your little slut,” said Sonny.

“Don’t call her that.”

“Do it and let’s get gone.”

Wayne leaned over the bed and kissed Cheyenne’s shoulder. His bushy mustache flattened out against her bone. He stood straight and holstered the Taurus in his waistband, under his T.

They walked into the living room. Ashley and Chuck were seated on the couch. There was a bong on the table before them, a ziplock bag of marijuana that was mostly seeds and stems, empty wine cooler bottles, crushed cans of beer. The television was on. They were watching MTV Cribs.

“You leavin?” said Ashley.

“It’s time,” said Sonny, his idea of a warm good-bye. He looked at Chuck, rolls of fat spilling about his waist, staring at the TV, too frightened to meet Sonny’s eyes. “You never met us. Is that clear, fella?”

“Yes,” said Chuck.

Sonny stood over Chuck and leaned forward. “You speak on either of us, my little buddy will come back here and carve you up.”

Chuck’s lip trembled.

“ ’Preciate the hospitality,” said Sonny.

Sonny and Wayne walked from the house. They got into the Mercury and drove over to the community center and park, where brown people were playing baseball on one of the diamonds. Sonny and Wayne got out of the black sedan and broke their cell phones on the hard road and threw the pieces into the woods. Sonny wanted no record of the incoming or outgoing calls they had made while they were in town, nor did he wish to worry on the tracking possibilities of GPS. They’d buy a couple of disposable cells at a convenience store when they left town.

They drove over to Kenilworth Avenue and headed into the city. Sonny had loaded the Mercury with all of their belongings. They had no firm plans or destination but were ticking with anticipation of the violence that was about to come.

Twenty minutes later, they were on New York Avenue. Sonny gripped the wheel of the fake-fur-covered steering wheel and spun it as Wayne lit a cigarette off a butane flame. He blew a smoke ring that shattered in the wind. Looking at it, his eyes crossed.

“What’s postcoital mean?” said Wayne.

“Means after you stick her, stupid.”

“My name is not Stupid.”

“Hmph,” said Sonny Wade.

They rolled through the open black gates of the National Arboretum and drove to the information center to get a map.

The little man’s name was Larry. He had returned to his home under the bridge, a brown bag holding a pint of store-brand vodka and a six of beer clutched under his arm. He had found Chris lying on the path with a blanket under his head. Chris was awake but motionless, looking up at the steel beams beneath the bridge floor. There was blood on his face. Larry wiped at it with a dirty rag, which only smudged the blood further. He covered Chris with another blanket.

“You’re gonna be all right,” said Larry. “But you need to lie there some.”

“I gotta get back to my van,” said Chris.

“You been hit on the noggin. You should take it slow.”

Chris felt weak and a bit shocked. He peeled off the blanket and tried to get up on his feet. He was too dizzy. He sat back down, waited for the nausea to pass, and tried again. He stood carefully and gripped the rail.

“Who’s that?” said Larry. He was nodding at the bike trail that broadened to a road.

Chris looked in that direction. A man with wild black hair was running down the road toward them. His feet were pounding the asphalt and dirt, and their heavy contact raised dust.

“Crazy sonofabitch,” said Larry.

Chris issued a blood-caked smile.

Thomas Flynn walked Chris to Amanda’s SUV and got him into the passenger bucket. He found a packet of wipes in the glove box and cleaned Chris’s face, and once it was free of dirt and blood he inspected it.

“I should take you to an emergency room,” said Flynn.

“I’m all right. I hit my head when I was falling, is all.”

“All the more reason to get you to a doctor.” Flynn shook his head, looking at the purple bruising that had come to Chris’s face. “Why he’d do this to you?”

“Lawrence? I was tryin to stop him. But it was more than that. In his own way, Lawrence was looking to protect me. He wanted to keep me out of it.”

“Do you know where he was going to meet them?”

“I had some time to think about it, lying under that bridge.” Chris nodded. “I’m pretty sure I know where he went. It’s a spot Lawrence took me to, over at the Arboretum.”

“Then you need to call the police.”

“Go ahead.”

“You need to, Chris.”

Chris looked at his watch. “It’s close to four. He’s already there.”

Flynn scrolled through the contacts on his cell and found the one he was looking for.

“This is the number for Sergeant Bryant. Call her and tell her what’s happening. She’ll get some cars over there.” Chris did not reach for the cell. “Do it, son. You’ve got to do what’s right.”

“I’m tryin, Dad.”

“I know it. You’ve been trying all along. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“Forget all that,” said Chris. “It’s past.”

They looked at each other across the seats.

Flynn held out his phone. Chris took it and made the call.