The Turnaround (12 page)

“Where you off to now?”

“Over to the apartment with the fellas. ’Less you want me to stay here with you.”

“No,” said La Trice. “You go ahead.”

Charles went downstairs, found the boys, and told them it was time to go.

Nine

D
EON BROWN had attended Coolidge High in the District, and Cody Kruger had gone to Wheaton High, out in Maryland. Deon had graduated with low grades, and Cody had not graduated at all. They met as coworkers at one of the many athletic-shoe stores in the Westfield Mall, which some of a certain age still called Wheaton Plaza. It was not the store that required its employees to wear referee jerseys. Neither of them would have done it.

The first time Deon saw him, Cody had an open gash over his right eyebrow and scrapes on the side of his forehead. Cody explained that he had been sucker punched by “a boy who was trying to see me” but that he had gone on to “punish” his attacker and that the marks on his face “wasn’t no thing.” Deon never actually saw Cody fight. Still, Cody talked about violence incessantly, the way other young men talked about sex. Females didn’t seem to be into him, anyway. He had wide-set eyes, a pasty complexion, spaces between his teeth, and acne, chunky as vomit, on his cheeks.

They became friends. Deon had always been a bit of a loner, and for all his bluster, so had Cody. They were into weed, video games, and the same kind of music. They both liked TCB, 3D, Reaction, CCB, Backyard, and other local go-go bands, and rap, if it got combined with go-go, like with that dude Wale. They knew who Tony Montana was but not Nelson Mandela. They bought clothes with labels and disdained the brands that were common and out. They wore Helly Hansen rather than North Face, Nike Dunks over Timbs. They were both sneakerheads. The employee discount at the store was why they worked there.

Cody called all Hispanics “Mexicans” and considered them his adversaries and the thieves of American jobs. Cody wore his hair very short and only got it cut at black barbershops. Cody said “forf ” for “fourth” and “bruva” for “brother,” but to Deon it didn’t seem like he was trying too hard, like other white boys. It was who he was.

After a chance meeting with an old acquaintance who’d become a supplier, Deon and Cody had started dealing a little weed to the other employees in the mall. There was a natural market for it, and they could do it discreetly, through the network, all the young heads who worked the kiosks, the urban-clothing stores, the hat-and-athletic-jersey places, and the shoe shops. They’d buy a pound at a time and get their own smoke free. They’d never exchange marijuana or money on the Westfield grounds. That could be done after a short drive to one of the many nearby parking areas serving the CVS, the surplus store, or the county lot behind the Wheaton Triangle. When they began to see a profit, Deon put a down payment on a used Marauder, a car he had long coveted, and Cody rented an apartment near the Fourth District police station. They stepped up their order from their supplier and turned the extra inventory without effort. They spent the profit as quickly as it came in.

Plasma television, multiple iPods, furniture bought on time from Marlo, a gun. To Cody, it was the life he had imagined for himself. Deon was not so sure. He had bouts with depression, and often, even while chilled on Paxil, he could not see the positives. If you had all this, what was there to look forward to? Mr. Charles, who had been in their lives since the start of their business, said, “More.”

STEPPING OUT of La Trice’s house, Baker, Cody, and Deon got into the Mercury. Deon’s Marauder was tricked with Kooks headers, Flowmaster pipes with big chrome tips, twenties with Motto rims. The windows were tinted to the legal limit, and this and the other extras drew the eyes of police. Baker also knew that a black boy and a white boy seen riding together in a car were considered to be suspicious and were more likely to be stopped than same-race occupants. For this reason he insisted that the Marauder be free of contraband. For their work, they used Cody’s Honda, a reliable and relatively invisible car.

They went to Cody’s apartment, located on Longfellow Street. The place was always messy and smelled of unwashed clothing and food left on dishes in the sink. The carpet was littered with gum wrappers and slips of paper holding Xbox codes. The boys sat on the couch and played the latest version of NBA Live while Baker sat at a countertop-on-file-cabinet desk and fired up Cody’s computer. The boys used the desktop to look at porno, rate girls on MySpace, check out the latest sports scores, and surf eBay for sneaker purchases both classic and new. Baker used it for business.

His idea had been set in motion the day he’d seen the sidebar in the business section of the newspaper. And then, after watching one of those television shows set half in the street, half in a courtroom, an episode that detailed a blackmail involving a decades-old crime, Baker had begun to see how he could profit from a similar but more reasoned scheme. By typing “Heathrow Heights” and “murder” into the search engine, Baker had eventually been directed to a site that offered a database service containing documents related to criminal trials on both the federal and state levels, going back many years. Using La Trice’s credit card, he had retrieved the partial transcripts of the trial for a charge of less than five dollars. Unlike the old newspaper articles he had printed off microfilm at the local library, which had not identified some of those involved due to their status as minors, the document he obtained listed all the players by name. It wasn’t too hard to proceed from there.

“I ain’t want no Woods, young,” said Cody, as Deon pulled the wrapper off a cigar and dumped out its tobacco. “Let’s do a vanilla Dutch.”

Deon kept on task. He took weed from a pile on the table and dropped a healthy amount into the Backwoods wrapper. He rerolled the blunt and sealed it.

“This some bullshit,” muttered Cody. But when Deon fired the marijuana up and passed it to him, he hit it deep.

Baker worked on. For a small fee, there were all kinds of people-find searches available, which narrowed the field by age and geography. Soon he had the address and contact information for Peter Whitten. The other one, Alexander Pappas, was a bit harder to identify. There were a few with that name in the D.C. area, but the one he ultimately chose was about the right age. He still lived near the neighborhood in which he’d come up. Had to be the same boy he’d stomped.

On the word processor, Baker typed an unsigned letter that he transcribed from one that had been handwritten, showing editing marks and words in the margins. He then typed in a name and printed it on an envelope he fed through the bubble-jet machine.

Marijuana smoke hung heavy in the room. Cody and Deon laughed easily as Cody boasted about his prowess on the video basketball court. Baker didn’t mind that their heads were up. They were easier to manage when they were high.

“Repeat what I told y’all about the code,” said Baker.

“The Xbox codes?” Cody didn’t turn his head away from the screen, his fingers working the controller.

“The code to get back into the apartment,” said Baker patiently. “How I told you boys to knock a certain way.”

“We got keys,” said Cody. “Why we need to knock on the door, too?”

“What if someone takes your keys? Or the police come back
with
you? This way, I’m gonna know it’s y’all.”

“Knock knock pause knock,” said Deon.

“Right,” said Baker. “You two ready to tip out?”

“Hold up,” said Cody Kruger, using body language to make his players do his bidding onscreen. “I’m about to slam this sucker.”

“You had a dream that you did,” said Deon.

“Your game is fluke, son.”

“You can play later,” said Baker. “We got work to do.”

ALEX PAPPAS had a photograph framed and hung in the kitchen, showing his father, John Pappas, standing over the grill at the coffee shop, his apron on, a spatula in his hand, a joyous smile on his face. The grill was covered with rows of thawing hamburger patties, which he was precooking. He did this daily in preparation for the lunch rush.

“Why is he smiling?” Johnny Pappas, Alex’s older son, would ask when he was a kid. “He’s just cooking burgers! It’s not like he won a million bucks or something.”

“You don’t get it,” Alex would reply.

The photo was a way of keeping his father alive to the grandsons who never knew him. Alex had mounted it beside the refrigerator so they’d see it often.

“Hey, Pop,” said Johnny Pappas, entering the kitchen. “Hold that for me, will ya?”

Alex had just put a block of
kasseri
cheese inside the side-by-side, and he had yet to close the door. He kept it open while his son reached across him and removed a plastic bottle of cran-raspberry juice. Johnny swigged directly from the bottle.

“You’re drinkin it like an animal,” said Alex.

“I don’t want to have to wash a glass.”

“When’s the last time you washed anything around here?”

“True that,” said Johnny.

Johnny replaced the bottle, his shaggy hair brushing Alex’s face, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Alex closed the refrigerator door and joined Vicki, who was seated at the kitchen table, several take-out menus spread before her. They were going to order food, but Alex had put out some cheese, kalamata olives, and crackers for a predinner snack. Johnny joined them at the table.

A prime-time game show was playing on a small television set on the counter. The Pappases had a nice rec room with a big-screen TV, but mostly Alex and Vicki sat in the kitchen at night, watching the thirteen-inch. The kitchen had been the central room of the house since the boys were babies.

“How’d we do today?” said Johnny.

“I took in two, three million,” said Alex.

“That all?”

“We did fine.”

“Dad, I been thinking . . .”

“What I tell you about thinking?”

“I was thinking we’d add some specials to the menu. Change the offering a little bit.”

“Ah, here we go.”

“You can’t compete with the Paneras of the world. I mean, if you’re trying to go head-to-head with them in sandwiches, you’re going to lose.”

“It’s not that kinda place. I got a grill and a colds station. I don’t have a big kitchen.”

“You don’t need any more room or equipment. I can make gourmet soups on one gas burner. Maybe sauté some soft-shells when they’re in season. For breakfast we can offer huevos rancheros, and sides like apple sausages. Slice up some fresh avocados as a garnish.”

“I get it. You might know how to prepare all the fancy stuff, but you’re not there all the time. Who’s gonna do it? And what if it doesn’t move?”

“Darlene would love to learn new sandwiches and recipes. Don’t you think she gets bored with the same-old, too?”

“She’s there to work, not to get excited.”

“If we try it and it doesn’t fly, then we go back to what we were doing. I’m not telling you to throw the old menu away. I’m saying, let’s do something different. Bring in a whole new kind of customer.”

Alex grunted and folded his arms.

Johnny had earned a bachelor’s degree in marketing and had recently graduated from a local culinary institute. For a while he had been an apprentice chef in a new-cuisine restaurant near George Washington University. Now he worked with his father at the coffee shop during the breakfast and lunch rushes, which was frequently an oil-and-water situation for both of them. Vicki, who thought her son needed the day-to-day experience of running a business, had suggested the trial arrangement.

“I saw a nice chalkboard with a hand-painted frame at a store today,” said Johnny. “I think we should buy it. I can put it up over the wall phone, write the day’s specials on it.”

“For God’s sake.”

“Let me try, Dad. One new soup, one new sandwich. Let’s just see if it goes.”

“
Avrio?
”

“Tomorrow, yeah.”

“Okay. But how about
this
for a change? You come to work on time.”

Johnny smiled.

“You dining with us tonight, honey?” said Vicki, her drugstore-bought reading glasses perched on her nose.

“Depends on what you guys are having,” said Johnny.

“
Ee-neh ah-paw-soy,
” said Alex, making a head movement toward Johnny. It meant that his son was to the manor born.

“I just don’t want any of that chain crap.”

“You think I do?” said Alex.

“How about El Rancho?” said Vicki.

“El Roacho,” said Johnny.

“I don’t want Mex,” said Alex. “My stomach . . .”

“Mie Wah?” said Vicki.

“Me Wallet,” said Alex.

“Don’t be so cheap, Dad.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t want Chinese.”

“Cancún Especial?”

“Can’t Cook Especial,” said Alex.

“He said he didn’t want Mexican,” offered Johnny.

“Well, we have to eat something,” said Vicki.

“Let’s just get a Ledo’s pizza,” said Alex, the decision they had been moving toward all along.

“I’ll cut a salad,” said Vicki. “Call it in, Alex, okay?”

“If Johnny picks it up.”

“I’m gone.”

They watched him go, a tall, thin, good-looking young man of twenty-five in tight jeans and a leather jacket that looked a size too small.

“What is that look he’s got?” said Alex. “Like, metrosexual, somethin?”

“Stop it.”

“I’m asking.”

“He’s a hip young guy, is all,” said Vicki, who subscribed to many magazines that could be purchased in the supermarket checkout aisles. “He looks like one of those guys in that band, the Strokes.”

Alex caught her eye. “I got somethin you can stroke.”

“Oh, please, Alex.”

“I’m sayin, it’s been a while.”

“Must you?”

“A guy can dream.”

“Call the pizza in, honey.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He went to the phone and ordered a large pie with anchovies and mushrooms. Vicki, aligning her lettuce, cucumbers, onions, and carrots near the cutting board, spoke to him as he hung up the phone.

“Honey?”

“What.”

“We’ve got to do something about the building.”