The Turnaround (20 page)

“Him. Anything you’d like me to tell her?”

“I’ll get up with her later.”

Monroe ate lunch alone, thinking about James, Alex Pappas, Baker, and the trouble that was bound to come.

FOR HIS lunch appointment, Charles Baker had chosen to wear a deep purple sport jacket with white stitching on the lapels, triple-pleat polyester black slacks, a lavender shirt, and a pair of black tooled-leather shoes that almost looked like gators. He had put the outfit together over the past year, shopping at thrift places and the Salvation Army store on H Street in Northeast. He had never before had the occasion to wear the rig in full, and looking in the mirror on the way out of his group home, he felt that he looked clean and right.

“Where you off to?” said a man called Trombone, a recovering heroin addict with a very long nose, one of the four men on paper with whom Baker shared the house. “You look like folding money.”

“I got people to meet and places to be,” said Baker. “And none of’em are here.”

Baker did feel like a million dollars, walking out of the house.

But when he got downtown, coming off the Metro escalator at Farragut North, moving along into the bustle of Connecticut Avenue, he got that feeling again, the feeling he had whenever he left his insular world, that he was out of step and wrong. Around him, workingmen and women of all colors, finely and effortlessly attired, carrying soft leather briefcases and handbags, walking with purpose,
going somewhere
. He did not understand how they had gotten here. Who taught them how to dress in that quiet, elegant way? How did they get their jobs?

Baker put his thumb and forefinger to the lapel of his purple sport coat. The fabric felt spongy. All right, so he wasn’t in step with all these silver spoons down here. He’d dazzle Mr. Peter Whitten with his personality and force of logic. Flash him some Dale Carnegie smile.

The restaurant was an Italian place with an
O
on the end of its name, on L Street, west of 19th. He entered to the sound of relaxed conversation, the gentle movement and soft contact of china, silver, and crystal. Murals had been painted on the walls, looked to Baker like those fancy old paintings he’d seen at a museum he’d been to once, when he was coming in from the cold, wandering around, down on the Mall.

“Yes, sir,” said a young man in a black suit, stepping up to meet Baker as he walked through the door.

“I’m havin lunch with somebody. I got an appointment with Mr. Peter Whitten.”

“Right this way, sir.” The man made an elaborate movement with his hands and swiveled his narrow hips. The word
prey
flashed in Baker’s mind, but here was not the place to be scheming, and he followed the young man through the maze of tables, along the granite-top bar, where a solid-built dude in a leather blazer sat, eye-fucking him as he passed. Even the brothers down here took him for ghetto, thought Baker. Well, fuck them, too.

Peter Whitten was waiting at a two-top covered with a white tablecloth, close to the bar. Everything about him, from the natural drape of his suit to the carefully cut, just-over-the-ear hairstyle, said money. His face was neither friendly nor confrontational, and all of his features were straight. His hair was silver and blond, his eyes a light blue. Like an actor cast as the wealthy father on a soap opera, he was handsome in a predictable way. He didn’t get up but stretched out his hand as Baker arrived.

“Mr. Baker?”

“It is me,” said Baker, taking his hand and giving a smile. “Mr. Whitten, right?”

“Have a seat.”

The young man had pulled his chair out, and Baker dropped into it and maneuvered his legs under the table. Baker touched the silverware before him, moved it a little, and almost at once another man in a tux was beside the table, setting down a menu and asking Baker if he would like something to drink.

“Would you care for a beer or a cocktail?” said Whitten helpfully.

Baker looked at Whitten’s glass.

“I’ll just have water,” said Baker.

“Flat or sparkling?” said the waiter.

“Regular water,” said Baker.

The waiter drifted. Baker opened the menu, looking to do something with his hands, not knowing how to start the conversation. He was aware of Whitten staring at him as his eyes scanned the menu.
Prima piatti, insalata, pasta e risotto, secondi piatti.
How’d they expect an American to know what to order in this piece?
Fagottini . . .
Baker knew there was something he didn’t like about this restaurant.

“Do you need some help with the menu?” said Whitten. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something like a smile in his eyes.

Baker had made an error. He shouldn’t have met Whitten here. It was wrong, arrogant even, for him to presume he could play on the man’s home court.

“I’m all right,” said Baker. “It all looks so good. I just need some time.”

“Maybe we better talk first,” said Whitten, folding his hands on the table, at peace in his world.

Baker closed the menu and laid it down. “Okay. You read the letter, so there’s no mystery as to what this is about.”

“Yes.”

“I’m lookin for a little help, Mr. Whitten.”

Whitten stared at him.

“I feel like I got some, uh, reparations comin to me, if you know what I mean. Since that day you and your friends drove into our neighborhood, my life has been hard. It’s not like I haven’t tried to make it, either. I’m not a bad person. I have a job.”

“What do you want?”

“Some compensation for what you and your friends did. I think that’s fair. I’m not tryin to break the bank or nothing like that. I mean, look at you; obviously you’ve done good in life. You sure can spare it.”

“Spare what?”

“Huh?”

“How much do you want?”

“I was thinking, you know, fifty thousand dollars would be about right. That would do it. A good
foundation
for me to build somethin on. Get me back on the track that I would have been on from the beginning, if you and your friends hadn’t come into our world.”

“And what would you do if I said no?”

Baker’s face felt flushed. The waiter poured him water from a pitcher, and Baker drank a long swig at once.

“Are we ready to order?” said the waiter.

“We ain’t ready just yet,” snapped Baker.

The waiter looked at Whitten, who shook his head slightly, telling him that everything was all right and that he should leave.

When the waiter was gone, Baker allowed his emotions to subside.

“Don’t take me wrong,” said Baker.

“No?”

“We’re just having a conversation here. I’m asking you, gentleman to gentleman, for some help.”

“Your letter said something about damage to my reputation.”

“That wasn’t a threat. That was just, you know, an incentive for you to contribute. I was just referring to . . . Look, you wouldn’t want those people at your law firm knowing about your past, would you? You don’t want those kids you reach out to, those black kids you help, to know what you did. Do you?”

“They already know,” said Whitten. “All of them. They know because I’ve told them about it, many times. It’s an element in my journey. I want the kids to know that there
are
second acts in American lives. That they can make mistakes, but it’s not the end. They can do dumb things and still have success, make a positive contribution to society. I think it’s important that they know.”

“Oh, you
do
.”

Baker felt his mouth turn up in a smile. The kind he used to punk anyone who had a dream about stepping to him. The kind that usually gave men pause. But Whitten’s expression did not change.

“Yes, I do,” said Whitten. “I believe in second chances. Which is why I agreed to meet with you today. Because I do know that you’ve had a hard life.”

“You looked into my life, huh.”

“My associate Mr. Coates did. Mr. Coates is a private detective my firm uses in various capacities. He’s sitting right behind you. He’s the fellow wearing the black leather jacket, at the bar.”

Baker did not turn his head. He knew who the man was.

“You’re on parole right now, Mr. Baker. Do you know how severely you’d be violated for attempting to commit extortion and blackmail? I have all the ammunition to put you on the road back to prison, immediately. I recorded our conversation yesterday, in which you stated that it was you who sent me the letter. It may or may not be admissible as evidence in court, but nevertheless the tape is in my possession. I have the letter and the envelope, which most likely hold your fingerprints. The printer you used can probably be traced to your residence.”

“So?”

“I’m giving you a break. Walk out of here right now, quietly, and do not pursue this further. Don’t ever contact me in any way again. Don’t come near my house or my place of business. If you do, I’ll take swift and decisive action.”

“Fancy man with your words.” Baker’s voice was soft and controlled. “Tryin to act like you doing me a favor.”

“Mr. Baker, consider very carefully what you say and do here. For your own sake.”

“Motherfucker.”

“We’re done.”

“Coward-ass bitch. Throwin pie out a car window and running your bitch ass away. Leavin your friends behind.”

Whitten’s face grew pale. His fingers were now tightly laced together. “Do something right. Be smart and go.”

Baker got up carefully from the table, so as not to spill his water or rattle the silverware. He walked past the man in the black leather jacket and did not look his way. He did not want to see the hint of a smile or victory because he would then be tempted to steal the man in the face. He wasn’t about to get violated for something cheap like that. Because he wasn’t ready to go back to the joint. He wasn’t done.

He stepped around some folks who were grouped by the host stand, mindful not to make physical contact, and he pushed on the front door and went outside.

His mistake had been to try and reason with Whitten. If this life had taught him something, it was to take from the weak. That the things he wanted could only be got through intimidation and force.

A man in a trench coat was coming toward him on the sidewalk, talking on his cell. Baker bumped the man’s shoulder roughly as he passed and got the desired reaction. There was fear and confusion in the man’s eyes.

This is what I know.
This
is what makes me feel right.

Baker laughed.

Seventeen

R
AYMOND MONROE leaned against his Pontiac, watching Alex Pappas, wearing a blue cotton oxford and Levi’s jeans, emerge from the Fisher House. Monroe wondered how Alex would take the information he was about to give him. The man did seem reasonable.

“Ray,” said Alex, shaking Monroe’s hand.

“Alex. You look clean for a man been working all day.”

“I went home and changed. I wanted to talk to my wife. Explain what I was doing with you and all that. I don’t get out much.”

“It’s not like we’re gonna be clubbin. I just think it would be good for you to meet my brother. He’s working this evening.”

Alex shrugged. “Let’s go.”

Pappas drove his Jeep off the hospital grounds and parked it on Aspen, the street that ran alongside Walter Reed. He got into the passenger side of Monroe’s Pontiac and settled into the seat.

Monroe drove down Georgia, past a small Civil War graveyard, and hooked a right onto Piney Branch Road. It soon became 13th Street, and Monroe took it south.

“I’ve been seeing a lot of contractors and construction guys on the grounds of the hospital,” said Alex.

“They’re making upgrades and repairs. Now we’re hearing that they’re not going to close Walter Reed down. For the time being, anyway.”

“Because of those articles in the newspaper?”

A series in the
Washington Post
had detailed the subpar physical conditions of the facility, the misplacement of paperwork and attendant benefits delayed to soldiers, the denial of compensation to those suffering from PTSD due to questionable claims of preexisting conditions, and a general climate of incompetence. The revelations had made world headlines and had precipitated the firing of many high-ranking officers and managers.

“Those articles caused a whole lot of things to happen,” said Monroe. “Improvements that
should
have happened a long time ago.’Cause people knew what was going on. Took some newspaper articles to shame them into taking action.”

“But I see good being done there.”

“Well, that’s the thing. The reporters, it wouldn’t have hurt if they had done one more article, talking about the good. You got committed people, army and civilian alike, working hard to make the lives of those wounded kids better. And those young men and women, considering what they’re facing, they’ve got positive attitudes for the most part. What I’m sayin is, people at Walter Reed are trying. They got caught shorthanded, is what it was. No one knew the war was gonna last like it did. No one knew the number of wounded that were going to be flooding in.

“But you wanna know the real story? The one they should be talking about? Ten, twelve years ago, before my father died, I took him down to the veterans hospital off North Capitol Street. His leg had swelled up, and my mother was worried he had a clot. So we go in there, and after the security guard shakes us down and makes us jump through all kinds of hoops, we go to the waiting room. My father was the oldest one in there, probably the only veteran of the Big One. The rest were Vietnam vets and guys who’d served in the Gulf War. And, I’m not lyin, they sat there for hours without getting any kind of help. Dudes hooked up to machines, in wheelchairs, Agent Orange cases, and no one would give them a straight answer or the time of day. I mean, these veterans got treated like genuine dogshit. And that’s what these Iraq war vets are gonna be looking at twenty-five years from now. They’re going to be the Vietnam veterans of their day. By then I suppose we’ll be on to the next war, and those folks will be forgotten.”

“That’s not new.”

“But it’s not right.”