The Turnaround (22 page)

“What you doing now, James?” said Raymond.

“Gonna adjust the air and fuel mix.”

“You already did the plugs and wires?”

“What do you think? Carb adjustment’s the last thing you do. I been telling you that for thirty-some-odd years.”

“James keeps my Pontiac correct,” said Raymond to Alex. “In exchange, I work on that hip of his.”

“You don’t work on it as good as I work on your vehicle.”

“This garage isn’t exactly the optimum place for man got a hip condition. You’re on your feet too much to begin with. Gavin ought to bring some heat in here, too.”

“I got that space heater,” said James, referring to a small unit, currently unplugged, sitting by the tool bench in the rear of the space.

“If it was worth a damn, you’d have it on.”

“Summer’s comin, anyway.”

“It ain’t here yet.”

Alex and Raymond were standing, as there was no room for chairs in the garage. Alex held a can of beer in hand, nursing it. Darkness had come, and with it the chill of a D.C. evening. It was mid-spring, but temperatures routinely dropped into the forties at night. Alex had erred in forgoing a jacket. He was cold and a bit dizzy. James had ignitioned the Chevy, and the smell of the exhaust was nauseating. Alex didn’t know how James could stand working here in these cramped and unhealthy conditions.

Alex stepped closer to the car. He watched as James attached a vacuum gauge to the intake manifold. His hands were raw and callused, with a dirty Band-Aid wrapped around one index finger.

“You see that Wizards game last night?” said James.

“West Coast games come on too late for me,” said Raymond. “But I read about it in the paper. Gilbert had forty-two. Sonics almost climbed back in it behind Chris Wilcox.”

“Yeah, but Agent Zero put the nail in the coffin with two seconds on the clock. They get Caron Butler back from that injury, they gonna go deep in the playoffs.’Cause when the defense double up on Gilbert, you gonna have two other weapons, Caron and Antawn, out on the perimeter, ready to score.”

“They ain’t going all that deep without a center,” said Raymond.

“Michael Jordan didn’t need an outstanding center to get the championship for the Bulls.”

“Gilbert ain’t Michael.”

“Hand me that ten-inch flat-head, Ray. It’s over there on the bench.”

Raymond went to the tool bench and retrieved a long-shafted flat-head screwdriver with a vinyl handle. James took it and fitted the head into the slot of one of two screws located on the lower face of the carburetor. He turned the screw clockwise until it was tight.

“Takes five outstanding players to win a championship,” said Raymond, intent on making his point.

“Not always,” said James, moving to the second screw and tightening it the same way he had the first. “Course, there
was
the old Knicks team, so there’s always an exception. The greatest starting five in the history of pro basketball.”

“Clyde Frazier and Earl Monroe,” said Raymond. “The Rolls-Royce backcourt.”

“Willis Reed,” said James, fitting the flat-head back into the slot of the first screw. “Dave DeBusschere.”

“Bill Bradley,” said Alex.

“Princeton boy,” said James, not turning away from his task. “Had that pretty jumper from the corner.”

“Frazier was the key, though,” said Raymond. “He won the ring with Dick Barnett beside him. He didn’t need Earl.”

“How about the seventy-three playoffs against the Lakers?” said James. “Jesus worked some miracles in that series.”

“Please,” said Raymond. “Clyde ran the offense and played tremendous D. He
hawked
that ball. You
know
this.”

“If you say,” said James. He began to reloosen the carburetor’s screws.

“Me and my brother been having this argument our whole lives,” said Raymond, smiling to himself. Alex saw his smile fade as they heard footsteps.

A security light came on outside, illuminating the alley. A short balding bantamweight with large ears under patches of kinky gray hair entered the garage. He quick-stepped past Raymond and Alex without acknowledging either of them, placed his hands on his hips, and stood next to the car. He looked like a child beside James.

“Is it done?” said the man.

“I’m close, Mr. Gavin,” said James. He was now slowly turning the screws counterclockwise.

“I told Mr. Court it would be ready by now.”

“Court said his gas mileage was off. New points and plugs alone are not gonna fix that. I gotta adjust the mix.”

“Just get it done, James. I’m not paying you to entertain company in here. Court’s on his way to pick up his car. I need it to be ready. Not tomorrow. Now.”

“It’ll be ready, Mr. Gavin.”

Gavin walked out without further comment. For several moments there was only the sound of the running car in the garage. Alex was embarrassed for James Monroe.

“Two and a half,” said Raymond, breaking the tension. “Right, James?”

“That’s right.” He had turned the screws back two and one half times, and was now adjusting them in quarter-turn increments while listening to the engine.

“Mighty Mouse was a little short and to the point, wasn’t he?” said Raymond.

“He short,” said James with a chuckle. “Ain’t nobody gonna dispute that.”

“He got no reason to talk to you like that, either.”

“That’s his nature,” said James. “God made him little, and now he’s angry at me. Anyway, it’s work. It isn’t supposed to be easy or fun.”

As James turned the carburetor screw, the engine sputtered.

“Too far,” said Raymond.

“Right,” said James. He readjusted the screw, and the engine began to run smoothly. He tinkered with it a little bit more, and it ran smoother still. “It’s singin now.”

“I don’t hear nothin,” said Raymond.

“Exactly,” said James.

James took a long swig of beer. He put the can down, removed the vacuum gauge from the intake manifold, and reached for the air filter. He began to fit it back atop the carb.

“You hear Luther Ingram passed?” said James.

“ ‘If loving you is wrong,’ ” said Raymond, “ ‘I don’t want to be right.’ ”

“ ‘If being right means being without you,’ ” said James, “ ‘I’d rather be wrong than right.’ ”

“Straight-up beautiful,” said Raymond. “Nineteen seventy-three.”

“It was seventy-two, stupid.”

“Why you always got to teach me?”

“I’m just sayin.”

“It was one of those cheatin-is-good songs that were popular back then. Remember?”

“ ‘Me and Mrs. Jones,’ ” said James.

“Billy Paul,” said Alex. “That was seventy-two as well.”

James was replacing the wing nut on the air filter. He stopped for a moment, turned his head slightly, and looked at Alex out of the corner of his eye.

“My father had a radio in the coffee shop when I was kid,” said Alex. “He kept the dial on WOL. For the help.”

James tightened the wing nut. “If there was an OL or WOOK on the air today, I’d have a radio in here to keep me company. But there’s no stations playing the music I want to listen to.”

“You need to update your tastes,” said Raymond.

“I believe it’s too late for that,” said James. He straightened and began to wipe smudges from the car’s quarter panel with the shop rag. “I better finish up before Court gets here.”

“We’ll get on our way,” said Raymond.

Alex finished his beer and tossed the empty into a trash can topped with others. He went to James and, once again, extended his hand. James shook it.

“I’m glad we met,” said Alex.

James nodded, his eyes unreadable. He and Raymond exchanged a long look. James then returned to the Monte Carlo. He lowered the hood and pushed on it until it clicked.

“Call Mama,” said Raymond, heading for the open bay door.

“I always do,” said James.

Alex and Raymond walked down the alley, out of the glow of the security light, into dark.

“His boss is a douche,” said Alex.

“George Jefferson and Napoleon Bonaparte had a baby, and they called him Gavin.”

“Why does he put up with it?”

“James feels he has to take it. He’s happy to have the job.”

“There’s got to be a better place for him. He’s good at what he does.”

“He doesn’t know how to work on the newer vehicles. And there’s not too many employers looking to hire convicted felons. I’d help him if I could.”

They walked out of the alley toward the Pontiac.

“We didn’t really talk about anything,” said Alex.

“That’s all right.”

“I’m saying, we didn’t even mention the incident.”

“There’s time for that.”

“So what was I doing there?”

“I think we’re all lookin for a little peace with this thing. The first step was, I wanted you to get acquainted with my brother. He did fuck up when he helped Charles with that note. But you can see, a man like James, he does not deserve to be locked up.”

Alex agreed but made no comment. He was thinking of what he would do when Baker threw his shadow on his family’s front door.

Nineteen

I
THINK he’s comin,” said Charles Baker, speaking into his disposable cell. “If that’s his Three Hundred, it’s him.”

“Copy that,” said Cody Kruger, holding his disposable to his ear, using the shorthand code like special agents did on TV.

Baker, seated on the passenger side of Kruger’s Honda, stared through the windshield as the big Chrysler, looked like the Green Hornet car, rolled slowly across the lot of the garden apartment where Dominique Dixon lived. Kruger had parked on Blair Road, across from the lot.

The Chrysler pulled into an empty spot next to a white, windowless Econoline van that was parked beside a brown Dumpster. Dominique Dixon got out of the car. He was dressed in beige slacks and a Miles Davis–green button-down shirt. Over the shirt he wore a black leather blazer to cut the chill. It bunched up behind the shoulder blades, betraying the slightness of Dixon’s frame.

“It’s him,” said Baker.

“Copy,” said Kruger.

“You ready?”

“You
know
I am.”

Dixon locked his car and headed for the open stairwell that led to his apartment. Kruger was up there, one floor above Dixon’s place, his back pressed against a brick wall, jacked on nerves because this was new to him. One sweaty hand gripped the nine.

Baker watched Dixon and the confident switch in his walk. Baker knew who Dixon was, even if Dixon did not.

Baker was going to enjoy this. He always did when it was someone weaker than him, who had more than him, who thought
this
could never happen.

Baker got out of the Honda, locked it with the electric gizmo the white boy had left him. Behind him, past a park and basketball court darkened by night, a Metro train made its soft clopping sound on the rails as it headed south. As Baker walked by the Chrysler 300, he dug Kruger’s key into the front quarter panel, taking off a line of enamel all the way to the trunk lid without breaking stride. It was something a kid might do, and he knew it, but still it gave him pleasure, and he smiled.

In the stairwell, he found Kruger on the steps, holding his gun on Dixon, who was standing by his door with his hands raised. Kruger’s face was flushed with excitement, his acne gone pale yellow and throbbing on pink flesh. Dixon was openmouthed and visibly shaking. Baker came up onto the landing.

“Put your hands down, boy,” said Baker. “Get us inside, quick.”

“Why?” said Dixon.

“I ain’t tell you to talk,” said Baker. “Just turn the key.”

They went in, Baker closing the door and seeing to its dead bolt. The apartment was as he had expected and hoped it would be. Furniture a cut above the department store kind, a big television mounted like a picture on the wall, a portable bar stocked with all types of liquor, a martini shaker, straining and fruit-cutting tools set atop glass. The garden complex was ordinary on the outside and close to run-down. But Dixon had hooked up his crib luxuriously behind the walls.

A smart, successful marijuana dealer did not flash. The Chrysler was nice but not showtime, cool enough to turn the heads of heifers but not police. Baker had seen no expensive jewelry on Dixon’s wrists or fingers, none around his neck. Yeah, Dominique Dixon was smart, and this annoyed Baker rather than impressed him. Why did so many people know so much more about getting it than he did? He could have asked these smart folks questions, learned something, maybe. Instead he just had the urge to fuck them up.

“Sit your ass down on that couch,” said Baker, pointing Dixon to his red linen sofa. To Kruger he said, “Hold him there. I wanna have a look around.”

Baker tossed Kruger the Honda’s key, then walked down a hall to a bedroom. In it was a king-size with a simple rectangular headboard behind it and wooden end tables to match, all of the pieces low to the carpet and streamlined. A dresser had the same basic design as the end tables and carried the same dark shade of wood. Baker saw a copy of
Maxim
on the floor and a straight-out stroke magazine by the bed. So the young man did like women. But why did he dress and act like a bitch? Baker had been locked up too long. He did not understand this new world.

He went through Dixon’s dresser drawers, ran his hand under his jeans and undid his balled socks. He found a couple hundred dollars in twenties flat in the folds of Dixon’s underpants. Baker pocketed the cash. In a padded box he found an Omega watch with a blue face, and an onyx ring, and he stuffed them both into the other pocket of his slacks. He went into the bathroom, sniffed the colognes the boy had, and splashed something he liked, smelled like trees, onto his face. The bottle was a nice green color, manly, and Baker checked the cap to see that it was tight. He dropped the bottle into the inner breast pocket of his old caramel-colored leather jacket.

He went back down the hall, thinking,
This is what it feels like to have money.
But he was not satisfied or done.

Kruger was out in the living room, dutifully training his gun on Dixon, still seated on the couch. Baker almost laughed, seeing Kruger holding the nine sideways like in those slope movies, but he held his amusement in check because the white boy was just so obedient that it kind of warmed his heart. It had been a while since anyone had listened to him the way Kruger did.