Marquis was from Suitland in PG County and had grown up fifteen miles from Lucas, but they met for the first time in the war, both serving in the 2/1, the Second Battalion of the First Marine Regiment assigned to Fallujah. Their shared geographic background had made them close fast.
“What about you?” said Marquis. “You maintaining?”
“I’m fine.”
“ ’Cause it’s hard to tell with you, man. The way you hold all your shit tight inside you.”
“What do you want me to do, speak on my feelings about the war?”
“You can, with me.”
“Ask me a question. Not any old question. The question.”
“Okay. You ever kill anyone over there?”
“I did, Marquis. I killed someone.”
“More than one, I remember correct.”
“Course, they were all trying to kill me.”
“Pretty simple,” said Marquis. “Now, when you get to the why of it, that’s somethin else. But it’s better if you stay with the basics: We fought to win and we fought for each other. That’s how we do.”
“Except they didn’t let us finish it. In Fallujah they sent us in, pulled us back out, and sent us in again. The brass and the politicians played games with marines. They were concerned with perception, all those images on TV broadcast around the world. They let Al fucking Jazeera influence their strategy.”
“That’s better,” said Marquis with a chuckle. “That’s my boy.”
“Fuck it,” said Lucas, letting himself wind down.
“Right,” said Marquis. “So I guess you are maintaining.”
Lucas had a swig of his beer. “I’m keeping busy.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Workin on a thing. I need any help, I’ll let you know.”
They drank slowly. Marquis nodded toward the side door. “Waldo been out there a long time.”
“Bobby’s gunnin those smokes in tandem.”
“He chews, too.”
“But not at the same time.”
“Yeah, that would be unseemly.”
Lucas finished his beer, left money on the bar, and slipped off his stool. “Tell him I said good-bye.”
“You gonna leave me here with him?”
“I’m meeting a lady friend,” said Lucas.
“That’s why you got that shirt on?”
“You like it?”
“Looks like a tablecloth to me.”
“It’s gingham.”
Marquis held out his hand. “Two-One, man.”
“Two-One.”
They bumped fists. Lucas left the bar.
Constance Kelly was waiting for him outside his house. She got out of her Honda, crossed Emerson, and walked toward his Jeep. Her hair was down and she walked with energy and looked first-snow clean. Lucas felt a little light-headed, looking at her. Goddamn, she was mint.
“Hi,” she said, settling into the passenger bucket.
“Hey,” said Lucas. He kissed her mouth. “Hungry?”
“You know it,” said Constance.
They drove down to the U Street corridor, where he found a spot on a residential street. Lucas took her into Busboys and Poets, the bookstore and cafe that was bustling with activity, all sorts of faces and types, the D.C. most folks had wanted for a long time. He bought her a couple of novels: Lean on Pete and The Death of Sweet Mister.
“Is there a reason you picked these out?” said Constance as they stood before the register.
“You mean, am I sending you a message.”
“Yeah, like when a guy makes a mix tape for a girl.”
“Good clean writing, is all. I thought you’d like them.”
He had a table reserved at Marvin on 14th, but they were early, so they went up the stairs to the rooftop bar. It was warm enough to be outside without the heat lamps on, and not yet summer. The space was crowded for a reason. It had a beach atmosphere and a city vibe. The people were attractive, and that night’s music, seventies soul and funk, was bottom heavy and tight. A snaky trombone solo had come forward, and everyone was moving their feet and hips. They couldn’t help themselves.
The bar specialized in Belgian ales. Lucas wedged out a spot for him and Constance, ordered her a blonde and a Stella for himself. He left a five on the bar and asked the tender who was on the stereo.
“Fred Wesley and the Horny Horns. ‘Four Play.’ ”
“Righteous,” said Lucas.
“You know those people had fun back then.”
Lucas flashed on images, photos he had seen of his father as a young man, smiling with his friends out in one of the Blackie Auger clubs, his hair longish and curly, stacks on his feet, baggies, an open rayon shirt, a crucifix and mati hung on a chain resting on his hairy chest.
“You here?” said Constance.
“Just thinking on someone,” said Lucas.
“Think of me.”
Lucas felt the vibration of his iPhone buzzing in the front pocket of his jeans. He retrieved it, looked at the screen. Tavon Lynch was calling in. Lucas answered.
“Hold up, Tavon,” said Lucas. To Constance he said, “I gotta take this, a work thing. I promise, just this one time tonight.”
“Go ahead.”
Lucas left the rooftop, walked passed the doorman, took the steps down to the main floor, and went out on 14th, where he stood on the sidewalk and resumed his conversation.
“What is it?” said Lucas.
“We lost another one,” said Tavon.
“Another one what? ”
“ ’Nother package. Off the porch of a home east of Capitol Hill. More like Lincoln Park.”
“Where are you?”
“We’re in Northeast right now.”
“How much did you lose?”
“Thirty-pound package, like the last two.”
“What’s goin on?”
“Huh?”
“I’m askin you, what do you think is happening?”
“I don’t know, Spero. I don’t.”
“Somebody knows what you guys are doing.”
“That’s impossible. Only me and Edwin do.”
A crowd of folks approached, loudly, and Lucas waited for them to pass.
“Look,” said Lucas, “I’m with a friend right now, about to have dinner. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
“A’ight.”
“You guys watch yourselves.”
“We’re good.”
“ Listen to me, Tavon. Don’t go trying to work this shit yourselves. We’re talking about some weight now, and big money. Whoever’s behind this is not going to play.”
“We got it, Spero. Me and Edwin can handle it.”
Lucas, exasperated, let it go. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, hear?”
“Is she pretty?”
“Who?”
“Your friend.”
“Yes.”
“My man,” said Tavon.
Lucas ended the call. He stood there on the sidewalk, thinking things over. Something was not quite right.
SEVEN
They sat in a deuce near the large mural of a smiling Mr. Gaye. Constance had ordered the signature dish, fried chicken and waffles with collard greens and gravy. Lucas was getting down on a strip steak with Maytag blue cheese and sauce bordelaise. They had eaten mussels with bacon, apples, and cream to start. The house was lively and packed.
“I don’t get the Belgian-food thing,” said Constance. “How does it connect with Marvin Gaye?”
“Late in his career, he moved to this place Ostend, on the Belgian coast. He went there to clean up. He did it, too. Claimed it was the happiest time of his life.”
Constance picked up a piece of chicken and went at it. She was cleaning it to the bone. He admired a woman who enjoyed her food.
“You’re gonna be one of those kind of lawyers.”
“What kind is that?”
“The ones who eat what they kill.”
“I want to be a good defense attorney,” said Constance. “Public, at first. Help people who can’t afford high-priced representation. That’s my goal for the time being. You?”