Lucas followed the liturgy in a book he found in a wood box on the back of the forward pew. He recited along with the Creed, which he knew by heart, and the Lord’s Prayer in English and Greek. He knew what was going on behind the sanctuary and in front of it because he had served as an altar boy at the age of fourteen and occasionally in the years that followed. He listened to the familiar voices of the priests and the beautiful singing of the cantor and her choir during the Communion Prayer, and when it came time to kneel and pray, he dropped the padded bar before him and got onto his knees. With his elbows on the pew lip, he put his cradled hands to his forehead and closed his eyes.
He would not ask forgiveness for the taking of another man’s life. Just like those who had shot at him in Iraq, the man in the parking lot had intended to kill him. In fact, when Lucas prayed he never asked for anything. He had not even begged for a miracle while his father was dying of the brain cancer that had quickly claimed him. Instead, he silently said the same prayer he had always said in church, in the privacy of his home, and in the Middle East: Thank you, God, for the gift of life you’ve given me, and the gift of life you have given to my family and friends.
Lucas did not have the absolute faith his mother and his brother Leo possessed. He had seen too many bodies zipped into rubber bags, seen so much random death that he was no longer certain of an afterlife. But he did feel that the life he had, here on earth, was no molecular accident. It had been granted to him and it was a blessing. He came to church to give testimony to that, to express his gratitude, and to be a part of this community that had meant a great deal to him throughout his life. He saw his people here. In the fathers of others he saw his own father in the church.
Later, during a post-liturgy ceremony for a parishioner who had been deceased for forty days, Lucas did his stavro, the sign of the cross, three fingers for the Trinity touched to the forehead, chest, right shoulder, then left.
“… for there is no man who lives and sins not,” said the priest.
And Lucas thought, Amen.
The brothers took their mother to brunch at a restaurant she liked, high on Wisconsin near a cigar store and the Gawler’s funeral home. The food was in the French vein, the dining room was tastefully designed, and the service had a European elegance. Eleni ate a goat cheese omelet and her sons both had eggs Moroccan, served over easy with sausage and tomato sauce. Leo and Spero had juice; their mother was working on a chardonnay.
Spero had told them out on the front steps of the church that he had “had a few” the night before and walked into a door in the darkness of his apartment when he’d gotten home. Eleni took the story at face value, but Leo clearly did not. After they ordered, Eleni got up to use the restroom, and when she was out of earshot Leo brought up the bruise.
“What really happened, Spero? I know a door didn’t hit you upside the head.”
“I was a little wasted. I was in a place I shouldn’t have been down around Petworth. Some guy standing next to me at the bar thought I looked at him funny or somethin and he just coldcocked me.”
“Big strong guy like you?”
“Yeah, I know. You would have been proud of me, though. I didn’t even retaliate. I let the bouncer get rid of him.”
“What was the name of the bar?”
“Huh?”
“Place you were at had a sign out front, didn’t it?”
“Man, I don’t even know. I guess I was pretty gone.”
“Uh-huh.”
Eleni Lucas returned, sipped at her wine, double sipped. Spero shot a glance at Leo, but Leo didn’t bite.
“My men,” said Eleni, placing her glass on the table. “I’m so lucky to have you both here in Washington.”
“We’re not goin anywhere,” said Leo.
“Your dad would be proud of both of you,” she said, and Spero stared down at his plate.
“But a little more proud of me,” said Leo. “Tell the truth.”
“Well, you both have your positive attributes,” said Eleni. “You are certainly different from each other, but your father loved you equally. Leonidas, he called you Cool Breeze-”
“Because it felt like a breath of fresh air when Leo walked into a room,” said Spero, robotically repeating something he had heard many times before.
“Don’t be jealous,” said Leo.
“You did get the tightest nickname,” said Spero.
“And your dad called Spero ‘my thereeyaw,’ ” said Eleni. “Its literal translation is ‘wild animal.’ But he meant ‘my wild one.’ Your dad used to love to watch you wrestle. He said you had the killer instinct.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Spero, still not looking in her eyes.
Eleni ordered another glass of wine. They quietly finished their meals.
Bernard White hadn’t heard from his partner the night before, which he found strange. For White, doing jobs was just a way to make extra money, and he took no pleasure in the process. But Earl had pride in his work and he relished the details. He would’ve called Bernard after he’d done the dude, bragged on it, too. By mid-morning, White knew in his gut that the hit had gone wrong.
He got a call from Ricardo Holley on his disposable. Earl Nance was dead. The TV news was saying that it was a homicide committed during an apparent act of robbery. They’d found Earl in a church parking lot. Larry had gotten the unofficial word and told his father that Nance had died of asphyxiation and possibly a broken neck. Ricardo said that Larry was quite “upset.”
Fuck that punk, thought White. He said, “What are we gonna do now?”
“Sit on it overnight,” said Ricardo. “We need to think on this before we act. Come over to the warehouse tomorrow at lunchtime.”
“Larry comin, too?”
“Think I’ll speak to him alone,” said Ricardo. “Look here: I’m sorry your boy got his self chilled.”
“He knew the risks,” said White, and he ended the call.
Bernard White sat in a big chair in his Marlow Heights apartment, a crossword puzzle and pen in hand, looking out the window. Thinking of the day ahead, and how empty it would be without his ugly little friend.
Most of the commercial and retail businesses back in the Edmonston industrial section were closed on Sundays, but Beano Mobley kept his place open, because working folks used their free time on the weekends to get their vehicles correct. Also, an open and active business meant less suspicion when one of his side customers came to call.
Mobley had been at the firearms thing for a while. Indirectly, it was how he’d met Ricardo Holley. He and Ricardo had struck up a conversation one night at the club out New York Avenue, the one near the dog shelter that had the best all-ass dancers in town. Ricardo had mentioned that he was looking for a heater, and when Mobley asked him if he was police, Ricardo said, “I used to be, but don’t hold that shit against me.” They ended up bringing a couple of the dancers back to Mobley’s warehouse and partying in the far back room, where Beano poured mid-shelf liquor and Ricardo cut out lines of coke he had copped at the bar. Beano had put Brick and some Cameo, shit he liked from his day, on the stereo and cranked it up. Both of them were on the old side, but that night they tossed those freaks like they were young. The cocaine helped. Ricardo and Beano had the same taste in women-the bigger in the back the better. They liked them young, too.
Their friendship solidified, Ricardo began to talk partnership. He liked the fact that Mobley had real estate, a base of operations, and a gun thing that was recession proof. Ricardo would bring his knowledge of law enforcement and his ambition to the table. Both of them felt it was a good fit.