“They’re all wearin the same shit,” said Mobley with that sandpaper voice of his, observing the sea of purple and white polo shirts. “Why the school make them put on those shirts?”
“Regimentation,” said White.
“What?”
White knew he’d get Mobley on that one. He surprised Ricardo and them when he threw in a word they didn’t know. They thought he was stupid. Everyone did, going back to his mother, his uncles, his teachers, the other kids in his neighborhood. He was always way big for his age, six foot two by the time he turned twelve, and big to them meant dumb. Played football for the Marlboro Mustangs in the peewee league, then later at Largo High. The coaches yelling at him, Hit somebody, son! And he did, with fire. Broke this one boy’s neck with a helmet-to-helmet thing, got him while his head was turned toward a pass, running a sideline pattern. He could have hit him low, but hey. White had a powerful feeling when he saw the kid lying there, eyes all wide and scared, his head taped to a gurney. He apologized for the unfortunate hit: he didn’t mean to hurt no one, football was a contact sport, etc. It was called a tragic accident and largely forgotten. The boy never did walk again.
Yeah, he put some hurt on those kids, and if they looked at him wrong or called him a retard, he gave them double hurt. That is, until he dropped out. He didn’t get past the tenth grade, but that didn’t mean anything. He read bodybuilding magazines and did crossword puzzles. He could break down an engine. He was smart.
White had liked using words to fuck with Earl. Like saying Earl was compensating when he really meant over compensating. By doing this, he could get Earl to admit that he was touchy about his lack of size. He did it all the time to Earl when they were working in the service bays. Earl talking about women, and how he was small of stature but plenty big “down there,” “thick as a can of Mountain Dew,” and how he liked to use it, though White had never seen him with a girl. White saying, “You just a diminutive fellow, is all you are,” Earl saying, “Huh?”
Earl Nance was a funny little dude to hang with. Even when they murdered together, after it was done, the back and forth they had, what was called the banter, was fun. He wished Earl was still sitting next to him, instead of this bad-tempered, Have-a-Tampa-smellin old man. He’d give it to that Lucas dude fierce when he had the opportunity. It wouldn’t bring Earl back, but it would make White feel good.
“ Regimentation mean they like to keep those kids in order,” said White.
“That so,” said Beano Mobley.
Some time must have passed while he’d been, what was that word, ruminating, because when White looked in the side-view again, most of the schoolkids were gone. Except for one, a tall, thin boy with braids, coming down the block on foot. He was kind of looking around, taking his time, his mouth moving though there was no one with him. Had to be the Lindsay kid, since he was slowing down near the steps that led to the Lindsay row house. He was coming closer, damn near right beside their vehicle.
“That’s him,” said White.
“Who don’t know that,” said Mobley. He had already opened his door.
Ernest Lindsay had lingered in the library after the last bell. He’d flirted with going by the office to pick up that college application, but in the end he had decided against it. He didn’t like to leave Mr. Lucas hanging like that, but he didn’t feel like spending the time with it, and figured that he could apply to UDC some other day. This was what he told himself, but deep down he knew why he was putting the process off. He was scared.
Ernest had a comfort thing where he was at. He had lived in the same row home with his mother his whole life. He had walked to all of his schools. This was a big step for him, having to go across town to an unfamiliar neighborhood, face a new challenge, interact with strangers, faculty and students alike, people he wasn’t sure he could trust. And the aspect of it that he could not even admit to himself: he was afraid to fail.
Ernest had this dream of making movies, but how could he ever make it real? How could a dude from D.C. who had never been out of the city, except to go to amusement parks and such, how could he make that leap from stoop boy to someone who worked in a fast and glamorous business, an industry, one of polish and glamour, personal assistants, conference calls? His dreams were his everything. If he were to lose them, if he were to know for certain that these dreams were never going to be realized, what would he have left?
Ernest went down the dark interior stairwell of his school, the stone steps beneath him worn in the centers from almost a century of use. He passed through the lobby, where the police and security were stationed, and exited the building. Out in the sunlight, he walked toward 12th.
It’s just a few people who work in that business get to direct, thought Ernest. They got carpenters, folks who set up the lights, location scouts… I could do something like that. But I bet those folks don’t have that cinema knowledge I do. I know how to look at a film. I like to read about movies, and I like to talk about ’em, too. I could teach.
He realized he was talking to himself and he stopped. Up ahead, a small, strong, older guy was getting out of a big Ford SUV.
Ernest wouldn’t mind standing in front of a classroom, turning students on to film. He was still learning. He had been reading the thick biography that Spero had given him. He was in the middle of the chapter on the making of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, which in Italy was called Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo. He liked those kinds of facts. Ernest felt this was Mr. Sergio Leone’s masterpiece. He was especially into that scene toward the end where the Eastwood character performs an act of kindness for a dying Confederate soldier and gives him a last smoke. There was hardly any dialogue in that scene. What Leone put into the shot, what he left out of it, the framing, the acting, the beautiful music, were all in harmony. That scene right there, Ernest got chills when he watched it. He had bought the soundtrack off a U.K. website using his mother’s credit card, and when it arrived at his house he saw that it had the song titles listed in Italian. He had asked his teacher what “Morte di un soldato” meant, and Mr. Lucas told him it meant “death of a soldier,” and Ernest knew that he had bought the right CD. If he became a teacher someday, he would show the students the film and then play the cues from the soundtrack for them as well. That perfect blend of image and sound.
“Ernest Lindsay,” said the short man who had gotten out of the big SUV. He stood before Ernest now, blocking his way. He had an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth. He wore a jacket in the heat. His hand was in the jacket pocket.
Ernest nodded. He couldn’t even raise spit.
Mobley made an eye motion toward the back door of the SUV. “Get in the back, son.”
Ernest’s head moved birdlike as he glanced around the street. Mobley stepped forward, pulled his hand from his jacket, and pressed the barrel of a revolver hard against Ernest’s stomach.
“You’ll be all right if you do it,” said Mobley, his breath foul. “Otherwise… Look, I’ll just go ahead and shoot you right here. I don’t even care.”
Ernest got into the backseat of the Ford. Mobley slid in beside him.
The big man in the driver’s seat said, “You know he’s got a cell.”
A few minutes later, going north on 11th, Mobley tossed Ernest’s cell phone out the window. Ernest heard it break into pieces as it hit the street.
TWENTY-ONE
Loquacia Hawkins lived with her son, David, in a clapboard colonial on Quintana Place in Manor Park. It was not far from the community garden on 9th and the Fourth District police station, where huge radio towers landmarked the neighborhood and loomed over the landscape. David and his friend Duron had stolen the Denali on Peabody, in the shadow of the towers.