His idea had been set in motion the day he’d seen the sidebar in the business section of the newspaper. And then, after watching one of those television shows set half in the street, half in a courtroom, an episode that detailed a blackmail involving a decades-old crime, Baker had begun to see how he could profit from a similar but more reasoned scheme. By typing “Heathrow Heights” and “murder” into the search engine, Baker had eventually been directed to a site that offered a database service containing documents related to criminal trials on both the federal and state levels, going back many years. Using La Trice’s credit card, he had retrieved the partial transcripts of the trial for a charge of less than five dollars. Unlike the old newspaper articles he had printed off microfilm at the local library, which had not identified some of those involved due to their status as minors, the document he obtained listed all the players by name. It wasn’t too hard to proceed from there.
“I ain’t want no Woods, young,” said Cody, as Deon pulled the wrapper off a cigar and dumped out its tobacco. “Let’s do a vanilla Dutch.”
Deon kept on task. He took weed from a pile on the table and dropped a healthy amount into the Backwoods wrapper. He rerolled the blunt and sealed it.
“This some bullshit,” muttered Cody. But when Deon fired the marijuana up and passed it to him, he hit it deep.
Baker worked on. For a small fee, there were all kinds of people-find searches available, which narrowed the field by age and geography. Soon he had the address and contact information for Peter Whitten. The other one, Alexander Pappas, was a bit harder to identify. There were a few with that name in the D.C. area, but the one he ultimately chose was about the right age. He still lived near the neighborhood in which he’d come up. Had to be the same boy he’d stomped.
On the word processor, Baker typed an unsigned letter that he transcribed from one that had been handwritten, showing editing marks and words in the margins. He then typed in a name and printed it on an envelope he fed through the bubble-jet machine.
Marijuana smoke hung heavy in the room. Cody and Deon laughed easily as Cody boasted about his prowess on the video basketball court. Baker didn’t mind that their heads were up. They were easier to manage when they were high.
“Repeat what I told y’all about the code,” said Baker.
“The Xbox codes?” Cody didn’t turn his head away from the screen, his fingers working the controller.
“The code to get back into the apartment,” said Baker patiently. “How I told you boys to knock a certain way.”
“We got keys,” said Cody. “Why we need to knock on the door, too?”
“What if someone takes your keys? Or the police come back with you? This way, I’m gonna know it’s y’all.”
“Knock knock pause knock,” said Deon.
“Right,” said Baker. “You two ready to tip out?”
“Hold up,” said Cody Kruger, using body language to make his players do his bidding onscreen. “I’m about to slam this sucker.”
“You had a dream that you did,” said Deon.
“Your game is fluke, son.”
“You can play later,” said Baker. “We got work to do.”
Alex Pappas had a photograph framed and hung in the kitchen, showing his father, John Pappas, standing over the grill at the coffee shop, his apron on, a spatula in his hand, a joyous smile on his face. The grill was covered with rows of thawing hamburger patties, which he was precooking. He did this daily in preparation for the lunch rush.
“Why is he smiling?” Johnny Pappas, Alex’s older son, would ask when he was a kid. “He’s just cooking burgers! It’s not like he won a million bucks or something.”
“You don’t get it,” Alex would reply.
The photo was a way of keeping his father alive to the grandsons who never knew him. Alex had mounted it beside the refrigerator so they’d see it often.
“Hey, Pop,” said Johnny Pappas, entering the kitchen. “Hold that for me, will ya?”
Alex had just put a block of kasseri cheese inside the side-by-side, and he had yet to close the door. He kept it open while his son reached across him and removed a plastic bottle of cran-raspberry juice. Johnny swigged directly from the bottle.
“You’re drinkin it like an animal,” said Alex.
“I don’t want to have to wash a glass.”
“When’s the last time you washed anything around here?”
“True that,” said Johnny.
Johnny replaced the bottle, his shaggy hair brushing Alex’s face, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Alex closed the refrigerator door and joined Vicki, who was seated at the kitchen table, several take-out menus spread before her. They were going to order food, but Alex had put out some cheese, kalamata olives, and crackers for a predinner snack. Johnny joined them at the table.
A prime-time game show was playing on a small television set on the counter. The Pappases had a nice rec room with a big-screen TV, but mostly Alex and Vicki sat in the kitchen at night, watching the thirteen-inch. The kitchen had been the central room of the house since the boys were babies.
“How’d we do today?” said Johnny.
“I took in two, three million,” said Alex.
“That all?”
“We did fine.”
“Dad, I been thinking…”
“What I tell you about thinking?”
“I was thinking we’d add some specials to the menu. Change the offering a little bit.”
“Ah, here we go.”
“You can’t compete with the Paneras of the world. I mean, if you’re trying to go head-to-head with them in sandwiches, you’re going to lose.”
“It’s not that kinda place. I got a grill and a colds station. I don’t have a big kitchen.”
“You don’t need any more room or equipment. I can make gourmet soups on one gas burner. Maybe saute some soft-shells when they’re in season. For breakfast we can offer huevos rancheros, and sides like apple sausages. Slice up some fresh avocados as a garnish.”
“I get it. You might know how to prepare all the fancy stuff, but you’re not there all the time. Who’s gonna do it? And what if it doesn’t move?”
“Darlene would love to learn new sandwiches and recipes. Don’t you think she gets bored with the same-old, too?”
“She’s there to work, not to get excited.”
“If we try it and it doesn’t fly, then we go back to what we were doing. I’m not telling you to throw the old menu away. I’m saying, let’s do something different. Bring in a whole new kind of customer.”
Alex grunted and folded his arms.
Johnny had earned a bachelor’s degree in marketing and had recently graduated from a local culinary institute. For a while he had been an apprentice chef in a new-cuisine restaurant near George Washington University. Now he worked with his father at the coffee shop during the breakfast and lunch rushes, which was frequently an oil-and-water situation for both of them. Vicki, who thought her son needed the day-to-day experience of running a business, had suggested the trial arrangement.
“I saw a nice chalkboard with a hand-painted frame at a store today,” said Johnny. “I think we should buy it. I can put it up over the wall phone, write the day’s specials on it.”
“For God’s sake.”
“Let me try, Dad. One new soup, one new sandwich. Let’s just see if it goes.”
“ Avrio? ”
“Tomorrow, yeah.”
“Okay. But how about this for a change? You come to work on time.”
Johnny smiled.
“You dining with us tonight, honey?” said Vicki, her drugstore-bought reading glasses perched on her nose.
“Depends on what you guys are having,” said Johnny.