“ ’Sup, Holly? ” he said.
“Lawrence.”
“Can’t your boy visit a minute?”
Ali nodded warily as Lawrence Newhouse crossed the room.
TWELVE
Damn, boy,” said Lawrence Newhouse, looking around the office. “You oughta fix this joint up some.”
“We got no money to speak of,” said Ali. “None extra, anyway.”
“Still,” said Lawrence.
The space consisted of two desks, one for Ali, one for Coleman Wallace; a computer with slow dial-up service that they shared; and file cabinets. Also in the room were a foosball table with a cracked leg, a television set with no remote, a roll-in blackboard, several chairs, and a ripped-fabric couch. Ali did his best to make it a place where the boys would feel comfortable hanging out. Everything had been donated. It wasn’t nice, but it was good enough.
“What can I do for you, Lawrence?”
“Wonderin why I stopped in, huh.”
“Been a while.”
“Bet you think I’m lookin for work, somethin.”
“No, I didn’t think that.”
“I got work, man. Got this thing where I detail cars.”
“That’s good.”
“What you doin here, it’s for young men at risk. You know I’m not at risk.”
“And you’re not that young,” said Ali.
Lawrence chuckled and pointed a finger at Ali. “That’s right.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“It’s about my nephew. Marquis Gilman?”
Ali knew him, a nonviolent boy of average intelligence, funny, with lively eyes. Marquis was sixteen, up on drug charges, a recent dropout of Anacostia High School. He had been picked up several times for loitering and possession. His heart wasn’t in his work. He was a low-level runner who didn’t care to run.
“Marquis is one of my clients,” said Ali. “I’m tryin to help him out.”
“He told me. Want you to know, I appreciate it. He stays over there at Parkchester, with my sister and me. She’s havin a little trouble containing him. You know how that is. Boys that age just don’t think right. They wired up stupid in their heads.”
Ali nodded. He wouldn’t have put it that way, but Lawrence had the general idea. No one knew more about teenage brain scramble and bad decisions than Lawrence Newhouse.
“I’m lookin out for him, though,” said Lawrence. “I got no kids myself, so he as close to one as there is.”
For a moment, Ali thought of his own uncle and shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” said Lawrence.
“Nothin,” said Ali.
“So let me tell you why I’m here. Marquis said you tryin to hook him up with a job.”
“I’m trying. So far we haven’t had much luck.”
“What, you tryin to put him in a Wendy’s, sumshit like that?”
“At this point, we need to find him a job anywhere. Then, if he doesn’t want to return to school, I’ll get him started on earning his GED. Get him used to work and study. Change his habits. Marquis has all the necessary tools.”
“That’s what I’m sayin. He’s better than some fast-food job. I mean, he could do better right now. I been talkin to Ben Braswell. You know I still stay in contact with my man.”
“And?”
“Ben workin with White Boy, laying carpet. Both of them make good money at it. That’s the kind of thing I’d like to see Marquis get into. Learn a trade, and I’m not talkin about operatin no deep fryer.”
“I don’t think Marquis is ready for that right now. It’s a man’s job, for one. Heavy lifting and hard work. And it’s a trade that requires experience. You have to know what you’re doing.”
“White Boy’s father got the business, right?”
“Chris’s father owns it,” said Ali. “That’s right.”
“Then he could put Marquis on. I mean, shit, he put Ben on, and you know Ben ain’t no genius.”
“Chris’s father already hired some guys from our old unit. Remember Lonnie and Luther? Plus Milton Dickerson and that boy we used to ball with, Lamar Brooks. Lamar’s the only one who worked out, and he left to start his own thing. It was me who asked Mr. Flynn to give them a try, so I can’t go back to that well right now.”
“Marquis ain’t never been incarcerated. He was in that pretrial jail at Mount Olivet, but no hard lockup.”
“Marquis isn’t ready,” said Ali, holding Lawrence’s gaze.
Lawrence smiled. “All right. Maybe I’ll just talk to Ben. See what he got to say.”
Ali rose from his chair, telling Lawrence it was time to go. Lawrence stood, and the two of them walked toward the door.
“Damn, you all swole,” said Lawrence, looking Ali over. “I remember when you was one step off a midget. You always did have a chest on you, though.”
“I got one of those late growth spurts,” said Ali. He was now a man of average height with a fireplug build.
Above the door, where boys who were exiting the office could read them, were framed, hand-lettered lyrics: We people who are darker than blue Don’t let us hang around this town And let what others say come true.
“What’s that mean?” said Lawrence, pointing at the lyrics.
“Means, don’t become what society expects you to become. Be better than that.”
“Damn, boy, you like Crusader Rabbit and shit.”
“Not really.”
“What you gonna do after you save all these young niggas down here? Run for president?”
“I think I’ll just stay here and work.”
Ali held the door open for Lawrence, who walked down the sidewalk toward his vehicle, an old Chevy, parked on Alabama Avenue. Two young men stood outside the storefront, talking loudly, laughing.
“Y’all want to come inside?” said Ali.
“What for?” said one young man.
“You can watch television.”
“Ya’ll ain’t even got cable. Or a remote.”
“Play foosball if you want,” said Ali.
“That shit broke,” said the other young man, and he and his friend laughed.
Ali went back into the office, thinking, He’s right, it is broke. He made a mental note to get some duct tape and fix it, when he found the time.
Thomas Flynn’s last stop of the day was at a Ford dealership in the Route 29 corridor of Silver Spring. It was where he bought his E-250 cargo vans and had them serviced. He dealt with the manager, Paul Nicolopoulos, a good-looking silver-maned guy in his fifties taken to double-breasted blazers and crisp white oxfords. Nicolopoulos always introduced himself as Paul Nichols to his clients, just to make his life easier. Increasingly, many of his customers were Hispanics and other types of immigrants, and they had trouble with his name, which his proud Greek immigrant grandfather had refused to change.
“Just give me the cheap stuff,” said Nicolopoulos, watching Flynn measure the space with his Craftsman tape. They were in the used-car office, set up in a trailer. Nothing about it was plush.
“I’m gonna sell you the olefin,” said Flynn. “Twenty-six-ounce commercial, level loop.”
“The service guys walk through here all day with their boots on, and they’re not delicate. It’s like they got hooves.”
“The olefin’s made for high traffic. It’s not pretty, but it’s plenty tough.”
Flynn drew the tape back into the dispenser and clipped it onto his belt. He produced a pocket calculator and began to punch in numbers. He typically took the cost, added his profit, then tacked on the personality defect tax or, if he liked the client or owed him something, gave him a discount. In this way he arrived at a final figure.
“Don’t hurt me,” said Nicolopoulos, watching Flynn calculate.
“I’ll only put the head in,” said Flynn.
“Pretend that I’m a virgin,” said Nicolopoulos.
“I’ll be tender and kind,” said Flynn.
“Afterward, will you brush the tears off my face?”
“I’ll take you to McDonald’s and buy you a Happy Meal.”
“Thank you, Tom.”