King Suckerman

Seven

Dimitri Karras swung the Ghia into a space in front of 1841 R Street, cut the engine.

“Here we are,” said Karras.

Vivian had a look at the building: a former mansion with a peeling stucco facade, now four floors housing three units per floor, a small yard out front patched with brown where a fat gray cat with huge ears lay on the grass watching a cluster of gnats hover in the air.

“You live here?” said Vivian.

“Trauma Arms,” said Clay.

Karras said, “Come on.”

Karras got the grocery bag from the trunk. The three of them went into the building. The resident manager, Duncan Hazlewood — six four, broad of shoulder and chest, bearded, Hemingway with acrylic-stained khakis — was carrying a canvas from his studio and through the hall toward his front door. Hazlewood was an artist, a dropout advertising conceptualist turned painter, now into a period of black-and-white pen-and-ink drawings. His girlfriend, Libby Howland, held the door for him.

“Duncan,” said Karras.

Hazlewood eyed the group. “Having a party?”

“We’ll let you know.”

“See that you do, damnit. Wouldn’t want to miss out on it if you did.”

They went up the stairs. A white man’s raised voice, followed by the sheepish voice of a black man, emerged from behind a closed apartment door. Karras and Clay exchanged looks. The white man was Irvine Nichols, a drama and arts editor at the Washington Post. Nichols favored young black men, and he alternately loved them and berated them. For some reason these black men made their way to Nichols’s apartment in prodigious numbers.

“Sounds like discipline time on the plantation,” said Clay.

“He’s a hard boss,” said Karras, “but a fair one. Been askin’ about you, too, Marcus.”

“Knock that bullshit off, man.”

Vivian stopped to stare at the door, but Karras and Clay were back on the stairs, heading up to the next level. She followed. Karras put a key to a locked door, opened the door, went through. Clay and Vivian went in behind him.

Karras’s apartment went the depth of the building, front to back, with a big bay window facing R. The living area of painted wainscoting and plaster walls was wide and uncluttered, with high ceilings and painted, exposed beams. A Pullman kitchen, harvest gold enamel on steel, was fitted against the wall. Past the kitchen a narrow hall led to a single bedroom and bath.

Vivian took in the bare-bones look: an oak dining table with four hard-seat chairs; a brown couch with sagging cushions; a bentwood rocker; a cable-spool table in front of the couch, a tall blue plastic bong atop the table; a color television set, pushed to the corner of the room; two large floor speakers, wires exposed, placed on either side of the bay window; and, occupying an entire wall, unfinished bookshelves holding an amp, preamp, turntable, scores of paperback and hardback novels, and what seemed like hundreds of records. A ceiling fan moved warm air and dust around the room.

“Spartan,” said Vivian.

“How’d you know?” said Karras.

“She ain’t talkin’ about where your people come from, man,” said Clay. “She’s sayin’ you could use a little decorating advice.”

“Oh.”

“Let me get my shower,” said Clay, and he quick-stepped toward the back of the place.

Karras dropped the bag of dope on the cable-spool table. He gestured to the bag. “Have a seat. Do a hit if you want; knock yourself out.”

Vivian looked at the dirty water settled in the bong’s tube, the poker stuck in the bowl. She could smell the bong water from where she stood. “You got any papers?”

“I’ll get you some.”

Karras went back to his room, listened to the ache of the pipes from the bathroom where Clay showered. He found a pack of Tops on his dresser and then straightened the sheets on his mattress, which lay frameless on the floor, before he left the room.

Vivian was breaking up a bud when he came back to the living room. The bud felt sticky between her fingers — a good sign — and its pungent scent filled the room.

“This looks pretty sweet,” she said.

Karras gave her the papers. “Your boyfriend always get good dope?”