The Man Who Came Uptown
- Автор: Пелеканос Джордж
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: Mulholland Books / Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-47982-0
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Man Who Came Uptown». Краткое содержание книги:
“But people do get displaced.”
“Sure do. That’s what that book was about. The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears?”
“You read it?”
“Yeah.”
“I chose it for our book club,” said Anna. “It might have been a bad call.”
“The fellas didn’t like it?”
“It’s not that. Some of them made the cardinal mistake of reviewing. They chastised the author for not writing the story they wanted him to write.”
“I bet I know why. They couldn’t understand why that Ethiopian dude, Sepha, didn’t get with that woman, Judith. I mean, like, get with her all the way. Right?”
Anna chuckled. “Yes. You remember Donnell? He said, ‘Why did I take all that time to read that book if that dude wasn’t gonna consommé the relationship?’ And then he said, ‘I want my money back.’”
Michael laughed. “Sounds like that fool.”
“The book did generate discussion. Which is, you know, what good books should do.”
“I guess the author was saying, you can have a deep friendship with someone without having that physical thing.”
“Among other things, yes.” She looked him over. “So you’re reading a lot.”
“Like a mad dog. That’s ’cause of you.”
“Stop it.”
They exchanged phone numbers. Maybe it was the one beer that had altered Anna’s judgment. But she trusted him. She took her phone back and almost as an afterthought did a check-in text with her husband: Got my phone back. I’m out taking a walk. I’ll be home soon. It wasn’t exactly a lie.
After Anna had paid the bill, they went to the bookstore that was steps away. They browsed separately in the wooden stacks and Anna took something up to the register. She found Michael in the fiction section. He looked energized. Anna handed him a used paperback. It was a novel called Northline.
“That’s for you,” said Anna. “It’s one of my favorites.”
Michael was touched and speechless. To cover his emotion, he read the copy on the back.
“Says here it’s set in Las Vegas and Reno,” said Michael. “I never been out that way.”
“I hope you like it,” said Anna.
He walked her back to her house at dusk. He suggested they go north on Quebec Street instead of taking Princeton, where he had strong-armed the man who’d stolen her phone the night before. He didn’t want to risk being recognized.
“How’s it going?” said Anna, looking up at him.
“You mean my life?”
“Yes.”
“I like my job. Sayin, it’s okay for now, till I figure out what’s next.” He flashed on Ornazian and what they were planning to do. “It’s always a challenge when you come uptown.”
“What’s that mean, come uptown?”
“It’s just somethin dudes say, when they come out. Uptown doesn’t mean it’s fancy. But it’s way better than where you been, because it’s home.”
“So...”
“It’s a little bit of a struggle, is all. But I reckon I’ll be fine.”
As they approached the corner of Quebec and Warder, Anna told him she’d walk the rest of the way herself. Michael knew it was because of her husband. She didn’t want her man to see them together. He understood.
“Thank you for getting my phone back,” she said.
“Ain’t no thing,” said Michael. “Be easy, Anna.”
They went their separate ways. She looked over her shoulder as she neared her house. Michael was adjusting the watch cap on his head, tilting it just so.
Walking south on Warder, he saw Carla Thomas sitting on her porch alone, illuminated by candlelight. He went up the steps and joined her. She was drinking a glass of red wine, listening to some Erykah Badu, casting Mama’s Gun from her phone to a Bluetooth speaker she had set up on the porch.
“Big man,” said Carla. “Come up and set.”
“Looks like you’re at peace,” said Michael, taking a seat beside her.
“Not too often I get time to myself.”
“Where’s Alisha?”
“She’s at a friend’s house,” said Carla. “I got to pick her up in a couple of hours. And my grandmother’s out too. She playin bingo at her church.”
“So...”
“That’s right. I’m alone.”
Michael said nothing. Words of seduction failed him. He was out of practice.
Carla stood up and lifted her glass of wine off the table. She gathered up the speaker and her phone as well.
“You comin in?”
“I’d like to.”
“Bring that candle with you, Mike.”
With gratitude and anticipation, he watched the sway of her hips as she walked through the door. Michael picked up the candle and followed her into the house.
Eighteen
Ornazian scooped up Michael Hudson a few blocks north of his mother’s house on Sherman Avenue, at his request. Darkness had fallen hours earlier. Ornazian stopped at the corner, let the vehicle idle, got out of the car, and went around to the passenger bucket. Michael slipped under the wheel, powered back his seat, and let his long frame settle.
“Impala SS,” said Michael, failing to keep the pleasure from his voice. “Haven’t drove one of these in a long while.” He gripped and released the steering wheel and studied the instrument panel.
“Told you I’d hook you up. Let’s head out. Our man’s in Ward Nine.”
Michael recognized the somewhat derogatory term for Prince George’s County but made no comment on it, as he had no skin in that game. He pulled down on the transmission arm and went east.
“Where exactly?” said Michael.
“You know Beaver Heights?”
“On the Mer’land side of Eastern Ave.”
“That’s right.”
As Michael drove, Ornazian watched him get a feel for the Impala. On Kenilworth Avenue, when the road was clear, Michael punched the gas. Cruising smoothly on the upmarket shocks, the sedan picked up speed like an airplane on a runway.
“Take care on the corners,” said Ornazian. “It wallows.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It doesn’t hug the road too well.”
“It’s a straight-line runner,” said Michael. “Always was.”
“You had one of these?”
“For a day.”
They parked in the lot behind the complex of buildings where Thaddeus Ward had his business. Michael put the SS at the end of a row of three black cars while Ornazian used his cell to alert Ward to their arrival. Soon Ward, clad in dark clothing, walked across the lot, chest out. Michael checked out his swagger and his neatly trimmed gray mustache.
“Man’s cocky,” said Michael. “And old.”
“Not too old,” said Ornazian. “He can still do it. Pop the lid.”
Ward retrieved a couple of duffel bags from the trunk of the Crown Vic and dropped them in the open trunk of the SS. He got into the backseat of the Impala, reached across the console, and shook Michael’s hand.
“Thaddeus Ward.”
“Michael Hudson.”
Michael drove out of the lot.
They parked on a side street in Columbia Heights, a couple of blocks west of Georgia, near the bar with the nine ball painted on its light box. Down the block, a kid sat on a chair outside a row house, holding a cell in his hand. The black Range Rover and the blue Mustang were parked nearby.
Michael looked around. “Couple of security cameras on this street. They could be recording our license plates.”
“Not to worry,” said Ornazian. “The plates on this car don’t match the registration.”
“Pretty bold,” said Michael. “To have this place right here, where folks live.”