The Turnaround: A Novel by George P. Pelecanos

Author:George P. Pelecanos [Pelecanos, George P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Hard-Boiled
ISBN: 9780316156479
Google: qTTIlwEACAAJ
Publisher: Little, Brown, and Company
Published: 2008-07-15T21:39:03+00:00

Thirteen

RAYMOND MONROE drove his aging, well-maintained Pontiac out into the County and north on the Boulevard, coming into the retail district, passing the big hardware store and the Safeway, the Greek-owned pizza parlor, and the old gas station where his brother, James, had worked, now self-service, a minimart having replaced the mechanics’ bays. He hooked a left at the end of the strip, before the split in the road, and rolled down the incline, along the B&O railroad tracks and into Heathrow Heights.

Adults were getting home from work, and kids were playing in their yards and riding their bikes down the sidewalks as the shadows stretched out in the dying light. Nunzio’s, the local market and country store, had closed long ago and been replaced by two split-level houses, one with turquoise siding. At the bottom of the street, bordering the woods, was the government barrier, painted yellow, telling anyone unfamiliar with the layout that the road had come to an end.

Raymond waved to an old man he knew and, farther along, a girl he’d once kissed down by the basketball court, now a grandmother. He still knew most of the people who lived here. He’d known their parents and now recognized their children. A few Hispanic families had moved into the neighborhood in the past five years, workingmen and women with many kids, but Heathrow was still a black enclave, its people proud of their struggle and history.

Many houses had been improved, and others were in the process of being renovated. There were a couple of homes being built from the foundation up, but the new structures looked to be as modest as the teardowns they were replacing. If folks wanted to flash, they went elsewhere. Many, even those who had markedly improved their standard of living, had chosen to stay in Heathrow Heights.

Rodney Draper, the Monroe brothers’ old friend, was one of those who had never left. Rodney still lived in his late mother’s house, though no longer in its basement. He had a wife and three daughters, one of whom was attending college. Rodney had gone into stereo sales, then major appliances, and had worked his way up in a small operation that became a ten-store chain in the 1990s. He was now the merchandising manager for the company, worked the sixty-hour weeks common to retail, and made a solid if unspectacular living. Raymond passed his house, expanded, well tended, and bright with a fresh coat of white paint. Rodney’s car was not out front. He always seemed to be at work.

Monroe parked in front of his mother’s house, not far from Rodney’s on the street parallel to Heathrow’s main road. This street, too, concluded in a dead end. Dogs, even those who knew his smell, barked at Monroe from the yards of the surrounding houses as he crossed his lawn.

His mother, Almeda, sat in the den of their two-bedroom home. Monroe took her cool arthritic hands in his, bent forward, and kissed her cheek.

“Mama.”

“Ray.” Almeda’s eyes went to the overnight bag he clutched in his hand.

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