This Way Home Page 8

  “Christ,” said Banks. “No cigars. You know where West Ferry is? There’s a smoke shop on the right, past the gas station.”

  Elijah leaned forward to study the street signs. He turned left on West Ferry and drove slowly, not recognizing a thing; it was a part of the city he’d never been to before. Block after block of run-down apartments, and small, independently owned shops instead of the ubiquitous franchises he was used to seeing.

  “You ever been inside a cigar shop?” asked Banks.

  “Nope.”

  “Come on. It’s another place of order and purpose. A place that makes sense.”

  The outside of Carl’s Tobacco wasn’t much to look at: white painted cinder blocks covered by a flat roof. A pot of dead flowers was on the sidewalk next to a cast-iron kettle that was used as an ashtray. The front window was plastered with signs showing exotic names such as Arturo Fuente, Tres Reynas, and Pinar Del Rio. Inside, the walls were lined with shelf upon shelf of red cedar cigar boxes. The smell was terrific, even though Elijah was sure he’d never, under any circumstances, smoke a cigar.

  Banks greeted the man at the counter, who was none other than Carl himself. Carl was almost as fat as he was tall, and was clad in a black-and-white-striped bowling shirt.

  “Banks,” said Carl. “What can I get you?”

  “Macanudos. Maduro.”

  “How many?”

  Banks held up three fingers, and Carl retrieved as many boxes from a glass case.

  “Who’s the kid?” said Carl.

  “My driver,” said Banks.

  “I should have guessed you were famous enough to have a driver.” Carl winked at Elijah and tossed him a pink cigar made of bubble gum. “Anything else?” he said to Banks.

  “Nope. That’ll do her. Onward, driver.”

  FROM WEST FERRY, Elijah followed Banks’s directions through a maze of strip malls until he found the big-box hardware store on Patapsco Avenue. They walked past displays of rakes, shovels, and axes. Elijah finally picked out a wood-handled tamper priced at twenty dollars, and Banks paid with cash, a thick roll of twenties held together with a heavy brass clip. He spoke little, and communicated to the cashier mainly through nods. In the parking lot, he tossed the tamper into the backseat.

  “You want to drive more?”

  “Hell, yes,” said Elijah, before adding, “Sir.”

  But Banks appeared not to hear him. He stared off into the far corner of the parking lot, even though it contained nothing of interest—pallets of roofing shingles covered in white plastic, and a fleet of black steel utility trailers.

  Elijah watched Banks. He didn’t understand what the man was doing, but knew not to interrupt. It wasn’t a lapse of attention, or a daydream; rather it seemed as though he were somewhere else. His ramrod posture sagged under some kind of invisible weight, until, all at once, he snapped out of it and turned toward the Jeep.

  “What are you looking at?” he said. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to stare?”

  “No—I mean, nothing. I’m just waiting.” Elijah kept his hand on the driver’s door, hopeful that he’d get another shot at driving. He didn’t know what Banks’s malfunction was, nor did he especially care. He had problems of his own, and at the moment, all he wanted to do was get back behind the wheel.

  Banks shook his head vigorously. “I’m sorry. I’ve got some things on my mind.”

  “Me too,” said Elijah.

  “No kidding.” Banks looked intently at him. “I thought it was supposed to be all fun and games at your age.”

  “It’s supposed to be,” said Elijah. “Isn’t, though. At least, not right now, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Good.” Banks went back to watching the piles of roofing shingles. “Neither do I.”

  “So where to next?”

  “Hungry?” said Banks.

  “I’m starving,” said Elijah.

  Banks tossed him the keys. “Cheeseburgers. Cherry Hill Road.” He directed Elijah through a series of zigzags around unfamiliar streets, where burned-out buildings and abandoned crack houses proliferated among graffiti-tagged convenience stores advertising lotto tickets and cheap cigarettes. At intersections, homeless people pushed shopping carts filled with empty cans, towering piles that threatened to spill out at any moment.

  Outside the storefronts, young men in ball caps and hoodies glared hard at Elijah. Their looks said, Get out of that Jeep and I’ll mess you up. He was reminded again of the crazy little man from the library who didn’t want any trouble. Me neither, he thought.

  “Up ahead,” said Banks.

  “Up ahead where?” asked Elijah.

  “That little place on the right,” said Banks. “They serve good food. I grew up around here, if you can believe it. It was never a great place, but now…” He shook his head. “Bums and addicts. Half these men are in their twenties. Do you mean to tell me that they can’t work? That, physically, they’re incapable of showing up somewhere on time and doing something useful?”

  “I don’t know.” Elijah parked the Jeep on the street, and they entered a small, aluminum-sided diner with a row of booths against the outer wall. A red Formica counter separated the customers from the kitchen, which consisted of a pair of grills and fryers manned by a slow-moving old man in a paper chef’s hat. Banks and Elijah claimed stools between a pair of surly-looking old-timers wearing caps embroidered with military insignia. They all nodded to Banks, but it was impossible to tell whether they knew each other or were simply being polite.

  “What do you boys want?” said the waitress, a short curvy woman with a name tag that said “Sherita.”

  “Bacon double cheeseburger,” said Banks, “regular fries, and a Coke.”

  Sherita lowered her eyes in Elijah’s direction. “And you, handsome?”

  He turned to Banks. “Are you buying?”

  “Yeah,” said Banks. “You earned a good meal. Knock yourself out.”

  “In that case, I’ll have a cheeseburger, curly fries, a Coke, and a large milk shake. Chocolate, please.”

  “Well, ain’t he polite,” said Sherita. And then, to Banks, “You could try being polite sometime. It wouldn’t hurt you.”

  Banks accepted the teasing with a smile but kept quiet.

  The guy next to Banks nudged him, “How’s retirement, chief?”

  “Like watching paint dry,” said Banks.

  “Oh, it’s not so bad,” said the guy. “What you need to do is get yourself a routine. That’s what I did.”

  Banks made a low grunting noise that the guy took for encouragement.

  “Oh, I go for breakfast at the McDonald’s on Fairmont with a bunch of other guys every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. They give us the senior discount and the veteran’s discount, you know. Then at ten o’clock I go over to the off-track betting on Springville Road. I bet five dollars and watch the horses, and then I go home for a nap. But that’s just the morning part; I got a whole ’nother routine for the afternoon, and a different one for weekends, too.”

  “Huh,” said Banks. “You just talked me into reenlisting.”

  A couple of the other guys laughed, and Sherita slid plates in front of Banks and Elijah, piled high with half-pound burgers and french fries.

  “Here you go, boys,” she said. “Enjoy.”

  Elijah inhaled his food, pausing only to breathe, and then again to tell Sherita how good it tasted.

  Banks ate methodically, with a level of seriousness and precision that one might reserve for filling out tax forms or defusing a bomb. Halfway through, he doused everything with ketchup, mustard, and Tabasco sauce.

  “You don’t like it?” asked Elijah.

  “It’s good. In the army we drown everything like this. Habit.”

  “Do you miss it? Being in the army?” Elijah’s plate was clean. He peeled the paper off his straw and started in on his milk shake.

  “Nah,” said Banks. “But maybe I got used to it. And I was good at it. There were rules for
everything, and if you followed them, you got results. I liked that part.”

  “Predictable,” offered Elijah, hoping to keep the conversation going. He had to admit that, despite Banks’s surliness, he was kind of interesting. After all, what did Elijah know about him, other than the few pieces of information the man had shared? Practically nothing.

  “Civilian life makes no sense—smart phones, metal detectors in schools, six-dollar cups of coffee with soy milk and caramel drizzled on top. And all that hip-hop gang shit.”

  “There are no hip-hop gangs, you know. They’re two separate things, though many gang members do listen to hip-hop.”

  “That right?”

  “It is, although the opposite isn’t always true. Not everyone who listens to hip-hop is in a gang.”

  “I’ll keep all that in mind.” Banks lowered his head and resumed eating.

  Elijah tried to imagine a younger Banks in uniform doing army things. In his mind he saw canvas tents and corrugated metal buildings. And inside one of them sat Banks at a desk, ramrod straight, dark eyes blazing with disapproval.

  When he finished eating, Banks pushed his plate away and laid down a twenty and a ten.

  “You need change, honey?” said Sherita.

  “Keep it.” Banks turned and shook hands with the old-timers.

  “Now, ain’t you the big spender,” said Sherita, head cocked to the side, one hand on her hip.

  “My version of politeness,” said Banks. “Is it acceptable?”

  “Any day of the week, sugar,” said Sherita.

  “SHE LIKED YOU,” said Elijah on their way out the front door.

  “She liked the tip,” said Banks. “Nothing wrong with that, but it’s a different kind of like. Hell, maybe it’s more honest.”

  “She called you sugar. Sugar means she likes you.”

  “Is that so? You know about all sorts of things: hip-hop gangs and waitresses.”

  “That’s right,” said Elijah. “I do, and you’re lucky to have me driving you around and interpreting local culture. You’d be lost otherwise.”

  “You’re probably right,” admitted Banks. “I could have used an interpreter of local culture fifteen years ago; maybe I’d still be married.”

  Elijah noticed a chubby young man in a black-and-gold tracksuit standing a little too close to Banks’s Jeep. He had wedged one of his Timberlands between the tubular running board and the doorframe, giving him enough purchase to lean inside and examine the steering column.

  Another guy stood watch. He was the same height as Banks but had grotesquely veined muscles that bulged out of a red, white, and blue Wizards tank. “Yo.” He raised his hand at chest level. “My man, hold up!”

  Banks regarded him coolly. “What’s up, young blood?”

  “Not much, old man.” Wizards Tank drew his hand back. “This your ride?”

  “Yeah,” said Banks. “What’s it to you?”

  Oh shit, thought Elijah. This isn’t going to end well. His heart began to pound. He looked up and down the street, but there were no cops in sight. Worse, the people on the street seemed to sense trouble; they had disappeared back into their apartments and bodegas.

  The muscle guy opened his arms in an expansive gesture that revealed gang tattoos scribed along his inner biceps. “Me and my associate were doing you a favor, see. Because this is what you might call a high-crime neighborhood, we was—”

  “Get to the point,” said Banks, making a small circle with his finger. He fished keys from his back pocket and, to Elijah’s horror, jingled them in front of the guy like bait.

  “We was protecting your car from thiefs while you and your boy ate dinner.”

  Elijah felt a twinge of something deep inside. You and your boy. He hated how powerful the suggestion of that relationship was to him, and now he had to wait for Banks to correct it. He’s not my boy. Elijah’s nobody’s boy. He doesn’t even know who his father is. But Banks let it pass.

  “How much for your services?” Banks asked.

  The guy seemed taken aback, confused at how unafraid Banks seemed to be. And by how quickly Banks had become the one asking the questions. “Well, ordinarily we charge fitty. But for you…”

  For a second, it looked like Banks was reaching for his wallet. But then his body sprang into motion in a completely unanticipated way. Without so much as a twitch, the inner blade of his hand shot out and drove into the guy’s Adam’s apple. The heavily muscled man dropped to his knees, hands clutching at his throat as his eyes bugged out in surprise.

  Banks knelt down and slipped the guy’s wallet from his front pocket. He fished out a driver’s license and tossed the wallet at the kneeling man’s head. Only then did he stalk toward the driver’s-side door and the guy in the tracksuit.

  “Wait,” said Tracksuit, backing away with his palms up.

  “I’m doing your friend a favor,” said Banks, waving the ID. “Because this is a high-crime neighborhood, I’ll keep this safe until tomorrow, and then he can buy it back from me. What do you think is a fair price, fifty bucks?”

  “I don’t know, mister,” said Tracksuit. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Too late for that, fat boy,” said Banks. “Because I already crushed your friend’s windpipe. Tell me, can you run fast in that fancy suit?”

  “What?” He glanced at his associate, who was still making terrible choking noises. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister.”

  “I want to see your fat ass run. I’ll give you a head start.” Banks looked at his watch and started counting down. “Five. Four.”

  The guy stared, disbelieving.

  Banks looked up from his watch and took a step toward the guy. “Three. Two.”

  Before Banks hit one, Tracksuit turned and bolted, his chubby, velvet-covered arms pumping for speed.

  “Not bad.” Banks tossed the keys to Elijah and pulled himself up and into his Jeep. “Let’s go, driver.”

  ON THE ROAD, Banks fished one of his new Macanudo cigars from one of the boxes he’d purchased from Carl. Inside was a cheap cutter, which he used to trim the end.

  Elijah backtracked through the unfamiliar streets, trying to remember the way. When he couldn’t stand the quiet any longer, he said, “Okay, I’ve got to know. How did you do that?”

  “I punched him in the throat.” Banks puffed his cigar alive. He held it out for inspection (or maybe appreciation) and then put it back into his mouth. “There’s not a whole lot to it.”

  “I know,” said Elijah. “But how did you do that…you know, handle the situation? That was…that was awesome.”

  “It’s the law of inevitables.”

  “The law of what?”

  “The law of inevitables. If the circumstances demand action, then it’s best to act immediately. Without deliberating.”

  “What if…”

  “There’s no what ifs. Remember this, Elijah: if you’re in a bad situation and the only advantage you have is to act quickly, with surprise, then that’s what you’ve got to do. Thinking and weighing the odds just gets in the way.”

  Elijah thought back to his altercation with Bull. He’d known Bull was going to beat his ass. But with the guy in the Mercedes, he couldn’t predict what he was going to say or do. The situation did not demand action—at least, not yet.

  “Can I ask you something?” said Elijah.

  “What.”

  “How did you learn all that? I mean, I thought you said you were an accountant. Accountants don’t beat up giant street thugs.”

  “Army accountants are tougher than the ones at H&R Block.” Banks flashed a rare grin. “Listen, I’m supposed to be taking it easy, if you know what I mean.”

  “Not really.”

  “Physically, I’m supposed to be taking it easy. As in avoiding stress. It’s why I told your mother I could use some help around the house when she first asked me.”

  Elijah nodded, still unclear.

  “So it’s probably best if Kerri
doesn’t know about our little adventure with the world’s dumbest car thieves. All right?”

  “Got it,” said Elijah, already relishing the idea of the secret. “Just a boring dinner with some old retired guys.”

  “Right.” Banks grinned around the stub of his cigar.

  Elijah parked the car in front of Banks’s house but kept the Jeep running. “Can I ask you something? A couple of things, actually.”

  “What?” said Banks.

  “First, I need two days off because I’m playing in a basketball tournament.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “If you know any more things like the law of inevitables, could you teach me?”

  “We’ll see.”

  THAT EVENING, Dylan’s mother drove the boys to the mall in her tiny Honda Civic hatchback. Elijah and Michael rode in the backseat with their knees crushed into their chests. They discussed their strategy for the tournament while Dylan and his mother talked about family business, trying to arrange their next visit to prison to see Dylan’s brother, Marvin.

  At the mall’s front entrance, Elijah and Michael grunted and groaned as they extricated themselves from the backseat. Mrs. Buchanan tried to hand Dylan a twenty-dollar bill. “Buy your friends a pizza.”

  “No thanks, Mom.” Dylan pushed it away and kissed his mother on her cheek. “Save it for gas for the trip. Brothers before pizza. Besides, we’ve got money.”

  “Do you boys need a ride home? I can run some errands and come back.”

  “No thanks, Mrs. Buchanan,” said Elijah. “We’ll catch the bus.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” said Michael.

  Inside, they wandered through the two sporting goods stores, examining shoes, clothes, and sweats, all of which cost far too much.

  “These.” Dylan stopped at a pair of white basketball shorts with orange stripes. “They match the shoes.”

  Elijah flipped the price tag. “Fifty bucks!”

  “Come on, guys,” said Dylan, holding them up for display. “They’re perfect.”