"Okay. Stay warm."

Karras left Walters on the dock. Karras worried about his being down here, drunk and alone, for an entire week. But he figured that Bernie was in his element. Bernie would be okay.

Marcus Clay had moved from Mount Pleasant to the Crestwood area of D.C. when a chain had come to town and bought out Real Right Records, his four-store operation, back in 1986. Clay had taken the windfall and moved his family uptown to this quietly affluent neighborhood situated between 16th Street and Rock Creek Park. It was a long way from his childhood apartment off 13th and Upshur. Only his closest friends knew just how far he'd come.

Karras parked on Blagden Terrace, a few houses down from Clay's modest split-level. He walked to the house and was met by Clay at the front door.

"Hey, buddy," said Clay. "Knew it was you. Heard the m.u.f.fler rattlin' on that three twenty-five of yours."

"I wouldn't have missed it. How long we been knowing each other?"

"d.a.m.n near forty years."

"Happy birthday, man. And it is a good day. Gotta understand, though, it's a little bittersweet for me, seeing you turn fifty years old. It's weird to see a friend age right before your eyes -"

"Uh-huh. Well, you can just wipe away those sympathy tears. 'Cause you're right behind me, man. So don't be talkin' about that fifty stuff like it's just me."

Karras laughed. They hugged and patted each other's backs.

"Come on in," said Clay.

Karras entered the party. "We People Who Are Darker than Blue," from Curtis, Curtis, was on the stereo. Karras might have predicted it - Clay was the ultimate Mayfield freak. was on the stereo. Karras might have predicted it - Clay was the ultimate Mayfield freak.

Elaine Clay came over and embraced him. "Hey, Dimitri."

"Hey, beautiful."

Marcus Jr. walked by and double-bucked Karras's hand. M. J. was already tall and strong like his old man, with his mother's intelligent eyes.

Karras grabbed a beer. He talked with Clarence Tate and his daughter, Denice, now at Howard Law. Tate's face glowed unashamedly with pride for Denice. Karras hugged them both and drifted. The music had gone from Mayfield to Innervisions Innervisions-era Wonder, and now to Michael Henderson's Solid Solid. Karras saw a woman he'd known from the late seventies, and she asked him to dance. They slow-dragged to Henderson's "Be My Girl." Motor-Booty Affair Motor-Booty Affair got played after that, and they stayed on the floor. He noticed George Dozier, a retired cop and friend of Marcus's, dancing beside him with his wife. Karras broke a sweat, and after the dance took off his sweater, revealing an old Hawaiian shirt underneath. He ran into Al Adamson, tough as ever, who pointed at Karras's shirt and laughed. Karras went and got another beer. In the kitchen he talked with Kevin Murphy and his quiet wife, Wanda, both of them gone gray. Murphy's shirt was pinned up where his arm was missing; Karras patted him on the shoulder before walking away. Then someone dimmed the lights, and the party partnered up and slow-danced to "That's the Way of the World." Karras stood alone, quietly sipping his beer, the EWF tune reminding him of hope, and how it had once been in this city that was his home. But he wasn't sad. He was with his friends. He hadn't felt this good in a long while. got played after that, and they stayed on the floor. He noticed George Dozier, a retired cop and friend of Marcus's, dancing beside him with his wife. Karras broke a sweat, and after the dance took off his sweater, revealing an old Hawaiian shirt underneath. He ran into Al Adamson, tough as ever, who pointed at Karras's shirt and laughed. Karras went and got another beer. In the kitchen he talked with Kevin Murphy and his quiet wife, Wanda, both of them gone gray. Murphy's shirt was pinned up where his arm was missing; Karras patted him on the shoulder before walking away. Then someone dimmed the lights, and the party partnered up and slow-danced to "That's the Way of the World." Karras stood alone, quietly sipping his beer, the EWF tune reminding him of hope, and how it had once been in this city that was his home. But he wasn't sad. He was with his friends. He hadn't felt this good in a long while.

Clay, dancing with Elaine, his chin resting on her shoulder, winked at Karras from across the room. Karras raised his beer and smiled.

TWENTY-THREE.

ON THE OPPOSITE sh.o.r.eline, the sun fell behind the forest of pine, and dusk settled on the creek. Bernie Walters had another beer, watching the clouds reflected on the water. The creek was calm and smooth this time of day. Looking at the creek like this, with the clouds painted on its flat surface, it was like he was looking down on the sky. sh.o.r.eline, the sun fell behind the forest of pine, and dusk settled on the creek. Bernie Walters had another beer, watching the clouds reflected on the water. The creek was calm and smooth this time of day. Looking at the creek like this, with the clouds painted on its flat surface, it was like he was looking down on the sky. If you looked at it long enough, If you looked at it long enough, thought Walters, thought Walters, you'd come to believe that you could jump off the dock and never hit water. If you jumped you would just fall out, into the sky you'd come to believe that you could jump off the dock and never hit water. If you jumped you would just fall out, into the sky.

"Jeez," said Walters, looking at the beer can in his hand, "I better slow down." He set the beer on the dock, rested his hands on his belly, and leaned his head back against the chair.

He woke in darkness. The clouds had cleared, revealing a ceiling of bright stars and a bright half-moon in the black sky. The air was cool but not bitter. It would be another mild winter night. He'd sleep right out here on the dock; it would be nice.

Walters reached into the cooler for a beer and lit a cigarette. It was too late to think about cooking supper. Walters decided he would just drink.

He drank another beer, and then he was out of beer and got up from his chair. The dock seemed to move beneath his feet. He peed off the side of the dock and tottered up to his pickup, parked beside the trailer. He grabbed a six-pack from the bed and a fresh pack of smokes off the dash of his truck, and his sleeping bag from the back of the cab. He stumbled and fell to one knee on the way back down to the dock. He gathered the things he had dropped and squinted, looking toward the water. The dock was clearly defined in the moonlight. Soon he was on the dock and back in his chair.

He cracked a beer and lit a cigarette. Looking out across the water he thought of his wife and son, and he began to cry. He wiped tears off his cheeks and beer from his chin. The tobacco burned down to his fingers, and he flipped the b.u.t.t into the creek. He sat in the stillness of the night, listening to the quiet run of water beneath the dock and around its pilings. He killed his beer and decided to call it a night.

Walters spread his sleeping bag between his chair, his cooler, and his fishing rods and the edge of the dock. He was too drunk to move everything back now. He would be all right.

He removed his Orioles cap, set it on the dock, got into the bag, and zipped it to his neck. He lay on his back, folded his arms across his chest, and looked at the stars, the last wisps of clouds, the moon. His eyes grew heavy and he fell to sleep.

He dreamed that he was falling.

He opened his eyes, and he was falling. The black water rushed up to meet him.

The cold water shocked him. He was numb at once, and his head went under as he tried to free his arms from the bag. He freed one arm and kicked furiously at the bag. Now his head was out of the water, and he used his free hand to try and unzip the bag, but his hand was like a club. He kicked at the bag, moving himself away from the dock. The bag and his clothes were heavy and he was going down again and he kicked.

"Aaaah!" yelled Walters. "G.o.d!"

He kicked, and the bag was down around his waist. He went under and came up and kicked and now his legs were free. But his legs were moving very slowly. His clothing weighed him down, and he couldn't seem to move his legs. He treaded water and almost at once he was tired. He saw that he was far from the dock and the pilings around it. His arms ached. He tried to float, but his clothing and boots dragged him down. He let himself drop beneath the water so that he could rest. He fought and broke the surface of the water with a gasp. He could no longer feel his feet. His arms barely moved. He looked at the sh.o.r.eline and knew he could not make it to the dock.

Daddy!

Walters turned his head. He was near the sunken rowboat. He could see the tip of the bow.

He used his shoulders and will to cut the water and move toward the boat. He went under and came up. He choked in air and moved toward the boat again. He shut his eyes against the water that was rising and then he closed his mouth and he was down.

He felt something solid and grabbed it. He pulled himself to the solid thing and hugged it.

I have reached the boat, thought Walters. thought Walters. I'll float myself up now and I'll be at the boat and above the water and I'll hold onto the bow while I get my breath I'll float myself up now and I'll be at the boat and above the water and I'll hold onto the bow while I get my breath.

He tried to push away from the boat, but he was held fast. His down vest or his shirt, something something was snagged on the boat. He panicked and writhed violently, watching the bubbles from a cough of exhale explode around him. Something slid across his neck, and he shook his head in panic and was bitten in the face. was snagged on the boat. He panicked and writhed violently, watching the bubbles from a cough of exhale explode around him. Something slid across his neck, and he shook his head in panic and was bitten in the face.

In his panic, he let out the rest of his breath.

He had no air in his lungs. He was dizzy and his chest burned and he could no longer move his arms or legs.

In the gray water he saw shapes. The silhouettes of a woman and a little boy dog-paddling toward him.

I love you, Vance. I was always proud of you, son.

Bernie Walters relaxed. He opened his mouth and breathed. The creek flowed into his open mouth and flooded his lungs.

It didn't hurt. It was peaceful. His chest didn't burn and he was no longer cold or anything else.

The darkness came like a kiss.

TWENTY-FOUR.

FRANK FARROW LIT a Kool. He leaned forward, dropping the match into a kidney-shaped ashtray set on a cable-spool table in front of the living-room couch. a Kool. He leaned forward, dropping the match into a kidney-shaped ashtray set on a cable-spool table in front of the living-room couch.

Roman Otis stood in front of a rectangular mirror, running a little gel through his long hair, softly singing the Isleys' "For the Love of You." He couldn't quite hit the highs like brother Ronald, but he had it in spirit. That was one nice love song there, too.

Otis smiled, admiring his gold tooth. He patted his hair, turning his head so the gel caught the light. You had to be careful not to put too much of that gel in your hair. He'd seen some brothers in the old days overdose it, goin' for that Rick James look, came out lookin' like glue and s.h.i.t.

"Hey, Frank," said Otis. "You just dye your hair again, man?"

"Some stuff I picked up at the drugstore down in Edwardtown," said Farrow.

"Finally got that shoe polish out, huh?"

"Yeah."

Otis pursed his lips. "Looks good, too."

Farrow glanced at Gus Lavonicus, sitting at an old desk, trying to write a letter to his wife. He had the push end of a pen in his mouth, and his lips were moving as he struggled to compose the words. His legs were spread wide, as he couldn't hope to fit them under the desk, and he was fanning them back and forth. When you got right down to it, thought Farrow, the guy was nothing more than a giant child. Farrow should not have agreed to let Otis bring him along. But he'd never say no to Roman - the two of them went that deep.

"How's that letter to my sister comin', Gus?" said Otis.

"I'm trying to find the right words."

"Tell her she's prettier than a flower," said Otis, "some s.h.i.t like that."

Farrow sipped red wine. He dragged on his Kool. "That what you'd tell her, Roman?"

"If that was my woman? I'd just go ahead and tell her that I planned to split that thing like an ax to an oak."

"You always did know the right thing to say to women," said Farrow.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n right I did."

"I can't say that to Cissy," said Lavonicus in his monotone.

"No," said Otis. "I don't recommend that you do."

Booker Kendricks, Otis's third cousin, came from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hand. He was a small, spidery man with rheumy eyes and rotten teeth, a multiple s.e.x offender with violent attachments who'd finally gone down on a sodomy rape beef. Even Otis knew that his cousin belonged in prison for life. But the system had coughed Booker Kendricks back out onto the street.

"Here you go, Roman," said Kendricks, putting a bottle in front of Otis. He snapped his fingers. "Aw, s.h.i.t, did I forget you, Gus?"

"I don't drink beer anyway," said Lavonicus. "Yeah, you must be in training for that athletic comeback you're gonna make someday."

Lavonicus watched Kendricks as he turned on the living room's television set. Despite the fact that Kendricks was a relative by marriage, Lavonicus didn't care to spend much time around him. Sometimes he got the feeling that Kendricks was putting him on. He didn't like that.

"Here we go," said Kendricks, sitting in an overstuffed armchair. "Got the Bulls and the Knicks."

Otis had a seat on the couch next to Farrow. "You all right, man?"

"Itching to do something," said Farrow. "That's all."

Kendricks watched Larry Johnson sink a jumper, then wink at the bench as he jogged down the court. "Look at L. J., man. The man thinks he's all all that." that."

"Johnson can play," said Lavonicus, who had turned the chair away from the desk to watch the screen.

"Johnson can pa-lay," said Kendricks, mimicking Lavonicus, then slapping his own knee in laughter. "Aw, s.h.i.t, Gus. Say, man, tell me what it was like in that post-ABA career you had. Weren't you on the squad of one of those teams that used to play against the Harlem Globetrotters?"

"The New York Nationals," said Lavonicus softly. "I only did that one season." They'd thrown him off the team after he coldc.o.c.ked one of the Globetrotters who had called him a name.The fans had laughed like crazy; they thought the knockout punch had been in the script.

"Yeah, I remember the green uniforms y'all had. How'd it feel to be ridiculed, having b.a.l.l.s pa.s.sed between your legs, gettin' the pill bounced off your head and s.h.i.t, night after night?"

Lavonicus felt his ears grow hot. He imagined they were red now, the way they got when he let guys like Kendricks get to him like this.

"It was a job," said Lavonicus, and he turned his chair back to the desk.

Farrow stabbed out his cigarette.

Otis leaned back on the couch, closed his eyes, and picked up the Isleys' tune where he had left it in his head. He imagined that he was back in California. Frank had called him, and he'd come, but he didn't much care for the East Coast. His work, it demanded that he move around. Sometimes it seemed like one big circle. Do a job, grab some money, spend the money, do a job... try to stay ahead of the law. Well, what else was he gonna do? He knew the way it would end, too, but it didn't do much good to think on it. This was the life he had made for himself. He had accepted that a long time ago.

"Look at Rodman," said Kendricks, pointing at the screen. "That is one genuine n.i.g.g.e.r right there."

They had all stopped listening to Kendricks. Farrow picked up his beer and went to the front window of the house. He looked out into the absolute darkness.

They were in a small brick rambler in the woods of southern Maryland. Off 301 somewhere and down a couple of two-lane black-tops, near a place called Nanjemoy, that's all Farrow knew. They'd stayed here before the May's job, but Booker Kendricks had been in Lorton then, and they'd been alone. This Kendricks could really get on his nerves. But Kendricks would be all right if anything went down. Farrow knew his history, and his type.

Farrow imagined they could do a job in D.C., and finish their business, in the s.p.a.ce of a week or so. Then they could all get on their way.

Headlights appeared down the long dirt road that cut through the woods to the house. As they approached, Farrow could see that these were the lights of a late-model car.

"Here he comes," said Farrow.

Kendricks pulled a Rossi .22 from underneath the chair. He locked back the trigger without moving his eyes from the screen.

The headlights were killed out in the yard, and then there were footsteps and a knock on the door. Farrow looked through the peephole and unfastened the dead bolt. He pulled the door open and stepped back.

"T. W.," said Farrow.

"Frank," said Thomas Wilson, stepping inside. "Long time."

TWENTY-FIVE.

YOU REMEMBER ROMAN," said Frank Farrow.