Read Online The Cut (Spero Lucas) by George P. Pelecanos - Free Book Online
Authors: George P. Pelecanos
Tags: FIC022000
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he had real information related to the theft. At any rate, Lucas knew where this Lindsay kid lived and where he went to school. He would be easy to find.
SIX
T HE NEXT night, Lucas was buzzed through the camera-monitored security entrance of the American Legion, Cissel-Saxon Post 41, on Fenton Street in Silver Spring. Fifteen minutes later, he sat on a stool beside an army veteran named Bobby Waldron, not long back from Afghanistan. Waldron was stocky, muscled up, heavily inked, kept a military haircut, and had close-set eyes. He lived with his parents in Rockville and worked occasionally as a uniformed security guard. He’d been treading water since his return to the States.
Beers in brown bottles sat on the bar in front of Lucas and Waldron.
“So this guy, the manager of the appliance store,” said Waldron, “he decides to give me my instructions. They were about to have a tent sale on Saturday and they needed someone to guard the merchandise they had brought outside on Friday. My orders were to be on the premises overnight. I guess my boss had told him I was a vet, ’cause this dude wastrying to speak his idea of my language.
Secure the perimeter. Hold your position
, shit like that.”
“You see much action that night?”
“Tons. Those appliance thieves were crawling across the parking lot on their bellies once the sun went down. Had Ka-Bars clenched between their teeth.”
“How could you see them if it was dark?”
“I was wearing my night vision goggles.”
“I saw those in Call of Duty. They’re cool as shit.”
“I know.”
The room was large, dimly lit, and had no decorations to speak of. It looked more like a rec center than it did a saloon. Unless there was a special event, the bar stayed sparsely populated and was usually patronized by men. One didn’t have to be a combat veteran to be an American Legion member. If a person served in the military, they were eligible. Sons, daughters, and spouses of vets were also welcome. Of those who had served in theaters of war, Middle East, Vietnam, and a few Korean veterans were the main customers. Once in a while a WWII man would shuffle in, often accompanied by a relative or a walker. If a woman entered, the drinkers were momentarily filled with hope, even if she was plain or unattractive. If the woman was under thirty, tongues scrolled out of the drinkers’ mouths like those of cartoon dogs.
Guys constantly went in and out the side door, which led to a fenced yard with a barbecue grill and patio. Out there they could smoke.
The beer was very cheap. People came here to drink at 1960s prices, but also to be among their own. The post wasa place of comfort if you wanted to be around people who understood. Some, like Bobby Waldron, only felt right in this atmosphere. One young Texan, an Iraq veteran, showed up twice a month, driving all the way from Brownsville. He said this was his favorite post. Lucas came here occasionally, and to the VFW Post 350 at Orchard and Fourth in Takoma Park, to meet friends. Today he was waiting on Marquis.
Waldron was in Lucas’s ear about his girlfriend, who worked out at the Kohl’s off Route 29.
“Ashley’s her name,” said Waldron.
“Yeah?” said Lucas. He knew it would be Ashley or Britney. He sipped at his beer.
“Nuthin upstairs,” said Waldron, himself at the bottom of the bell curve. “But down below?
God
.”
Thankfully, Marquis Rollins soon arrived. As he came into the room, a sort of half-assed salute was issued by a couple of the guys at the bar. Rollins was tall and, if not exactly handsome, always well groomed. He was wearing a matching outfit, silk shirt and pants, earth-tone print, looked like expensive pajamas to Lucas, with New Balance running shoes. His left pants leg had little inside it. There was a plastic knee and a titanium shin pole, fitted to one of the sneakers, beneath the fabric. Marquis walked stiffly but more proficiently than many amputees. He said hello to Waldron and
SIX
T HE NEXT night, Lucas was buzzed through the camera-monitored security entrance of the American Legion, Cissel-Saxon Post 41, on Fenton Street in Silver Spring. Fifteen minutes later, he sat on a stool beside an army veteran named Bobby Waldron, not long back from Afghanistan. Waldron was stocky, muscled up, heavily inked, kept a military haircut, and had close-set eyes. He lived with his parents in Rockville and worked occasionally as a uniformed security guard. He’d been treading water since his return to the States.
Beers in brown bottles sat on the bar in front of Lucas and Waldron.
“So this guy, the manager of the appliance store,” said Waldron, “he decides to give me my instructions. They were about to have a tent sale on Saturday and they needed someone to guard the merchandise they had brought outside on Friday. My orders were to be on the premises overnight. I guess my boss had told him I was a vet, ’cause this dude wastrying to speak his idea of my language.
Secure the perimeter. Hold your position
, shit like that.”
“You see much action that night?”
“Tons. Those appliance thieves were crawling across the parking lot on their bellies once the sun went down. Had Ka-Bars clenched between their teeth.”
“How could you see them if it was dark?”
“I was wearing my night vision goggles.”
“I saw those in Call of Duty. They’re cool as shit.”
“I know.”
The room was large, dimly lit, and had no decorations to speak of. It looked more like a rec center than it did a saloon. Unless there was a special event, the bar stayed sparsely populated and was usually patronized by men. One didn’t have to be a combat veteran to be an American Legion member. If a person served in the military, they were eligible. Sons, daughters, and spouses of vets were also welcome. Of those who had served in theaters of war, Middle East, Vietnam, and a few Korean veterans were the main customers. Once in a while a WWII man would shuffle in, often accompanied by a relative or a walker. If a woman entered, the drinkers were momentarily filled with hope, even if she was plain or unattractive. If the woman was under thirty, tongues scrolled out of the drinkers’ mouths like those of cartoon dogs.
Guys constantly went in and out the side door, which led to a fenced yard with a barbecue grill and patio. Out there they could smoke.
The beer was very cheap. People came here to drink at 1960s prices, but also to be among their own. The post wasa place of comfort if you wanted to be around people who understood. Some, like Bobby Waldron, only felt right in this atmosphere. One young Texan, an Iraq veteran, showed up twice a month, driving all the way from Brownsville. He said this was his favorite post. Lucas came here occasionally, and to the VFW Post 350 at Orchard and Fourth in Takoma Park, to meet friends. Today he was waiting on Marquis.
Waldron was in Lucas’s ear about his girlfriend, who worked out at the Kohl’s off Route 29.
“Ashley’s her name,” said Waldron.
“Yeah?” said Lucas. He knew it would be Ashley or Britney. He sipped at his beer.
“Nuthin upstairs,” said Waldron, himself at the bottom of the bell curve. “But down below?
God
.”
Thankfully, Marquis Rollins soon arrived. As he came into the room, a sort of half-assed salute was issued by a couple of the guys at the bar. Rollins was tall and, if not exactly handsome, always well groomed. He was wearing a matching outfit, silk shirt and pants, earth-tone print, looked like expensive pajamas to Lucas, with New Balance running shoes. His left pants leg had little inside it. There was a plastic knee and a titanium shin pole, fitted to one of the sneakers, beneath the fabric. Marquis walked stiffly but more proficiently than many amputees. He said hello to Waldron and
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