Free The Cut (Spero Lucas) by George P. Pelecanos

energy and looked first-snow clean. Lucas felt a little light-headed, looking at her. Goddamn, she was mint.
    “Hi,” she said, settling into the passenger bucket.
    “Hey,” said Lucas. He kissed her mouth. “Hungry?”
    “You know it,” said Constance.
    They drove down to the U Street corridor, where he found a spot on a residential street. Lucas took her into Busboys and Poets, the bookstore and café that was bustling with activity, all sorts of faces and types, the D.C. most folks had wanted for a long time. He bought her a couple of novels:
Lean on Pete
and
The Death of Sweet Mister
.
    “Is there a reason you picked these out?” said Constance as they stood before the register.
    “You mean, am I sending you a message.”
    “Yeah, like when a guy makes a mix tape for a girl.”
    “Good clean writing, is all. I thought you’d like them.”
    He had a table reserved at Marvin on 14th, but they were early, so they went up the stairs to the rooftop bar. It was warm enough to be outside without the heat lamps on, andnot yet summer. The space was crowded for a reason. It had a beach atmosphere and a city vibe. The people were attractive, and that night’s music, seventies soul and funk, was bottom heavy and tight. A snaky trombone solo had come forward, and everyone was moving their feet and hips. They couldn’t help themselves.
    The bar specialized in Belgian ales. Lucas wedged out a spot for him and Constance, ordered her a blonde and a Stella for himself. He left a five on the bar and asked the tender who was on the stereo.
    “Fred Wesley and the Horny Horns. ‘Four Play.’ ”
    “Righteous,” said Lucas.
    “You
know
those people had fun back then.”
    Lucas flashed on images, photos he had seen of his father as a young man, smiling with his friends out in one of the Blackie Auger clubs, his hair longish and curly, stacks on his feet, baggies, an open rayon shirt, a crucifix and
mati
hung on a chain resting on his hairy chest.
    “You here?” said Constance.
    “Just thinking on someone,” said Lucas.
    “Think of me.”
    Lucas felt the vibration of his iPhone buzzing in the front pocket of his jeans. He retrieved it, looked at the screen. Tavon Lynch was calling in. Lucas answered.
    “Hold up, Tavon,” said Lucas. To Constance he said, “I gotta take this, a work thing. I promise, just this one time tonight.”
    “Go ahead.”
    Lucas left the rooftop, walked passed the doorman, took the steps down to the main floor, and went out on14th, where he stood on the sidewalk and resumed his conversation.
    “What is it?” said Lucas.
    “We lost another one,” said Tavon.
    “Another one
what?
”
    “ ’Nother package. Off the porch of a home east of Capitol Hill. More like Lincoln Park.”
    “Where are you?”
    “We’re in Northeast right now.”
    “How much did you lose?”
    “Thirty-pound package, like the last two.”
    “What’s goin on?”
    “Huh?”
    “I’m askin you, what do you think is happening?”
    “I don’t know, Spero. I don’t.”
    “Somebody knows what you guys are doing.”
    “That’s impossible. Only me and Edwin do.”
    A crowd of folks approached, loudly, and Lucas waited for them to pass.
    “Look,” said Lucas, “I’m with a friend right now, about to have dinner. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
    “A’ight.”
    “You guys watch yourselves.”
    “We’re good.”
    “
Listen
to me, Tavon. Don’t go trying to work this shit yourselves. We’re talking about some weight now, and big money. Whoever’s behind this is not going to play.”
    “We got it, Spero. Me and Edwin can handle it.”
    Lucas, exasperated, let it go. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, hear?”
    “Is she pretty?”
    “Who?”
    “Your friend.”
    “Yes.”
    “My man,” said Tavon.
    Lucas ended the call. He stood there on the sidewalk, thinking things over. Something was not quite right.

SEVEN

    T HEY SAT in a deuce near the large mural of a smiling Mr. Gaye. Constance had