The base of the toilet was coated in hair. As he mopped at it with a paper towel, Washington tried not to think about where the hair came from. Not like they had a cat.
"What next?" Ronald leaned in the doorway, the motion popping muscles that strained the seam of his shirt. "Garage?"
"Leave that be," he said. "They'll park on the street. You could get a couple of the boys to tidy up the office, though."
"What about all your books?"
"My closet?"
Ronald laughed.
"Right." Washington stretched, feeling his back twang and stab. Grimaced, looked around. Gestured to the shower. "Stack them there." So much to do. In fifteen minutes, Alderman Owens and Adam Kent would arrive to discuss whatever was troubling the alderman. Washington had a pretty good idea about the subject, didn't really believe a clean house and a sparkling toilet would make up for it. But you had to try. "Ronald!"
The big man poked his head back around.
"Put a plastic bag down first, hear?" Then he concentrated on scrubbing the damn toilet.
When he was done, he dumped the used paper towels in the bowl and flushed, then put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. The house was abuzz with activity, former gangbangers grudgingly helping him clean. But what Washington saw was fire. Flames dancing like djinn, wrapping sinuous fingers around old wood and ragged stone. And two bodies, blackened and ruined, nothing but teeth and horror.
Stop that, you fool. You don't even know it was Michael, much less the boy. Just because folks saw a body taken out doesn't mean it was your friend.
Who else would it have been, though?
A knock at the door broke the train of his thoughts. He glanced at his watch, winced. Brushed dirt off his knees, then straightened and went for his office. Ronald bumped into him, asked, "That them?"
"We're not ready," Washington said. "So of course it is."
"Want me to get it?"
He nodded, then said, "Wait." He stepped closer, glanced around. "Have you heard anything else?"
"About-"
"Yes."
Ronald shook his head. "Got the word out. I hear anything, I'll let you know."
Washington nodded, forced a smile. Went to his office and sat at the desk. His mother looked at him from the silver frame, that war between smile and frown warping her features. Down the hall, the door opened, and he heard the muffled sound of voices. Took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sought comfort in his Cicero: Rational ability without education has oftener raised man to glory than education without natural ability.
Then he opened his eyes and saw the Beefeater bottle still on the desk. Shit! He grabbed it and yanked open a drawer, hearing footsteps draw closer, the click of dress shoes on tile. He dropped the bottle and was just closing the drawer as the door to his office opened and Alderman Owens strolled in, followed by Adam Kent.
"Fast" Eddie Owens was the sort of trim, sharp-looking black man for whom single-breasted suits were conceived. His shirt was a subtle cream and his shoes shone like still water. Beside him, Adam Kent seemed underdressed in khakis and a light sweater, salt-and-pepper hair neat, nothing in his manner suggesting he could write a six-figure check. Despite their smiles and extended hands, both men looked like judges to Washington. Or maybe executioners.
"Gentlemen," he said, and stood. "Welcome."
They shook hands, and he gestured them to the couch that had once been the crown jewel of his mother's living room. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, hoping one of them would ask for a drink so that he could have one himself. Neither did.
"Good to see you both again." He smiled as blandly as he could, pretending he couldn't hear his pulse. "Any trouble parking?" Kent shook his head, and the alderman played with the zipper of a leather portfolio. Washington tried again, going for hearty this time. "Going to be a heck of a time Friday night, huh?"
His guests looked at each other. Something had changed; the last time they were here, it was all toasts and promises, discussions of how much good they could do together. Now neither seemed sure how to look at him.
They know.
His hands trembled and his heart seemed loud. He had that little-kid sense of being caught. Maybe it was better this way. He was a lousy liar. "Something on your mind, gentlemen?" He leaned back in his chair. "Maybe something about me?"
Owens shot his cuffs, then opened the portfolio. "Actually, there is." He took out a sheet of paper, glanced at it. "It was a surprise, let me tell you." He set the paper down on the coffee table. "You know what this is?"
Washington couldn't see the details, but he could make out enough. His chest tightened as he nodded.
"So it's true."
"Yes," he said. "It's true."
"You spent twelve years in prison." Lawyerly, confirming the facts.
Washington nodded. "Most of it in Danville. July 19, 1979, to May 12, 1991. Missed the whole eighties."
"For murder."
They'd pled for manslaughter, but no point quibbling. "That's right." He leaned back, lips set hard. Trying to ignore his mother staring at him from the desk. Trying to forget the plans he'd had, the good that half a million dollars could have done.
A long moment stretched. Then Kent bent forward on the couch, his expression earnest and curious. "Jesus, Washington. Why didn't you tell us that?"
Now it would come. The lecture, and the disappointment. There was no point in explaining. It didn't matter how many books he read or boys he helped. He'd learned the same hard lesson as every other felon – once people knew that much, they didn't want to learn anything else.
Then he heard Cicero in his head again, talking about how it was ability that raised men to glory, not paltry circumstances like education or whether they'd been to prison. Better to try.
He sat up, put his hands on his knees. "I didn't tell you because that wasn't me."
The alderman started. "Wait a minute, you just-"
Washington waved his hands. "I'm talking about who I am. The man I am, not the stupid boy thirty years ago. That boy, he was damaged. He was confused and he was dangerous and he was high most of the time." He sighed. "That boy died in prison.
"Before I went in, banging was my life. That was my whole purpose. Didn't know anything else. No bigger world. In the ghetto, life is counted in dog years."
The alderman straightened. "Dr. Matthews-"
"You know damn well I'm no doctor," Washington interjected. "I let the boys call me that because it's a title they understand for a man with some education, even self-education, and it's a title they don't know many black men that have. But it doesn't mean the same thing when you say it."
"Mr. Matthews, then. It's not that we don't sympathize with your upbringing. I grew up on the South Side, too."
"Sure." Washington snorted. "Bronzeville, right?"
Owens gave him a cool glare. "Still not Lincoln Park. I had my share of troubles. But just because you came from an underprivileged neighborhood-"
"See, right there, that's part of the problem. You aren't even using the right language. An 'underprivileged neighborhood' you can ignore. A ghetto you have to do something about. This here, this is the ghet-to." Washington turned from the alderman to look at Adam Kent. The man held his gaze, though it was hard to read anything in his eyes. But at least he hadn't walked away. "When you came to me, you said that you had pulled yourself up from nothing. That you wanted to make it easier for others to do the same. You said you needed someone who knew the way the street really worked." He shrugged. "What did you expect?"
Kent nodded barely. "I suppose that's fair." He folded his hands on his knees. "Still, you have to understand. This is half a million dollars we're talking about."
"I do understand." Washington fought the urge to use his preacher voice. "That money can buy food, education, and support for the boys in this neighborhood. It can give these kids something. Teach them that the world is bigger than Crenwood. I had to go to prison to learn that."
Kent chewed on his lip. "Tell me about it."
"What? Prison?"
"Why you went."
A roar, and a hot punch against his hand. Blood spatter like a red mist.
"I killed a boy." He felt stiff, his eyes far away. "I didn't mean to, but I did. Wasn't even an enemy of mine. Just somebody's little brother, got in the way."
"It was an accident?"
"I was in a gang, I carried a gun." Washington shrugged, his shoulders heavy. "Accident isn't the right word."
"What happened?"
The boy with the cauliflower ear spinning, slow, a last pirouette. Falling. A pause while the whole world drew a breath.
"It… doesn't matter."
"It might."
Washington sighed, shook his head to clear visions of that long ago day. "You know what happened? I picked up the gun. Ten years old, I swore myself to the Blackstone Ranger Nation, and I picked up the gun. Once you do that, life is just a clock ticking away. And before I put the gun down, I killed a boy and cost myself twelve years." The room felt claustrophobic, and he fought the urge to stand. "The specifics don't matter. What I did, it's done. It was real. I can't take it back. There's only two things I can do. I can promise never to pick up the gun again, not for anything. And I can help other boys put it down. Which is what I've done for fourteen years. It's why I came back." He stopped to gather his thoughts, realized he'd said all he had to say. "So it's up to you, Mr. Kent, and you, Alderman Owens. You're both good men. You make the decision."
For a long moment, the two of them stared. Washington sat straight, kept his eyes level, fought to the urge to beg, to say again how much good the money could do, how his boys were counting on it, knowing that anything he said now would be a waste.
Then the alderman looked at Kent, and raised an eyebrows. Kent shrugged. "Well, I guess if you're running a long con, it's the longest one in history." He smiled, then laughed. "Maybe I'm crazy, but I'm still going to give you the money."
Washington only realized his mouth was hanging open when he tried to speak. "Thank you."
"Two conditions." Kent counted them on his fingers. "First, I get veto power on expenditures over, say, a grand. Second, I want to be on the board of directors."
"The veto's no problem. But we don't have a board of directors."
Kent opened his briefcase and removed a ledger. Scribbled with a silver pen. "You do now." He tore off the check and handed it to Washington with a smile. "I made my money because I educated myself on every aspect of the business, and then went and fought for what I wanted. And I don't see why this should be any different. Because you're right. This isn't an underprivileged neighborhood, is it?"
Washington stared at the check. A five, followed by five zeroes. Jesus wept. Five zeroes. Half a million dollars. More money than he'd make in fifteen years at the library. Something bloomed in Washington's chest. "No sir." All these years, all the evil he'd seen, and people still could manage to surprise him with the good. "It's not."
They chatted for a few more minutes, details for the party on Friday night, logistics. The check lay on the table right beside the sheet with his prison record. After a few minutes, Kent looked at his watch, and Washington walked them to the door.
"Mr. Matthews," the alderman said, "so you know, this wasn't personal. I wasn't looking for that information, and it, well, it took me by surprise when I found it." Owens hesitated. "I'm very glad of what you're doing. No hard feelings, I hope?"
Washington supposed maybe he should be angry with the man, but couldn't find it in himself. "No hard feelings." Some debts weren't paid in money, and some were never truly paid at all. The boy with the cauliflower ear would walk with him for the rest of his life. And when he died, he expected to find the boy waiting.
Couldn't blame him, either.
He stood at the door and watched the men walk to a Lincoln Towncar, handmade Italian dress shoes crunching broken glass on the sidewalk. After they pulled away, he walked back to his den, dropped in his tired chair. Feeling worn but good. The war he fought had no end, and he knew he was on the losing side. He'd known that going in, but it was never easy to fight when victory was impossible.
But at least every now and then he won a battle.