On the street, Lucas parked the Enclave behind Dupree’s truck, a Redskins-burgundy F-150 with a ’Skins headdress decal centered in the rear window. Two spots down, a similar half-ton truck sat parked with the Cowboys star decal on its bumper. Lucas had a sick feeling in his stomach whenever he saw the Star. He rooted for two teams: the Washington Redskins and whoever was playing the Dallas Cowboys.
A second door had been added to the row house when its owner had sectioned off the rental unit. Lucas, bag in hand, went through it when Dupree answered his knock, a chocolate-colored dog that was almost a Lab by his side. Dupree was wearing a Robert Griffin III jersey and black Nike shorts. Before his war injury, he’d been quick and athletic. He was still big enough to play on Sundays.
“Nice-looking dog,” said Lucas.
“He got named Flash when he was a puppy,” said Dupree. “But he’s got too much ass on him to live up to it.”
“Looks like he’s carrying a little pit. His head’s too squared off for full Lab.”
“He couldn’t hurt anybody.”
“He would if they fucked with you.” Lucas saw the way the dog was looking up at Dupree, listening to his voice with full devotion.
“This boy’s gentle. Some lucky veteran’s gonna get him soon. Come on in and sit.”
They moved into a living room crowded with overstuffed furniture, passed down from Dupree’s mother, a woman who’d recently died of complications related to her weight and diabetes. Dupree had grown up nearby, off Kennedy Street, in a time when drug-dealing and gangs were prevalent, in a neighborhood where some of his peers had been killed or shipped off to out-of-state prisons. Dupree’s mother was a single parent to him and his brothers, with strength tempered by a strong belief in the Lord, and all of her boys had somehow managed to avoid the lure of the streets. Dupree had gone to DeMatha, the storied Catholic high school in Hyattsville, and had played safety for Coach Bill McGregor on the football squad. His brothers, who had gone on to professional careers, were DeMatha grads as well. Winston had Division I scholarship offers but, like Lucas, had elected to join the Marine Corps after September 11. Neither of them had enrolled in college after their tours. In this, in their love of the ’Skins, and in their shared combat experience overseas, they had bonded.
They sat on a couch, Flash lying at Dupree’s feet, as Lucas explained the Grace Kinkaid job. He told Dupree what he had in mind for taking the task to the next level, and made him a monetary offer. When Lucas was done, Dupree took off his wire-rim glasses, fogged the lenses with his breath, and wiped them clean with his jersey.
“You sure about this?” said Dupree.
“The biggest risk is in taking him off the street. We do that without getting burned, we’ll be all right.”
“You got a place to take him?”
“We’re set. I’ve got a one-day rental.”
“That’s all well and good. But what you’re fixin to do to this man is...”
“A little extreme,” said Lucas. “You in?”
Dupree nodded. “I got nothing else goin on.”
“You’re gonna need to change out of that RG-Three jersey.”
“I wouldn’t want to soil it.” Dupree nodded at the nylon bag Lucas had set on the coffee table. “What you got in there?”
Lucas unzipped the bag. Dupree moved a small bolt cutter and a roll of duct tape aside and had a look at the rest of the contents.
“Damn, boy,” said Dupree. “Where’d you get that stuff?”
“Amazon dot com.”
“That piece right there, in that holster? It’s illegal to receive it in D.C.”
“I had it shipped to my mom’s house in Silver Spring.”
Dupree’s teeth bucked as he smiled. “Do I get to be the good guy or the bad guy?”
“We’re both gonna be bad,” said Lucas. “Change into something less conspicuous and let’s get going.”
“I got a ninja suit hanging in my closet.”
“Bring your throwing stars, too.”
They parked the Buick on 22nd, between R and S, near Dupont Circle. There were many cars traveling on the roads but few pedestrians. Lucas was optimistic.
“Okay,” said Lucas. “Go on up to his door and hit the buzzer. I want to make sure he’s in, and I want you to get a look at him.”
“That means he’s gonna get a look at me,” said Dupree.
“So? I’m gonna approach him when he comes out. Not you.”
“What am I supposed to talk to him about when he lets me in?”
Dupree was a big black man wearing jeans and a gray Georgetown T-shirt. Lucas guessed that he wasn’t going to be buzzed in. But he didn’t want to break that to his friend.
“Improvise,” said Lucas. “Ask for directions.”
“All right, then. I’ll be right back.”
From the driver’s seat, Lucas watched Dupree go to the door of the shop and push the buzzer. He watched Dupree mouth something to someone inside, and he watched his face go from hopeful to agitated. No one came to the door, and Dupree returned to the SUV and got into the passenger seat.
“Asshole,” said Dupree.
“Describe him.”
“Thin white dude, short hair, itty-bitty nose, wearing those artist-looking eyeglasses. Had on an expensive suit.”
“That’s Lumley.”
“Man didn’t let me in,” said Dupree, shaking his head. “He mouthed the word closed.”
“He let me in.”
“That’s what I’m sayin.”
“You could write your congressman.”
“I live in D.C., so that doesn’t work for me.” Dupree took off his glasses. “People be hatin all over the world. You remember in Iraq, the hajjis would yell out to us from wherever they were hiding? They’d call us ‘Dirty Stinking Jews.’ Even after they had a look at me, they’d call me a Dirty Jew. Do I look Jewish to you?”
“Sammy Davis Jr. was a Jew.”
“Do I look like Sammy Davis Jr. to you?”
“There was that night in the desert, when you drank all that beer? Your eye did look kind of glassy.”
“Funny.”
“You angry?”
“A little,” said Dupree.
“Good,” said Lucas. He wanted him to be.
They were ready when Lumley stepped out of his store about an hour later and walked down the sidewalk, along the space where the Buick was parked.
“Here we go,” said Lucas, and he got out of the SUV. He waited for Lumley to come along the side of the Buick, then walked around the rear and met him on the sidewalk. A well-dressed elderly gentleman approached from the opposite direction. There was no time to stop this or try again.
Lumley recognized Lucas and stopped. He had little choice; Lucas was blocking his path.
“Charles,” said Lucas. “Remember me?”
Dupree had come out of the passenger side of the Buick. He stepped quickly forward and placed a high-amperage stun gun directly on Lumley’s upper back. He triggered the device and sent 150,000 volts into Lumley’s body. Lumley made a short, high-pitched sound, spasmed, and collapsed, immobile and helpless, into Dupree’s arms. Dupree dragged him backward, opened the back door of the Buick, sat on its seat, and pulled Lumley inside.
The elderly gentleman had come up on them and was staring at the scene. Lucas flipped open his wallet, which showed only his driver’s license, and said, with authority, “Official business, sir. Please move along.” The man complied. Lucas closed the passenger door, went around the Buick, and got behind the wheel of the SUV.
From the nylon bag Dupree had retrieved two sets of double-cuff disposable hand restraints. He had already bound Lumley’s hands and was doing the same to his ankles. He next reached into the bag and brought out a roll of duct tape. He tore off a long strip for Lumley’s mouth.