The Cut (Spero Lucas) by George P. Pelecanos Page B

him an O line. He had heart.”
    “No doubt.”
    “I like McNabb, too. But this move wasn’t about upgrading the position. It was about sellin jerseys and merchandise. I won’t even go out to that stadium and put money in that owner’s pocket. I’m a fan for life, but until we get a new owner I’ll just watch the games on TV.”
    “I heard that,” said Lucas. In fact, he heard a similar version of that sentiment in D.C. damn near every day.
    “Good lookin out, young fella.”
    “You, too.”
    The man walked away. Lucas heard him singing the same song as he neared the Clifton Street cross.
    LUCAS ATE his sub, a BMT, and washed it down with water. Time passed and he felt the need to pee. He reached into the back of the Jeep and retrieved an empty half-gallon plastic jug he kept there when he was doing surveillance. He urinated into the jug, capped it, and placed it on the floor of the backseat.
    Minutes later, an MPD squad car turned onto 12th and cruised slowly by Lucas. Lucas did not stiffen, nor did he eye the officer behind the wheel of the car beyond taking mental note of the driver’s race (black), general age (on the young side), and gender (male). Lucas was not breaking any law, but he was not looking for any unnecessary confrontation. The car, affixed with 4D stickers, kept on going, and at the end of 12th the driver turned right on Euclid. Something flickered faintly in Lucas’s mind as the car disappeared from view.
    The street settled back to quiet. The sun moved west.
    TEENAGE KIDS began to appear later in the afternoon. Those who had been visited by a guest speaker that day wore street clothes, as they were allowed to do, but most wore white or purple polo shirts with khakis, the school’s uniform. Though there were many white residents in this neighborhood now, the kids coming from the schools were African American, African immigrant, and Hispanic, with a few Vietnamese and Chinese in the mix. The air was filled with their conversations: loud, boisterous, and laced with profanity. Even as they moved in groups of two or three, they occasionally stared at the phones in their hands and texted as they walked.
    A young man walked alone down 12th. Lucas studied him in the side-view: sixteen, seventeen, on the tall side, very thin, dark skin, and braids that touched his shoulders. He was wearing purple over khaki. His lips were moving. He was talking to himself.
    Lucas watched him turn up the steps of a house on the odd-numbered, west side of the street, the row house that was left-connected to the house of Lisa Weitzman, where the package had disappeared. Lucas checked his notebook quickly and stepped out of his Jeep. He jogged across the street asthe young man neared his porch.
    “Hey, Lindsay,” said Lucas, using the last name of the home’s owner, a woman named Karen Lindsay.
    The young man stopped and turned. “Yeah?”
    “You got a minute?”
    The boy studied Lucas—his age, his build, his utilitarian clothing—and then he looked down the block toward his high school. Lucas’s eyes naturally followed. Back on Clifton there remained many students, hanging out in groups, walking slowly; uniformed police officers standing on the sidewalk, verbally moving the students along; an occupied squad car parked nose-east on the street.
    “I just have a quick question for you,” said Lucas, turning his attention back to the Lindsay boy.
    “No,” said Lindsay, moving quickly again, going up the steps.
    “Hold up,” said Lucas.
    “No!”
shouted Lindsay, turning the key to his front door and disappearing inside his house.
    Lucas walked back to his Jeep. He had enough experience to know that his time spent on 12th Street had not been wasted. He always learned something, even if that nugget of knowledge was not readily apparent. It was possible that the Lindsay boy distrusted anyone who looked like police, or didn’t want to be seen by his peers talking to an authority figure. It was also possible that