The Turnaround by George Pelecanos Read Free Book Online

the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. The air drifting out smelled like soapy water, cigarettes, and farts. His father was in there, taking one of his half-hour baths, something he did every night.
    “I’m goin out, Dad,” said Alex through the break in the door. “With Billy and Pete.”
    “The three geniuses. What’re you gonna do?”
    “Knock down old ladies and steal their purses.”
    “You.” Alex didn’t have to look in the bathroom to see the small wave of his father’s hand.
    “I won’t be late,” said Alex, anticipating the next question.
    “Who’s drivin?”
    “Pete’s got his father’s car.”
    “Idiots,” muttered his father, and Alex continued down the hall.
    His mother, Calliope “Callie” Pappas, sat in the kitchen at the oval eating table, talking on the phone while she smoked a Silva Thin Gold 100. Her eyebrows were tweezed into two black strips, her face carefully made up, as always. Her hair had recently been frosted at Vincent et Vincent. She wore a shift from Lord and Taylor and thick-heeled sandals. Second generation, she cared about fashion and movie stars, and was less Greek than her husband. Their house was always clean, and a hot dinner was always served promptly. John Pappas was the workhorse; Callie kept the stable clean.
    “Goin out, Ma,” said Alex.
    She put her hand over the speaker of the phone and tapped ash into a tray. “To do what?”
    “Nothin,” said Alex.
    “Who’s driving?”
    “Pete.”
    “Don’t drink beer,” she said, as a horn honked from outside. She gave him an air kiss, and he headed for the door.
    Alex left the house, a small brick affair with white shutters on a street of houses that looked just like it.
    BILLY AND Pete had bought a couple of sixes of Schlitz up at Country Boy in Wheaton. They held open cans between their legs as Alex got into the backseat of the Olds. Billy reached into the bag at his feet and handed a can of beer to Alex.
    “We’re way ahead of you, Pappas,” said Pete, lean, blond, agile, and tall, a Protestant white boy among ethnics in the mostly working-to-middle-class area of southeastern Montgomery County. His father was a lawyer. The fathers of his friends worked service and retail jobs. Many of them were World War II veterans. Their sons would grow up in a futile, unspoken attempt to be as tough as their old men.
    “Drink up, bitch,” said Billy, broad of shoulder and chest. He carried a shadow of a beard, though he was only seventeen years old.
    Billy and Pete usually swung by Alex’s last, so they could commandeer the front seat. It was understood that Alex was not the lead dog in this particular pack. He was somewhat smaller than they were, less physically aggressive, and often the butt of their jokes. They were not cruel to him, exactly, but they were often condescending. Alex accepted the arrangement, as it had been this way since junior high.
    Alex pulled the ring on the Schlitz and dropped it into the hole in the top of the can. He drank the beer, still cold from the coolers of the store they called Country Kill.
    “You guys got any reefer?” said Alex.
    “Bone dry,” said Pete.
    “We’re gettin some tomorrow morning,” said Billy. “You in?”
    “How much?”
    “Forty for an OZ.”
    “ Forty? ”
    “It’s Lumbo, man,” said Pete. “My guy says it’s prime.”
    “Not like that Mexican ragweed you buy from Ronnie Leibowitz.”
    “Hebe-owitz,” said Billy, and Pete laughed.
    “I’m in,” said Alex. “But, look, pull over soon as you get off my street.”
    Pete curbed the Olds and let it idle. Alex produced a film canister that held a thimble-sized portion of pot. “I found this in my drawer. It’s a little stale . . .”
    “Gimme that shit,” said Billy, who took the canister, looked into it, and shook it. “We can’t even roll a J with this.”
    Pete pushed the lighter in on the dash. When it popped back out, he pulled it and Billy immediately dumped the small amount of