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On a hot summer afternoon in 1972, three teenagers drove into an unfamiliar neighborhood and six lives were altered forever.
Thirty five years later, one survivor of that day reaches out to another, opening a door that could lead to salvation. But another survivor is now out of prison, looking for reparation in any form he can find it.
THE TURNAROUND takes us on a journey from the rock-and-soul streets of the '70s to the changing neighborhoods of D.C. today, from the diners and auto garages of the city to the inside of Walter Reed Army Medical Hospital, where wounded men and women have returned to the world in a time of war. A novel of fathers and sons, wives and husbands, loss, victory and violent redemption, THE TURNAROUND is another compelling, highly charged novel from George Pelecanos, "the best crime novelist in America." -Oregonian
“Which boy?” she said. “The one Charles Baker hurt.” Almeda folded her hands in her lap. “How did you find him?” “I ran into him at Walter Reed. Alex Pappas. I recognized his name and put it together with his face.” Almeda nodded. “And how has life turned out for him?” “He was at the hospital delivering food. He lost a son in Iraq.” “Awful,” she said. “He owns a diner downtown. He carries the scar Charles gave him, but other than that, I don’t know much about him. I didn’t stay with him
fuck it up. ’Cause I am no good at that detail work. Truth is, I don’t know a thing about movin weed. But I do know human nature.” “What you gettin at?” “First time I got a look at your friend Dominique, I saw a straight bitch. I got some experience in identifying those motherfuckers real quick.” No doubt, thought Deon. “I’m sayin, you put me in a room with little Dominique? I’m gonna negotiate a better deal for y’all real quick. Get those profit margins up. That’s the role I’d play for
Baker. “We could get some of it. It’s due us, understand? I’m gonna be generous and give you a piece of it for coming along. Not half or nothing like that, but somethin. After that, I’m gonna put my finger on the other one. Just go ahead and do him the same way. You know they got to be carrying guilt. In the newspaper, Mr. Whitten was braggin on how he’s a great friend to the Negro. Well, I’m gonna give him an opportunity to show it. If he doesn’t, he got to know, I’m gonna burn his reputation
that you’ve had a hard life.” “You looked into my life, huh.” “My associate Mr. Coates did. Mr. Coates is a private detective my firm uses in various capacities. He’s sitting right behind you. He’s the fellow wearing the black leather jacket, at the bar.” Baker did not turn his head. He knew who the man was. “You’re on parole right now, Mr. Baker. Do you know how severely you’d be violated for attempting to commit extortion and blackmail? I have all the ammunition to put you on the road back
delivery guys who dribbled in, a kinship there because all of them had grown fond of that time between night and dawn. It was a diner, not a coffee shop, but coffee shop sounded better, “more high-class,” Calliope said. Around the family, John just called the store the magazi. It sat on N Street, below Dupont Circle, just in from Connecticut Avenue, at the entrance to an alley. Inside were a dozen stools spaced around a horseshoe-shaped Formica-topped counter, and a couple of four-top booths