Excerpt from The Turnaround by George Pelecanos, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

There was no kitchen "in the back." The grill, the sandwich board, the refrigerated dessert case, the ice cream cooler, the soda bar, and the coffee urns, even the dishwasher, everything was behind the counter for the customers to see. Though the space was small and the seating limited, Pappas had cultivated a large carryout and delivery business that represented a significant portion of the daily take. He grossed about three, three hundred and twenty- five a day.

At three o'clock, he stopped ringing the register and cut its tape. The grill was turned down and bricked at four. There was little walk- in traffic after two thirty, but he kept the place open until fi ve, to allow for cleanup, ordering, and to serve anyone who happened to drop in for a cold sandwich. From the time he arrived to the time he closed, twelve hours, on his feet. And yet, he didn't mind. Never really wished he could make a living doing anything else. The best part of it, he thought as he approached the store, the night sky beginning to lighten, is now: bending down to pick up the bread and buns left outside by the Ottenberg's man, then fitting the key to the lock of his front door.

I am my own man. This is mine.

Pappas and Sons.

ALEX PAPPAS had had his thumb out for only a few minutes, standing on the shoulder of University Boulevard in Wheaton, before a VW Squareback pulled over to pick him up. Alex jogged to the passenger door, scoping out the driver as he neared the car. He looked through the half- open window, saw a young dude, long hair, handlebar mustache. Probably a head, which was all right with Alex. He got in and dropped onto the seat.

"Hey," said Alex. "Thanks for stoppin, man."

"Sure thing," said the dude, pulling off the shoulder, catching second gear, going up toward the business district of Wheaton. "Where you headed?"

"All the way down Connecticut, to Dupont Circle. You going that far?"

"I'm going as far as Calvert Street. I work down there at the Sheraton Park."

"That's cool," said Alex with enthusiasm. It was only a mile and a half or so down to the Circle from there, all downhill. He could huff it on foot. It was rare to get one ride all the way downtown.

An eight- track player had been mounted on a bracket under the dash. The live Humble Pie, Rockin' the Fillmore, was in the deck, "I Walk on Gilded Splinters" playing in the car. Music came trebly through cheap speakers on the fl oorboard, the wiring running up to the player. Alex was careful not to get his feet tangled in the wire. The car smelled of marijuana. Alex could see yellowed roaches heaped in the open ashtray, along with butted cigarettes.

"You're not a narc, are you?" said the dude, watching Alex survey the landscape.

"Me?" said Alex with a chuckle. "Nah, man, I'm cool." How could he be a cop? He was only sixteen. But it was common knowledge that if you asked a narc if he was one, he had to reply honestly. Otherwise, a bust would always be thrown out of court. At least that was what Alex's friends Pete and Billy maintained. This guy was just being cautious.

"You wanna get high?"

"I would," said Alex, "but I'm on my way to my father's store. He's got a lunch place downtown."

"You'd get paranoid in front of Pops, huh."

"Yeah," said Alex. He didn't want to tell this stranger that he never got high while working at his dad's place. The coffee shop was sacred, like his father's personal church. It wouldn't be right.

"You mind if I do?"

"Go ahead."

"Righteous," said the dude, with a shake of his hair, as he reached into the tray and found the biggest roach among the cigarette butts and ashes.

It was a good ride. Alex had the Pie album at home, knew the songs, liked Steve Marriott's crazy voice and Marriott's and Frampton's guitars. The dude asked Alex to roll up his window while he smoked, but the day was not hot, so that was fine, too. Thankfully this guy did not have a change of personality after he had gotten his head up. He was just as pleasant as he had been before.

Copyright 2008 by George P. Pelecanos