Hard Revolution

by George Pelecanos

  Frank Vaughn would be upstairs in their bedroom now, taking his afternoon nap, like he always did before going off to work. Probably he went off to sleep quickly, like uncomplicated people tended to do. That was Frank Vaughn in a word: uncomplicated. If you asked, she’d bet he would tell you the same. Unlike his wife, this was a person who knew who he was. Not good, exactly, but clear. He must have done bad things on his job, had to have done bad things, she supposed, ’cause that’s the kind of job it was. In the end he was just a man. All man, if you had to say it short.

  Anyway, this family here was no business of hers. She would always be polite to them, but she was uninterested in being their friend. This was something Olga and most “good” white folks would never understand. The thing of it was, she had her own friends, took pleasure in her own world. Her own family, too. A good man and a good provider who she loved fierce, and two strong, fine-hearted sons.

  AFTER FRANK VAUGHN woke from his nap, he showered and shaved in his master bathroom. He left both the door to his bedroom and the bathroom door closed, as it blocked out the rock-and-roll music coming from Ricky’s room.

  Vaughn could blame himself for that, as he had bought most of Ricky’s records. Occasionally he paid retail down at the Music Box on 10th and at the Jay Perri Record Shop, next to the Highland Theater on Pennsylvania Avenue in Southeast. But most of the time he got them hot from this colored fence he knew down near 14th and U. This fence owed him a favor for something Vaughn didn’t do to his kid brother, so often these records came free.

  The records made Ricky happy, and that made Vaughn feel good. Still, Vaughn couldn’t stand the sound of the shit. Sinatra, Perry Como, and them, they were real singers, and some of the broads like Peggy Lee, June Christy, and, God, Julie London were pretty good, too. Elvis? He sang like a hopped-up spade, and the way he wiggled his hips was just, well, it was suspicious. These days, at least you didn’t hear him every time you turned on the radio. Presley was in Germany now, wearing a uniform. Kids had short memories, so maybe he would just fade away. In Vaughn’s opinion, that was good.

  Vaughn found his can of shaving cream between Olga’s private things, a box of Modess and a bottle of Lysol douche. He lathered his face and used a straight razor to shave himself. He had large features, jowly cheeks, and a squarish head. His teeth were crooked and widely spaced. His eyes were blue and lazy. He liked to think of himself as a less pretty Mitchum. Some of the younger guys at work called him Hound Dog. He figured it had something to with his determination on the job and something to do with his looks. And there was that goddamn Elvis song. The name didn’t bother him, though. Long as they respected him, he didn’t mind.

  He dressed in a white shirt, black tie, and gray Robert Hall suit. He opened the drawer of the nightstand beside his bed and extracted his .38. He checked the load, then slipped the service revolver into the clip-on holster he wore on his belt.

  Olga came into the room. She smiled crookedly and ran her hands down the thighs of her pedal pushers. He walked over to her, pulled her to him, and kissed her roughly on the mouth. She grabbed him tightly around the waist.

  “You’re gonna make my gun go off.”

  “And you’ll mess up my lipstick.”

  “I already did,” he said, showing her his smile. He pushed himself against her to let her know he had it. Tired of her as he got sometimes, she was still his lover as well as his wife. Olga did like to buck. She had always been a wildcat in the sack, once you tuned her up.

  “Let’s go out this weekend,” she said. “See some music and have a few cocktails. We haven’t done that for a while.”

  “Where to?”

  “Xavier Cugat’s playing down at Casino Royal.”

  “The hell with him.”

  “Abbe Lane’s on the bill.”

  “Okay, baby doll. We’ll see.”

  He kissed her again, slipping her his tongue before breaking the embrace. He liked to give her something to remember him by while he was down at work.

  Vaughn left her there. He didn’t bother to knock on Ricky’s door to say good-bye.

  Down in the foyer, he took his raincoat and hat from the closet. The April evenings were cool and damp, so he would need the warmth. Also, he liked the way the getup looked. The coat-and-hat rig reminded him of the cover of No One Cares, with Sinatra sitting at the bar, staring into his whiskey glass, looking as though he’d just been punched in the heart. A night wolf, wounded and alone. Vaughn liked to think of himself just like that. The image pleased him.

  Alethea came up the stairs as he was about to go out the door. She was wearing a clean raincoat over her street clothes and had removed her scarf and combed out her hair.

  “You wanna ride somewhere?” said Vaughn. “I’m heading into town.”

  “I’m just gonna walk up to Georgia and catch the bus. It takes me straight home.”

  “You sure?”

  “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

  He was usually going to work as she was getting off. He always offered her a lift, and her answer was almost always the same.

  “I ask you somethin’?” said Vaughn.

  “Long as it’s not too personal,” she said, letting him know in her tone that she would take no offense either way.

  “Are you happy?” said Vaughn.

  Alethea Strange hesitated. It was an odd and unexpected question, but Frank Vaughn’s eyes said that he truly wanted to know.

  “Most of the time,” she said. “I’d say nearly all the time I am. Yes.”

  “You look it,” said Vaughn.

  Outside, Frank Vaughn got into his ’57 Dodge Royal, a two-tone, two-door rose metallic V-8 with a push-button transmission parked in the driveway of his house, on a suburban block between Wheaton and Silver Spring. Alethea Strange walked toward Georgia Avenue and stood at the bus stop with two other domestics who were waiting for a D.C. Transit bus to take them south over the District line, to the familiar faces, smells, and musical cadences of the voices that told them they were home.

  HIS FATHER HAD got his blood up, but that feeling soon passed when Buzz Stewart cruised up the street in his car. He got WDON, Don Dillard’s R&R record show that was broadcast out of a bunker on University Boulevard up in Wheaton, on the radio and turned it up. Dillard was spinning the Chantels’ “Maybe,” one of Stewart’s all-time favorite songs, and this made his spirits rise. When it was done, Dillard signed off, as sunset had come, and WDON held only a daylight license. He thumbed the dial up to WINX on 1600, which aired till midnight. Then he pulled a Marlboro from his breast pocket and lit himself a smoke.

  Walter Hess’s car, a dropped-down 283 Chevy painted candy apple red, was parked outside the doughnut shop on Pershing. In script on the front right fender it read “Shorty’s Dream.” Stewart cut in behind the Chevy, let his car idle, and honked the horn. Hess was inside the doughnut shop, most likely working the pinball machine they’d rigged for multiple plays. Once they’d pried the glass off the top with Hess’s knife and gotten to that button, it was easy. The owner never knew what was going on.

  Walter came out of the shop a few minutes later. He wore an outfit similar to Stewart’s, only in much smaller sizes. Walter’s friends called him Shorty. It was not said with derision but rather with respect. He was tightly muscled and a fighter who would do damn near anything to win. One of his front teeth was chipped and his eyes were comically, some would say pathetically, close set. Some people claimed he didn’t know how to read, and others went further and said he was retarded, but never to his face. Guys were afraid of him and girls prayed he wouldn’t ask them to dance. He was funny looking, but in a scary way.

  “Me or you,” said Hess, approaching the open window of the Ford.

  “You,” said Stewart, killing the ignition. “We’ll switch up later on.”

  Stewart took off his bombers before getting into Hess’s Chevy. It was a ritual practiced by many of the car freaks in their crowd, who took pride in their flawless interiors. S
tewart only removed his shoes for Hess. They had been best buds since their grade school days at St. Michael’s, the Catholic elementary in the neighborhood. Both had been labeled as troublemakers early on. No teacher, not even a nun with a hot ruler, could tell them what to do.

  No one could tell them anything now.

  FIVE

  DEREK STRANGE AND Billy Georgelakos neared the Three-Star Diner a little past closing time. Inside the area’s apartments and row houses, men and women were having their first beers and highballs, listening to the radio, arguing, making love, and changing into stylish threads. Freshly washed cars cruised the strip, rhythm and blues coming from their open windows. It was coming up on Saturday night, and the pulse on Kennedy Street and behind its walls had begun to pick up.

  The boys entered the diner. Mike Georgelakos sat by the register counting out the day’s folding money and change. Darius Strange ran a cleaning brick over the grill, stripping it of any excess grease. Ella Lockheart, the Three-Star’s counter-and-booth waitress, poured watery A&P brand ketchup into bottles marked Heinz. As was her custom this time of day, Ella had found the gospel hour on the house radio. A tune called “Peace in the Valley” was playing.

  The diner had been set up in the forties. A Formica-top counter held fourteen armless red-vinyl swivel-top stools. Three four-seat booths, upholstered in red, ran along the plate glass that fronted the store. All food and drink was prepared and served from behind the counter: prep, colds, and hots. At the far right of the diner the counter elbowed off. This area was hidden behind a ceiling-hung plastic curtain. Behind the curtain were a stainless-steel automatic dishwasher and a double-tubbed sink with an industrial-sized tube-and-spray nozzle. Three walls of the diner were white plaster. The fourth wall, the one that ran behind the counter, was covered in white tile.

  “Vasili,” said Mike to his son. “Derek.”

  “Ba-ba,” said Billy.

  “Mr. Mike,” said Derek, unable to correctly pronounce the family’s last name.

  Darius Strange glanced over at his son without breaking the rhythm of his chore, looked him over, and nodded. Derek Strange lifted his chin in return.

  “C’mon, boy,” said Mike, “help me count the money. Derek, the mop’s waitin’ for you in the back.”

  Derek found the bucket, strainer, and mop back by the dishwasher. The place had a utility man, addressed only by his nickname, Halftime, but he left early on Saturdays to allow Darius’s son the chance to earn a little money. This suited Halftime fine.

  Derek took up the webbed rubber mats behind the counter and rinsed them out in the sink. He carried the mats back through the small storage room, one by one, and laid them out in the alley to dry in the sun. He then waited for Ella Lockheart to fill the salt and pepper shakers, change into her street clothes in the back room, and leave the store. Lockheart, in her early thirties, was light-skinned, rail thin, pretty, quiet, unmarried, and deeply religious. She said to Derek, “Have a blessed day, young man,” before going out the door.

  Derek mopped the floor while his father sat on a stool and read the sports page of the Post. His chef’s hat, which he wore at all times while working over the grill, was on the counter by his side. Mike was showing Billy how to enter numbers in a green-covered book. Derek had seen the pages of the book once, a grid of lines with small figures penciled into the squares.

  Derek strained water from the mop to the point that it was damp, and put it to work on the floor. He made sure to get the area at the base of the stools, where grease tended to collect.

  “Elgin Baylor had thirty-four last night for Minneapolis,” said Darius Strange, raising his voice some so his son could hear him while he worked. “Thirty-four in a championship game. That’s the Lakers playin’ against Russell, Cousy, Sam Jones, and them. That is some kind of accomplishment, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Boy’s got that quick first step.”

  “Yep.”

  “Came out of Spingarn, too,” said Darius, naming Baylor’s high school alma mater, off Benning Road in Northeast D.C. “The Green Wave graduates some superior athletes.”

  Derek smiled to himself as he worked. Partly it was because of the way his dad always liked to make his point with those local-boy-makes-good stories. But mostly he was smiling ’cause he liked the deep sound of his father’s voice.

  Darius Strange looked over at his son, bent over, pushing the mop. It was good for the boy to have this chore. After inspecting the finished floor, Mike would give Derek a dollar, which was walking-around money and also a simple work-and-reward lesson. The boy had a twice-a-week paper route, too. Darius wasn’t worried about Derek the way he was worried about his older son, Dennis. Basically, Derek was good.

  It was nice that Derek could see him working this steady job here as well. Plenty of boys never did get to see that kind of example. Someday Derek would know that this had all meant something with regard to what he himself would become.

  But beyond that, Darius Strange did enjoy, and take pride in, his work. After the war he had taken several jobs involving hard, mindless physical labor, finally landing in the kitchen of the house restaurant of a downtown hotel. He was a dishwasher there, but he closely watched the activities of the line cooks and chefs. One of the cooks, a white steam-table man, was nice enough to school him in the details of the job. It wasn’t long before Darius felt he was due for a promotion. But the manager wouldn’t bring him along, so he left and got his first cooking job as a grill man in a greasy spoon in Far Northeast. The owner was a hard, bitter white who looked upon him as an animal and paid him pennies, but he got what he needed there, and when he had learned his trade he started looking around for something else. He signed up with Conway’s Employment Service, down on 6th Street, which listed him as “Cook, Colored,” and soon they had hooked him up with Mike Georgelakos, who had just let go of a good man who was bad behind drink. Georgelakos offered Darius forty dollars a week to start. Five years later, he was pulling in sixty-five.

  “I’m finished,” said Derek Strange.

  “Go talk to Mr. Mike,” said Darius.

  Mike Georgelakos got off his stool behind the register. He was not much taller standing than he was sitting. He was bald on top, with patches of graying black hair on the sides. His nose was large and it hooked down over his mustache. Mike’s shoulders were broad, his chest barrel shaped. Both of these traits had been passed down to Billy.

  Mike walked the house ceremoniously and inspected the floor. When he returned he gave Derek a clean dollar bill.

  “Here you go, boy. Good job.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Mike. Catch you around, Billy.”

  “You, too, Derek,” said Billy, standing beside his father, smiling a little at his friend, sharing the secret of their day.

  At the door, Darius Strange turned to give a short wave to Mike Georgelakos, as he always did.

  “Yasou, Mike,” said Darius.

  “Yasou, Darius,” said Mike. “Adio.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Derek said to his father, “What’s that Greek talk mean, anyway?”

  “Adio means, like, adios. And Yasou? It’s just a greeting, a, what do you call that, a salutation. All-purpose, kinda like aloha. You know, how they do in Hawaii?”

  Derek Strange looked up at his father. Strong and handsome, with a neat mustache and closely cut, pomaded hair. He had to go six-two or six-three.

  “Speaking of Hawaii,” said Darius Strange, “Globetrotters gonna be comin’ to Uline. They’re playin’ the Hawaiian team, the Fiftieth Staters? I just read the announcement in the paper. You feel like goin’, I can get us tickets.”

  “Yeah!”

  “Trotters got this young giant, Wilt Chamberlain, played for Kansas. They’re payin’ him sixty-five thousand dollars a year. I’d like to see what that boy can do to earn it.”

  “He come out of Spingarn, too?”

  “Stop playin’,” said Darius Strange in a stern way, but Derek could see a smi
rk breaking on the edge of his lips.

  They got into Darius Strange’s car, a ’57 Mercury he had picked up at a lot on 10th and New York. It was a repossession deal, nineteen dollars a month on an eight-hundred-dollar balance. There had been a “special” interest rate put on it, a kind of penalty imposed on colored buyers. Darius was aware of it, and he knew it was wrong, but he accepted it just the same. Any way he looked at it, he would be paying on that car for the next four years.

  DARIUS STRANGE DROVE up Georgia Avenue, his son at his side. They passed Ida’s department store, where Derek had found trouble earlier in the day. It now seemed to him to have happened a long time ago. He was safe with his father now, and all of that mess he’d gotten into was tucked far away.

  Just up above Piney Branch Road, near Van Buren, Darius Strange pulled into the lot of the soft-ice cream place, had mirror chips embedded in the stucco of its walls. The name of the place was Beck’s, but everyone called it the Polar Bears because of the animal statues out front.

  Darius killed the engine, gave Derek some change, and told him he’d meet him back at the car. Derek went to the service window, bought a tall swirl of chocolate on a cone, and had a seat on the curb. His father had walked to the Hubbard House to buy one of their layered chocolate pies. Derek Strange looked forward to this Saturday ritual all week long.

  As he ate his ice cream, he watched his father cross the street with the pie box in his hand. A group of white boys drove by in a dropped-down Chevy and yelled something at his father from the open windows of their car. His father returned, expressionless, and made no mention of the incident. But Derek had heard their laughter, and the sound had cut him deep.

  The last stop on their route home was Tempchin’s Kosher Meat Market, a butcher shop between Shepherd and Randolph, down on 14th. In the store, Darius Strange said hello to Abe Tempchin, the proprietor, a thick, balding man who always seemed to have a smile on his face. To Derek, the place smelled funny, and the customers in here, white folks but not exactly, talked funny, too. Kinda like Billy’s father, Mike.