Hard Revolution

by George Pelecanos

  “Little brother,” said Dennis, and the boy lifted up his chin by way of greeting. “No school today?”

  “Told my mother I was sick.”

  “Can’t be too sick, you out here playin’.”

  “Yeah, well, you know.”

  “Knowledge is power,” said Dennis, holding up the book he carried. “You need to be goin’ to class.”

  “What my moms said,” said the boy. “But she at work.”

  “You take care of yourself, now, hear?”

  Dennis went on. John Thomas was beside the market stoop, sitting on an overturned milk crate, having a cigarette. His eyes tracked Dennis as he approached. Though the day was cool, there was a film of sweat on Thomas’s face. He was older than he had looked in the artificial light of the market the night before. Natural light brought out the lines, in startling relief, that hard work and time had put on his face.

  “Young man,” said Thomas.

  “How you doin’?”

  “Doin’ good.” Thomas’s eyes went to the book under Dennis’s arm. “You enjoying that?”

  Dennis glanced at the cover of the just-published Soul on Ice as if he had forgotten he was carrying it. Young people of different colors and classes were talking about it citywide. It outraged some and energized others. It tended to get a reaction out of all who read it. Dennis was reading it for the second time.

  “Eldridge Cleaver speaks the truth.”

  “On some things he does,” said Thomas. “I will give you that. Never had it all explained to me before the way he does, even though I’ve been livin’ it my whole life. My son, young man about your age, passed it on to me. Hard for me to get with all of it, understand. Harder still to get with the man himself.”

  “What you don’t like about him?”

  “He’s a rapist, for one. That right there, I mean, it goes against my Christian upbringing to follow a man like him.”

  “He did his time.”

  “As he should have. But that kind of violence against another human being . . . don’t see how anyone can look past that. Now, you take a man like King, well, that’s a leader right there. The reverend’s coming from a place of peace. Course, you bein’ your age and all, you probably too impatient for all that.”

  “I respect the man. Ain’t no question he’s good. But some young black men and women feel like that passive resistance thing ain’t gonna get it no more.”

  “What you think works, then? Fire? You seen what happened in Watts. You young black men and women burn this society we got, what you got ready to take its place? This market here goes to ashes, black people like me gonna lose our jobs. This market here goes to ashes, black people in this neighborhood got no place to buy their groceries to feed their kids. You see what I’m sayin’? You got to have somethin’ built before you start tearin’ down.”

  “I hear you. And I know you might not like it. It might not even make sense to you. But it’s coming just the same.”

  “I don’t need to be readin’ that book to learn about the problem,” said Thomas. “What we all need now is some kind of solution that’s not gonna hurt our own people.”

  “People always gonna get hurt in a revolution. Ain’t never been no easy one, right?”

  Ludvig appeared in the doorway to the stockroom and cleared his throat. “Everything okay out here?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ludvig,” said Thomas.

  Ludvig looked from Thomas to Dennis, then disappeared back into the store.

  Thomas set his eyes on Dennis. “Say what you came to say. It’s obvious you’re here to get somethin’ off your chest.”

  “Does it show?”

  “It did last night. Looked like you had something you wanted to tell me then.” Thomas hit his cigarette, tapped ash to the concrete. “Might as well do it now.”

  Dennis nodded slowly. “Couple of dudes I know, they fixin’ to knock this place over.”

  “The ones was sittin’ in that green Monterey, waitin’ on you to come out.”

  Dennis cocked his head. “Yeah.”

  “Don’t look so surprised. I knew you was wrong the minute you walked into the market. Y’all should’ve left out of there right away, ’stead of sittin’ on the street debating or whatever it was you was doin’. Parked under a street lamp, too. I watched you people from the plate-glass window. My eyes haven’t failed me yet. Got a good look at the driver, dark-skinned dude with funny teeth, and the other fella, with his hat. Even gave me time to take down the license plate number. Stupid. But then, anybody low enough to try something like that ain’t gonna be all that smart.”

  “I guess not.”

  “You guess. Hmm.” Thomas took a drag off his cigarette, exhaled slowly, keeping his eyes on Dennis. “When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “I been tellin’ Ludvig, everyone grew up in this city knows these markets got cash on hand the day credit comes due. Been tellin’ him for years he needs to change that up.”

  “That was their plan. Hit y’all before you make your deposit.”

  “And what was your part in it?”

  “They had me come in to look the place over. But I didn’t tell ’em nothin’, man.”

  “Not a thing, huh?”

  “Didn’t even tell ’em about that gun you keep under the counter.”

  “You got good eyes.”

  “Some say I do. Some say I’m good at details.”

  “So you smarter than your friends and you got talent. A conscience, too. Question is, why you runnin’ around with the likes of them?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dennis. “I been on a wrong road, seems like forever. Hard to change direction, I guess.”

  “You just did. Least you put your foot the right way.” Thomas took a last hit off his smoke and crushed the butt under his shoe. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Dennis Strange.”

  Thomas smiled a little. He was missing some teeth. “Uh-huh. Okay. I knew a Strange once, had a D name, too. Veteran. Used to see him at those banquets at the Republic Gardens, in the Blue Room, up on U? It’s been ten years since the last one I went to, though.”

  “His American Legion meetings,” said Dennis, remembering his father in a jacket and tie, straight of posture, leaving the house.

  “Post Number Five,” said Thomas. “He’s your kin, then.”

  “My father. Goes by Darius.”

  “Darius, right. Grill man. He still stayin’ up in Park View?”

  “Princeton Place,” said Dennis. “Right off Georgia.”

  “Good man,” said Thomas.

  “Yes,” said Dennis. “My whole family’s good.” He glanced away, embarrassed at his show of pride. “Look here —”

  “I know. We didn’t have this conversation.”

  “It’s not just that. One of those boys, the driver you saw . . . I been knowin’ him from way back.”

  “You made a choice,” said Thomas. “The right choice.”

  “Just don’t want to see him get shot or nothin’ like that.”

  “Whatever happens to that boy is gonna happen eventually, whether he pays today or a year from now. He’s just headed that way. But you don’t have to worry about him gettin’ hurt. What you think you saw me reaching for, under the counter? That wasn’t no gun. Wasn’t nothin’ but a lead-filled club. Shoot, I haven’t touched a gun since I was in the Quartermaster Corps, back in the war.”

  “What you gonna do, then?”

  “Gonna do my job,” said Thomas. “Don’t suppose you’d want to give me the names of those two you been runnin’ with.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Didn’t think you could. No matter. We’ll be all right. Like I said, you did good.”

  “I ain’t been here. No matter what happens, I was not here.”

  “We’re straight.” Thomas reached his hand out. Dennis shook it. “You keep on that road, hear?”

  “I’m gonna do my best.”

  Dennis turned and went down t
he alley the way he’d come. John Thomas watched him pass that boy who threw that ball at all hours against the brick wall. Then he pulled his bulk up off the milk crate and went inside the back door. He moved through the stockroom to the store, where Ira Ludvig had returned to his stool.

  “Better make that bank deposit, Mr. L.”

  “It’s too early.”

  “Think you better do it now,” said Thomas in a strong way.

  Ludvig looked up. Thomas rarely used that tone with him. When he did, Ludvig listened.

  “Okay. You hold it down for a while?”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Thomas.

  After Ludvig left the store, a green deposit bag under his arm, John Thomas made a phone call and left a message for William Davis. He’d been knowing Davis all his life, since their days growing up in Foggy Bottom. Sergeant Davis, now a man of late middle age, had been one of the early black hires on the force. Ordinarily, Thomas wouldn’t expect much response after making a call like this. After all, police didn’t have the time to be deploying men on suspicion of a crime yet to be committed. But if John Thomas asked him to, Bill Davis would do something, for sure.

  Ten minutes later, Thomas got a call back. He told William Davis everything he knew and some things that he suspected. Davis asked how he had come upon the information, and Thomas said it was mostly what he’d observed the night before, and part intuition. He didn’t mention the young man, Dennis Strange.

  “John, are you sure?”

  “I ever bother you before with somethin’ like this?”

  “Well, you ain’t in the habit of sellin’ wolf tickets.”

  “There it is.”

  “But you understand, it’s tricky.”

  “Boy gonna knock us over, he’s bound to have a gun, right? Chances are, he’s doin’ this today, he’s done somethin’ like it before. Man’s got prior convictions, you get him with a gun on his person, you got call to put him in a cell.”

  “Now you gonna tell me how to do my job?”

  “I never would.”

  “Okay, then,” said Davis. “I’ll take care of it. And I’ll send a couple of uniforms to sit outside the market for the rest of the day, too. How about that?”

  When Ludvig returned to the market, a squad car holding two patrolmen was already parked on the corner of the block. Ludvig replaced the empty deposit bag where he kept it, in a drawer under the register. He went over to the plate-glass window that fronted the store and looked out at the street.

  “Those cops been out there long?” said Ludvig.

  “Not too long.”

  “I wonder what’s going on.”

  “No idea. Doesn’t do any harm to have them out there, though.”

  Ludvig stared at his longtime employee. They had never once socialized outside of work, but still, he considered Thomas a friend. Ludvig didn’t know how he would ever run the business without him. Sometimes he wondered who was truly running things, but he was not a man with a strong ego, so the question was irrelevant in the end.

  “John?

  “Sir.”

  “Why’d you have me make that deposit so early in the day?”

  “You know how I been tellin’ you to change up? Thought today would be a good day to start. I just had this feeling, you know?”

  “This feeling wouldn’t have something to do with that guy came to see you, would it?”

  “Nothing at all,” said Thomas. “We were just talking. Turns out I know his father.”

  “He looked suspicious, is why I asked.”

  “You know how it is when you get to be our age. Most young men walkin’ in here, unless we know ’em, they look like trouble, to us.”

  “True,” said Ludvig.

  “That boy’s good,” said Thomas.

  Troubled, thought Thomas. But good.

  SIXTEEN

  PAT MILLIKIN’S GARAGE, a cinder-block structure on a stretch of gravel running behind a strip of parts and speed shops, was off Agar Road in West Hyattsville, in Maryland’s Prince George’s County. There was no sign to identify the place, but a certain kind of customer knew where to find it, and Millikin was never at a loss for business. He catered to the chop trade and specialized in rentals. For a hundred bucks, a man could get an inspection certificate for his rag. Services and products aside, what Millikin truly sold, and guaranteed, was silence.

  Millikin’s brother, Sean, a three-time loser, had been incarcerated on a manslaughter charge with Walter Hess up in the Western Maryland prison. Hess was no particular fan of the Irish, but Sean was white, and in the joint that made them allies. Sean had told Hess about his brother, Pat, and what he could do for him if he ever got jammed up. Hess had given Pat some referrals, and he and Stewart had used him for a couple of minor things in the past. Hess needed Pat now.

  Buzz Stewart drove his washed-off Belvedere down Agar Road, listening to “Jimmy Mack” on the radio, enjoying Martha and the Vandellas, one arm out the window, a Marlboro burning between his fingers. He was following Hess, who was behind the wheel of his Galaxie and doing the limit. Hess didn’t want to get pulled over for any reason now, especially not here. The PG County cops had a rep for taking no man’s shit. Hess figured he’d drive slowly, not blow off any reds, and get the Ford over to Pat’s. He accomplished that, he’d be fine.

  Shorty, hell, sometimes he just went too far. Wasn’t any good reason to run down that colored boy, but it was done. Get the car fixed up and put it behind you, that was the thing to do. Dominic Martini, with all that Catholic guilt he had, was the weak link. Way he was acting after it happened, it was like he wanted to confess. Stewart had to make Martini understand, you could confess all you wanted to, wasn’t nobody, priest or God almighty himself, could bring that colored boy back. But Stewart didn’t think Martini would be a problem. He just needed to be told. Martini was a follower and always would be.

  They found Pat Millikin’s garage. Hess drove into the open bay, where Millikin had left a spot for the Ford, and cut the engine. Stewart parked outside, behind a plum-colored Dart GT. He got out and locked down the Belvedere.

  A hard-looking, big-limbed colored guy was sitting on a folding chair outside the garage, having a smoke. He studied the Belvedere and as he did a small smile came to his face. Stewart figured he was admiring it, so he nodded at him, expecting something back. But he got nothing in return. Stewart thinking, Every place you go now, it’s the same way.

  He walked into the garage, where a radio was playing “Cherish.” Millikin, pale and freckled, with horseman arms, walked around the Ford, giving it the eyeball, assessing the damage. He wore coveralls with the sleeves cut off. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Where he walked, Hess followed.

  “Well,” said Millikin, “you didn’t lie.”

  “I did it,” said Hess. “I fucked it up royal.”

  “What’d you hit, a moose?”

  “A monkey,” said Hess, glancing at Stewart, giving him a grin.

  “We just had an accident,” said Stewart, warning Hess with his eyes. “Too much drinkin’, is all. But you know, we didn’t exactly leave a note on the guy’s windshield with our, uh, insurance information.”

  “Say no more,” said Millikin.

  Right about then, Hess noticed that the colored guy, the one who was sitting outside when they’d rolled up, had followed Stewart into the bay. Hess wondered if he’d heard the monkey comment. And then he wondered why he was sweating over it. He didn’t care.

  “Lawrence, come here,” said Millikin.

  Hess and Stewart watched the hard colored guy cross the concrete floor and inspect the Ford. He looked at it carefully. He said “yeah” and “uh-huh” and looked at it some more. He put his hands in his pockets and looked at Millikin.

  “Well?” said Millikin.

  “Gonna take some work,” said Lawrence.

  “No shit,” said Hess. He turned to Millikin. “The question is, when and how much?”

  “Got to check down in Brandywine,”
said Lawrence, still talking to Millikin like Hess was not there. “See if I can’t raise the parts at the junkyard. Otherwise I gotta order them from the factory. ’Nother words, I’m gonna have to let you know.”

  “You heard him, Shorty,” said Millikin. “I can’t give you a price just yet. Timewise, we’ll just have to see how it goes.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Pat,” said Stewart. “We get a minute here?”

  “He’s all right,” said Millikin, meaning Lawrence.

  “A minute,” said Stewart.

  Lawrence walked out of the garage without a word.

  “I’m gonna be needin’ a rental,” said Stewart. “With plates. Something fast but no flash.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “I’ll find you somethin’,” said Millikin.

  “You used to work alone around here,” said Hess.

  “I needed more help. I got another place where I work on projects like this one. This here location is too visible, if you know what I mean. So I have to have another man.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know Lawrence from Kingfish. He don’t make me too comfortable.”

  “Lawrence did time, just like you. He doesn’t talk to the law, just like you.” Millikin’s eyes caught mischief. “Matter of fact, now that I think of it, he ain’t all that much different than you.”

  “That’s a laugh,” said Hess.

  Millikin flicked his butt out the open bay door. “I’ll let you know when you can pick up your car.”

  Hess and Stewart walked from the garage. Lawrence Houston was back in his seat, staring ahead, working on another cigarette.

  In the Belvedere, up the road, Hess shook his head.

  “Ever notice how they always have these real high-class names?” said Hess. “Couldn’t be plain old Larry. Had to be Lawrence.”

  “Your mother named you Walter, didn’t she?” said Stewart, looking at Hess out the side of his eyes. “No one ever called you Wally, right?”

  “It ain’t the same thing.”

  “I guess it’s like Pat said. That coon back there, he ain’t all that different from you.”

  “Aw, shut up, Buzz.”