Hard Revolution

by George Pelecanos

  “You all right here?” said the bartender.

  “Gimme my check,” said Vaughn.

  He raised his glass, looked at his heavy-lidded eyes in the bar mirror, and killed his drink.

  LATE IN THE evening, Strange left his parents’ apartment, drove over to his place, showered, and changed his clothes. He put on a black leather car coat, dropped his badge into one of its pockets, and slipped his service revolver, a .38 Special, into the holster he had clipped onto his belt. He went back out to his Impala, parked on 13th, and drove down the big hill alongside Cardozo High.

  He had no destination in mind. He rolled down the windows and let the cool, damp air of April hit his face. He got the all-news station on the radio, listened to a report on a massive rally for RFK on Park Road in Columbia Heights, and switched the radio off. He drove into the heart of Shaw.

  Heading west, he passed the Republic Theater, the London Custom clothing store, National Liquors, and the Jumbo Nut Shop, and came to the intersection of 14th and U, which had been cleared of debris from the disturbance on the previous night. On the northeast corner, cardboard had been inserted in the broken glass door of the Peoples Drug. Hustlers, pimps, whores, men dressed as women, pushers and addicts, workers who had gotten off buses and had not yet gone home, and kids who were out too late for their own good cruised the sidewalks.

  Strange turned around at 16th Street and doubled back to 7th, checking out the action near the Howard Theater and the active life on the street. He was killing time. He had told Darla Harris he might get up with her, but he had no intention of meeting her tonight. Seeing Carmen the other night, seeing her come into his parents’ apartment today, knowing she had missed her classes to do so, still feeling her hot breath in his ear, had erased Darla Harris completely from his mind.

  Down below Howard University, he drove into the low-numbered streets of LeDroit Park. He went by the row house where Lula Bacon had her apartment and slowed his Chevy. The lights inside her place had been extinguished. He circled the block, saw no green Buick Special parked in the vicinity, and drove on. Dennis had spoken of another woman with whom Jones had fathered a baby. Dennis, Willis, and Jones had been at her place, getting their heads up, on Sunday evening. But Strange did not know her name or where she lived. He’d come back and speak to Lula Bacon. Also, he’d speak to James Hayes. If that woman had been involved in some kind of dope thing with Dennis and them, Hayes would know. But for now, all Strange could do was drive.

  He ended his night, as he knew he would, parked on Barry Place, in front of the row house where Carmen stayed. He went up the concrete walk to the house, then took the wooden steps to the third floor and knocked on her door. Carmen did not answer. A middle-aged woman with a hard face came out of her apartment and asked Strange what his business was in the house. Strange said he was calling on his friend Carmen Hill.

  “She went out with some of her college friends,” said the woman, looking him over. “You want to leave a message, somethin’?”

  “No,” said Strange.

  He went back to his parents’ apartment because he couldn’t stand to go back to his place alone. His father was seated in his chair, in the dark, watching Wanted: Dead or Alive with the sound down low. Derek stood behind him and placed one hand on his father’s shoulder, noticing his father’s fingers tight on the arms of the chair.

  “Derek,” he said, staring at the screen, his shoulder relaxing under his son’s touch.

  “You don’t mind,” said Derek, “I’m gonna stay the night.”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “Pop?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want you to worry. I’m gonna take care of this, hear?”

  “Your mother told you something tonight. I want you to mind it.”

  “I will.”

  “You been given a responsibility, son. You’re not just protecting your community out here. You’re representing us, too. You do something to betray that, you don’t deserve to be wearin’ that uniform.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go on, boy,” said Darius. “And be quiet goin’ along back there. I don’t want you to wake your mother.”

  Derek fell asleep in Dennis’s bed, the smell of his brother in the room.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ON THURSDAY, APRIL 4, in Memphis, Dr. King met with his staff in a room of the Lorraine Hotel and made plans for Monday’s march.

  At midmorning in D.C., Alethea Strange answered a knock on her door. In the open frame stood a dark-skinned man, near her husband’s age, with gray in his close-cropped hair. A bag of groceries was cradled in his arm.

  “My name is John Thomas. Is this the Strange residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you the mother of Dennis?”

  “I am.”

  “My sympathies on the death of your son.”

  Alethea cocked her head. “Were you a friend to Dennis?”

  “Not exactly. We spoke briefly this past Monday. I read about his death in the Post this morning. I was up here, picking up a few things from Mr. Meyer, down on the corner. He and the man I work for, Ludvig, they both own markets. They’re friends, from synagogue. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “When one runs out of something, the other helps him out. I volunteered to come pick this stuff up, after reading the papers. . . . Your son told me you lived up on Princeton, so I asked Mr. Meyer where your place was.”

  “I don’t understand.” Alethea had backed up a step and was holding on to the door for support. “Why have you come here?”

  Thomas knew he was talking too fast, confusing the woman, who was obviously weak with grief. But he was nervous, too, and didn’t quite know how to get to the point.

  “I knew your husband,” said Thomas.

  “I don’t recall him ever speaking of you.”

  “We weren’t tight. . . . What I mean is, I knew him by sight, from the American Legion. Post Five? I used to see him at those meetings at Republic Gardens, long time ago. We talked a few times, you know.” Thomas cleared his throat. “I was wondering, could I speak with him for a minute, if he’s not too busy? I’ve got some information about your son.”

  “My husband is at work,” said Alethea.

  Darius had gone in early, despite the fact that Mike Georgelakos had insisted he take the day off. Darius felt that the place would fall apart without him, and anyway, it was worse for him to be sitting around the apartment with nothing to occupy his mind. Alethea understood. She was not physically ready to return to work, but she would be soon. In fact, she planned to go to her regular Friday house, the Vaughns’, the next day.

  “Maybe I ought to stop by later,” said Thomas. “I don’t mean to trouble you.”

  “Please come in,” said Alethea, pulling back the door, stepping aside. “My younger son, Derek, is here.”

  “I should stop by later,” said Thomas, not wanting to say what he had to say to some kid.

  “If you have some information,” said Alethea with a sudden firmness, “you should speak to my son. Please come in.”

  Thomas did as he was told and stepped into the apartment. As he entered, Derek Strange emerged from a hall leading to the bedrooms.

  “What’s goin’ on?” said Derek.

  “This man is here to see you,” said Alethea.

  “About what?” said Derek, in no mood for pleasantries.

  “You can speak freely,” said Alethea, looking at the man with the gray hair and the kind eyes. “My son’s police.”

  VAUGHN SAT AT the kitchen table in his boxers and a T-shirt, nursing a hangover that two Anacin, coffee, eggs and bacon, and a couple of L&Ms had not yet cured. He read the sports page, mechanically saying “yep” and “uh-huh” and “yes, Olga” every so often, as his wife described a pair of double-strap sling-back patents she’d seen at the Franklin Simon in the new Montgomery Mall. She leaned against the sink, her yellow apron standing out in contrast to her helmet of raven black h
air.

  “They’re only sixteen dollars,” said Olga. “It’s not like it’s gonna break us.”

  “It’s only money,” said Vaughn, his lids at half-mast, his eyes squarely on the paper spread before him. “Easy come, easy go.”

  Vaughn read that the Baltimore Bullets, who had finished in last place the previous season, were looking to draft Wes Unseld, the big All-American kid out of Louisville.

  “I can put them on our Central Charge,” said Olga.

  “That’s an idea,” said Vaughn. Not a good idea, but an idea.

  The Kentucky Colonels, from that new league, were trying to get Unseld as well. Coach Shue would pull it off. Shue was all right. Vaughn had seen him in a bar one time, with a nice-looking redhead, lighting her cigarette. A man’s man.

  “Frank, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, Olga.”

  The phone, canary yellow like Olga’s apron, rang in the kitchen. Olga crossed the linoleum and snatched the receiver off the wall.

  “Vaughn residence . . . Just a moment.” She held the receiver out for Vaughn. “It’s you. Business.”

  Vaughn’s arm shot out with a rush of energy he had not felt all morning. “Frank Vaughn here.”

  He listened to the man on the other end of the line. He told the man that he needed an hour, to “shit, shower, and shave.”

  “See you there,” said Vaughn before hanging up the phone.

  “What’re you smiling about?” said Olga as Vaughn got out of his chair.

  “I got a hit,” said Vaughn.

  Going up the stairs to the split-level’s second floor, he passed Ricky, coming down with books under his arm on his way to classes. Vaughn said nothing to his son, thinking only about the phone call and what it meant. He had that feeling he got, light on his feet, when he was close.

  “THIS WAS WHEN, exactly?” said Strange.

  “Sunday evening,” said Thomas. “They had parked that Monterey under a streetlight. It was lit up there enough for me to see ’em and write down the tag numbers, too.”

  “You’re certain of the car?”

  “Monterey’s the only car I know got that squared-off rear window.”

  “Right,” said Strange. “And Dennis tipped you to the robbery on Monday?”

  “Uh-huh. Early in the day. Said those other two were planning to take the place off.”

  They were in Dennis’s bedroom, Strange standing, his back leaned against the wall, John Thomas seated in a chair. Strange had closed the door so that his mother could not hear their conversation.

  “What’d you do next?”

  “I called an MPD lieutenant I grew up with. Man named William Davis.” Thomas saw recognition creep into Strange’s face at the mention of Davis’s name. “You know Bill?”

  “Not personally. Used to notice him when I was a kid. At the time, he was a beat cop up in the Sixth.”

  “Wasn’t many black patrolmen then.”

  “Why I noticed him, I guess,” said Strange. “Keep going.”

  “I told Bill what I knew, leaving out your brother’s name to protect him. Bill told me later that they’d picked up the driver of the Monterey on a gun charge. The other man in the passenger seat, I don’t know what happened to him. What I do know is that we didn’t get robbed. So what your brother did was right.”

  “Describe the other man,” said Strange, without emotion.

  “Light-skinned, looked to be on the small side, maybe because he was sitting beside the one under the wheel. That boy had some size on him. The little dude wore a hat. That’s all I could make out.”

  That’s plenty, thought Strange. That is more than enough.

  “Did you call Lieutenant Davis when you saw my brother’s obituary?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Thomas stared at Strange thoughtfully. “Do you want me to?”

  “No,” said Strange. He uncrossed his arms and softened his tone. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to him, not unless I . . . not unless my family asks you to. I don’t mean to cause you any trouble with your friend. It’s just that, you know, we’d like to go about this in our own way and time. Anyway, you’ve done plenty for us already.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Thomas. “It’s been hard for me to deal with this today. Truth is, I feel like I set something in motion that got your brother killed.”

  “You’re wrong to feel that way,” said Strange. “I’d say you gave him hope. He was happy the last time I saw him, like he’d confessed. You did him right. You’d be doin’ him right again if you keep this between us.”

  “I will,” said Thomas, getting up from his chair. He went to Dennis’s nightstand, picked up a book off the top of a stack, and examined its cover. “We had a nice discussion about this one the day he visited me.”

  “He could talk,” said Strange, smiling a little for the first time in the past two days. “Argue, too.”

  “There was truth in what he was sayin’. He had a right to be angry. We all do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Young black men out here, killin’ each other. Someday we gonna focus our anger in the right direction.”

  “Sounds like somethin’ Dennis would say to my father to get him fired up.”

  “My son does the same way with me. If I remember correctly, the few times I talked to your father at those meetings, he was just as angry at the injustices out here as your brother was. If he disagreed with your brother, I suspect it was because he was trying to calm him down, protect him from harm. The same way I do with my son.”

  “My father couldn’t protect him.”

  “Young men from good homes find trouble, too. Anyone could see that your brother had come on rough times. But there’s something you should tell your parents: When he came by to see me, he told me how proud he was of his family. I think it’s important that they know.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Strange, a crack in his voice.

  “All right, then. Let me get out of here.”

  “Thank you.” Strange looked away, ashamed at the tears that had come to his eyes. “You don’t mind, I’m just gonna stay here a minute, get my thoughts together.”

  John Thomas nodded and left the room.

  FRANK VAUGHN AND Lawrence Houston sat in the front seat of Vaughn’s Polara, in the parking lot of the Tick Tock liquor store at University Boulevard and Riggs Road, drinking Schlitz from cans wrapped in brown paper bags. Houston’s plum-colored Dart GT was parked nearby. The first beer had erased the last of Vaughn’s headache but had gone down bitter. This one, his second, was going down good.

  Houston still wore his coveralls from the garage. He had told his boss, Pat Millikin, that he had to run his sister to the doctor’s and needed an hour, an hour and a half of break time. He had suggested the Tick Tock location to Vaughn because it wasn’t far from the garage. Also, he wanted a cold can of beer.

  “Tell it,” said Vaughn. “Time’s gettin’ short.”

  “We need to get straight on somethin’ first.”

  “Okay.”

  “I ain’t used to talkin’ to police.”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “I know it.”

  “You called me. You told me you had something on that Ford.”

  Houston shifted in his seat. “Pat’s been good to me, man. Gave me my job straight out of the joint. I mean he always did me right. And you know, when I came out, people weren’t interested in hiring no violent offender. Pat took a chance on me, treated me with respect.”

  “So Pat’s a swell guy.”

  “What I’m sayin’ is, I don’t want to wrong him.”

  “Listen, Lawrence, I’m not looking to jack Millikin up, if that’s what you’re worried about. The Prince George’s police already know all about the phony inspection certificates coming out of that garage, and they haven’t made a move on him yet. They’re waitin’, see? At some point, they’re gonna squeeze him for something big. He’s more valuable as a source of informati
on than he is in jail.”

  “I don’t want Pat to get in no trouble over this, is all.”

  “I can’t promise you that. If he’s involved with that vehicle in any way, we’re gonna need his testimony to support the charges. Yours, too, most likely.”

  Houston had a long swig of beer, then turned the brown bag in his lap.

  Vaughn looked him over. “What were you in for?”

  “Manslaughter.”

  “Musta had a temper on you.”

  “I still do.” Houston side-glanced Vaughn, veins standing out on his temples, veins shifting on his wrists and the backs of his hands. “Why I’m here, I guess.”

  “Come on, Lawrence. Talk to me.”

  Houston reached inside the chest area of his coveralls and withdrew a cigarette. Vaughn shook an L&M from his deck. He flipped open the lid of his Zippo, lit Houston’s smoke, lit his own, and snapped the lighter shut. Vaughn let the cigarette dangle from his mouth as he opened a small spiral notebook and thumbed down the top of a ballpoint pen.

  “I got a kid brother, took the straight road,” said Houston. “Went to one of those good Negro colleges down South, got a government job, owns a house, has a wife and kids . . . I mean, he did it all right. That could have been my brother got run down in that street. Cut down for nothin’ but his color, you understand?”

  “What about the car?” said Vaughn.

  “Couple of men brought it in on Monday. Red Galaxie Five Hundred, all messed up in the front.”

  “Sixty-three or sixty-four?”

  “Sixty-three and a half,” said Houston with a hint of pride.

  “And these guys said what?”

  “Driver of the Galaxie, little sawed-off, cross-eyed white boy name of Walter Hess. Goes by Shorty? Said he hit a monkey in the street. Was smilin’ about it, too. He was talking about that young brother you described, I expect. “

  “Walter Hess,” said Vaughn, writing it down.

  “White boy he came in with? Big dude, wears his sleeves rolled high to show his muscles. Last name Stewart. I don’t know what his Christian name is, but he goes by Buzz.”