Hard Revolution_ A Novel Part 18

"Frank."

"That's not why I'm humpin' it out here," said Vaughn. "So he can live off my t.i.t and listen to music."

"You bought that box for him," said Olga, "remember? You'll see, he's doing fine in college."

Anyway, thought Vaughn, it'll keep him out of the war.

Vaughn crushed out his smoke as Olga turned, drying her hands on a dishrag. She untied her ap.r.o.n, hung it back on its hook, and looked him over. He was wearing one of his Robert Hall suits. It was early for him to be dressed for work.

"Aren't you gonna take your nap?" said Olga.

Usually, he got some shut-eye after lunch while Olga watched what she called her "afternoon menu" on channel 7: The Newlywed Game, The Baby Game, General Hospital, Dark Shadows, The Newlywed Game, The Baby Game, General Hospital, Dark Shadows, and Mike Douglas. Around the time she was looking at that crazy vampire show, he'd dress, slip out the house, and get on his way to his four-to-midnight s.h.i.+ft. and Mike Douglas. Around the time she was looking at that crazy vampire show, he'd dress, slip out the house, and get on his way to his four-to-midnight s.h.i.+ft.

"Not today," said Vaughn. "I'm gonna get out early. Want to visit a few garages before they close."

"For what?"

"This young guy got hit-and-runned last night. I'm looking into it."

"He was killed?"

Vaughn nodded. "The car that was involved musta got smashed up good. It's gonna need repairs."

"You don't work accidental deaths."

"It's a homicide until I learn different. I think it was a race killing. Whoever did it, it was like they were joyriding. You know, having fun. The boy was colored."

"Frank."

"What?"

"What color was he?"

"Huh?"

"He was black, wasn't he?"

"Okay."

"Then call him black."

"Christ, Olga."

He had to stifle himself now. Olga and her girlfriends. He bet they had taught her to use that comeback on him when he called someone colored. What color was he? What color was he? Clever. Them, who had no black friends. Them, whose only contact with black people was with their black maids and the black man at the A&P who loaded their groceries into the back of their station wagons. And here they were, with their nails and their pool members.h.i.+ps and their mah-jongg tiles, thinking they were gonna teach him something, when he was out there in the actual world every day. Clever. Them, who had no black friends. Them, whose only contact with black people was with their black maids and the black man at the A&P who loaded their groceries into the back of their station wagons. And here they were, with their nails and their pool members.h.i.+ps and their mah-jongg tiles, thinking they were gonna teach him something, when he was out there in the actual world every day.

"What's wrong?" said Olga.

"Nothin', doll." Vaughn's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You just make me laugh sometimes."

"You're a real Neanderthal, Frank, you know it?"

"C'mere, baby," said Vaughn, patting his thigh. "Bring them gunboats with you."

"They're gunboots, you dummy," said Olga, already walking toward him. you dummy," said Olga, already walking toward him.

Olga had a seat on his lap. Her face was caked with makeup and her helmet of black hair was frozen in place. But her eyes were soft, the same as the night he'd met her, at the Kavakos nightclub down on H Street, back in the early '40s. They looked at each other as the ba.s.s from upstairs buzzed the kitchen walls. Vaughn kissed her on the lips.

Olga moved her rump around as she settled into his shape. He felt himself growing hard beneath her.

"What's that?" said Olga with a lopsided grin.

"You said I was a caveman," said Vaughn. "That's my club."

Beneath his next kiss, he felt her smile.

STRANGE AND PETERS drove down Georgia in their cruiser. They were on the tail end of their eight-to-four. Their day had consisted of some field investigations, a report made at a home break-in scene, a petty larceny, one domestic disturbance, and the usual numerous traffic stops: exceeding the limit, red-light runners, incomplete stops, and the like. Nothing involving violence or, on their part, the use of force. drove down Georgia in their cruiser. They were on the tail end of their eight-to-four. Their day had consisted of some field investigations, a report made at a home break-in scene, a petty larceny, one domestic disturbance, and the usual numerous traffic stops: exceeding the limit, red-light runners, incomplete stops, and the like. Nothing involving violence or, on their part, the use of force.

Peters was having one of his talkative spells, going on about LBJ, who would succeed him, King's scheduled return to Memphis, and what would happen down there next. Strange mostly nodded and shook his head.

He had been quiet since they'd made a stop at the station, where he'd overheard some comments made by a couple of white officers out in the lot. One of them called Peters "Golden Boy" as he and Strange were walking back to their Ford. The other called them "the Dynamic Duo" and added, "Better Peters than me." This was the same cop, Sullivan, who had called his nightstick a "n.i.g.g.e.r knocker" within earshot of Strange a few weeks ago, then smiled nervously and said, "Hey, no offense, rookie. I mean, we're all brothers in blue, right?" Strange had nodded but hadn't even tried to mask the hate in his eyes. He could take a lot, and he did, but there was something about Sullivan's face, those Mr. Ed teeth protruding out from thin lips, that just made Strange want to kick his a.s.s real good.

"Derek, you got plans tonight?"

"Why?"

"Thought you might want to come over, have dinner with me and Patty."

"Thanks. But I was gonna hook up with Lydell. We were thinking of checkin' out this party he heard about, over near Howard."

"Some other time, right?"

Strange didn't think it was likely. But he said, "Sounds good."

They crossed the intersection at Piney Branch and approached the Esso station. Out by the pumps, a big pale guy, sleeves rolled up to show his arms, looked to be arguing with another guy, had full black hair and a solid build. Both wore uniform s.h.i.+rts. The bigger of the two was working his jaw close to the other guy's face. Peters recognized the smaller guy as the pump jockey they'd seen the day before, when they'd stopped to talk to Hound Dog Vaughn.

"Looks like something," said Peters.

"I don't think so," said Strange.

"Maybe we ought to stop."

"The guy with the black hair will walk away. He liked to fight when he was younger. But I don't think he does anymore."

"You know him?"

"Ran with him some when I was a kid. We did a little shoplifting together one day, a long time ago."

"You guys get away with it?"

"I got caught. He didn't."

"His lucky day," said Peters.

"No," said Strange. "It was mine."

SEVENTEEN.

ALVIN JONES HAD been driving a green-on-green Buick Special for the last six months or so. It was a basic four-door, radio-and-heater, bench-seat, automatic-on-the-tree model, and it turned no heads. Despite the name, wasn't nothing special about it. Point of fact, it looked like something an old lady would be driving, her white gloves at the ten-and-two position, sitting up on a pillow so she could see over the wheel. been driving a green-on-green Buick Special for the last six months or so. It was a basic four-door, radio-and-heater, bench-seat, automatic-on-the-tree model, and it turned no heads. Despite the name, wasn't nothing special about it. Point of fact, it looked like something an old lady would be driving, her white gloves at the ten-and-two position, sitting up on a pillow so she could see over the wheel.

The Buick was a '63. Dealer made him pay for it in full with cash money before he got handed the keys. Four hundred dollars, not a whole lot, but still, he wasn't accustomed to laying out the ducats on the front end. Contrary to what he'd told Lula Bacon, there came a time when people really did stop giving you credit, and his credit was about as f.u.c.ked as a man's credit could be.

Anyway, the price was right and it was his. Soon as his luck changed, and it was gonna change real soon, he'd be under the wheel of something right. Recently, he'd seen this white-over-red '67 El Dorado coupe with factory air, vinyl roof, electric windows and seats in the showroom of Capitol Cadillac-Olds, on 22nd, across town. That was gonna be his next ride. Once you got your mind set on a car, it was like seein' a woman in a club and knowing you were gonna be killin' it in your bed by the end of the night. He knew he was going to own that Caddy in the same way. Thing that hurt him, though, he'd owned a Cadillac nine years ago, at twenty-two, and here he was, grown man of thirty-one, driving a Buick. Seemed lately like he was walking backward through his life, pa.s.sin' hisself on the way down.

But right now, Jones felt good. He was wearing a new b.u.t.ton-down from National s.h.i.+rt Shop, his Flagg Brothers, and his favorite hat, black with the gold band, picked up the gold off his eyes. A .38 was wedged tight between his legs, right up against his d.i.c.k. "Funky Broadway" was on WOOK, and Wicked Wilson was singing it loud. Broadway. He was gonna get up to that motherf.u.c.ker someday, show them how they did in D.C. Drive up there in his Cadillac, too. By then he'd have it tricked with spokes.

Jones cruised down H, along the retail center of Northeast, heading toward 8th, where his cousin Kenneth lived in that little place he'd been staying in for a while, over the liquor store. Whole lot of grown people and kids were on the sidewalks, some carrying bags, some playing, some just moving along. Outside the liquor store stood a wino, asking pa.s.sersby for change. Jones saw Kenneth's Monterey, parked up a ways, and looked for a place to put his Special. They were gonna take the Mercury, on account of it was more reliable and had a little more horse. Jones wasn't nervous about the robbery or nothin' like that. Plus, he'd had a couple of drinks.

Jones saw a police car in his rearview and his hands, due to habit, tightened on the wheel. Then the car pulled over and stopped a little bit up from the liquor store. Jones looked ahead. Another police car was coming from the opposite direction. It went by him and he watched as it, too, slowed near the liquor store and came to stop, nose to a.s.s with the first squad car. Alvin made a turn onto 9th, found a s.p.a.ce, and cut the engine. He slid the pistol under the bench seat, got out of the Buick, locked it, and jogged on up to H.

When he got there, the squad cars had moved on. But he saw a couple of white men in street clothes, looked like police with their builds and the way they moved, kind of hurrying around the area of the liquor store. One of them ducked into the outside foyer area of a market and the other positioned himself with his back against the bricks beside the stairwell entrance to the second-floor apartments. The wino was gone.

Jones went to a pay-phone booth on the corner, dropped change into the slot, and dialed his cousin's number. The phone rang and kept on ringing. The ring became a scream in Alvin Jones's head. It told him that he was never going to see Broadway or ride down the street in that white El D.

"Come on, Kenneth," said Jones. "Pick up the got-d.a.m.n phone."

KENNETH WILLIS HAD dressed in dark clothing and was rifling through his dresser drawer trying to find a pair of stockings this big redbone had left at his crib. He was gonna put one of the stockings over his face when the time came, the way his cousin Alvin had told him to do. "Funky Broadway" was playing from back in the living room, out this box he'd bought from the local Sears. He was charged up for what he was about to do, and Wilson going, "Shake shake shake," and growling, "Lord, have mercy," was charging him further still. dressed in dark clothing and was rifling through his dresser drawer trying to find a pair of stockings this big redbone had left at his crib. He was gonna put one of the stockings over his face when the time came, the way his cousin Alvin had told him to do. "Funky Broadway" was playing from back in the living room, out this box he'd bought from the local Sears. He was charged up for what he was about to do, and Wilson going, "Shake shake shake," and growling, "Lord, have mercy," was charging him further still.

He found the stockings, a pair of fishnets. Well, Alvin had said stockings; he hadn't said what kind.

Willis took one and, couldn't help it, sniffed it before he stuffed it in his front pocket. He looked in the mirror. He was a big man with a chest and some big-a.s.s arms on him, too. Wasn't no one in that market gonna hesitate to hand over whatever he was asking for, they had a look at him. Also, he had a gun.

Willis went out of his bedroom to the small living-room area of his place, stepping on some stroke magazines he had left on the floor. The apartment was all messed up, like it always was. Ashtray was overfilled with b.u.t.ts, beer bottles sat on the eating table, and in the kitchen sink were dishes from last week, still had food on them, with water bugs crawling across the food. Even Willis knew this s.h.i.+thole needed cleaning. Maybe he would pay a woman to do it, soon as he had some money.

He pulled his s.h.i.+rttail out to cover the gun, which he had slipped behind the waistband of his slacks. Cheap gun, but d.a.m.n sure looked like a gun when it got pointed in your face. It was a pocket .32 with a six-shot magazine, and it was pressing into his back. He'd put it somewhere else once they got in the car. His cousin had told him they'd meet on the sidewalk, out in front of the liquor store. Willis hoped he wasn't late.

There was an Earl Scheib commercial on the radio now, and Willis turned it off. He went out the front door, locked the door, and headed down the stairs. He saw a white man with some shoulders coming into the foyer at the bottom of the stairs, where they had the mailbox slots on the wall, and then he heard the phone ringing back in his place, and he stopped where he was. The white man, a look on his face like he'd never seen a black man before, backed up and went outside. Must be one of them working for the landlord or something, come to collect. He was paid up, so it wasn't no concern of his. . . . d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, that phone. Willis looked up the stairs to his place, wondering if he should go back in and catch it. Might be his cousin calling him about a change of plans. But he knew Alvin was already driving over here, because Alvin had told him the time to meet out front, and Alvin was never late. So it couldn't be him. that phone. Willis looked up the stairs to his place, wondering if he should go back in and catch it. Might be his cousin calling him about a change of plans. But he knew Alvin was already driving over here, because Alvin had told him the time to meet out front, and Alvin was never late. So it couldn't be him.

Still, whoever it was, they were trying to get him for something. They were just ringin' the s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t out of that phone, too. out of that phone, too.

Willis went down the stairs. He didn't want to keep Alvin waiting.

The sunlight was bright as he exited the front door of the building. Nice day. Wasn't many people out, though, not even that wino who folks called Cricket, usually stood out front. Willis turned his head to the left and saw the white man he'd seen before rus.h.i.+ng toward him. He had a revolver in his hand and his gun arm was out straight. Willis reached his hand up under the back of his s.h.i.+rt. He heard his back crack and felt a snap in his neck as arms wrapped around him and he was tackled from behind by someone strong. His chest and face hit the sidewalk at the same time, and he said "uh," and tasted blood in his mouth, and heard tires screeching to a stop in the street. White voices yelling at him not to move, and some people in the neighborhood cussing at the police who had taken him down, and the hard feel of cuffs locking on his wrists.

"What we got here?" said the white police who had tackled him, the man's knee now pressing into his back. Willis felt the .32 ripped out of his waistband, the automatic's grip sc.r.a.ping his skin.

"Motherf.u.c.ker," said Willis, spitting blood on the concrete.

"Keep talkin', n.i.g.g.e.r," said a low voice in his ear.

Way he got yanked up off the sidewalk then, felt like his arms were gonna tear right off.

Across the street, down near 9th, Alvin Jones came out of the phone booth and watched as his cousin got took right outside his place. He watched them cuff him and bring him up to a standing position, rough, like they liked to do, and he watched them walk him to a squad car and push him inside. Somewhere in all that, he hoped he had caught Kenneth's eye. Remind him that his blood was still out here, waitin' on him, and everything was gonna be all right.

Kenneth was cool. Kenneth would not give him up. Jones wasn't worried about that.

But it was was a d.a.m.n shame. All that money for the taking, and now it was out of reach. They'd been cheated out of a big opportunity. Wasn't no guarantee something this good was gonna come around again. a d.a.m.n shame. All that money for the taking, and now it was out of reach. They'd been cheated out of a big opportunity. Wasn't no guarantee something this good was gonna come around again.

He walked quickly back toward his car, his lips moving, his face contorted, fussing all the way.

Someone had f.u.c.ked up their plans. Couldn't be no random s.h.i.+t that got the law on his cousin.

Jones came to his Buick. Looking at it, knowing he had to get inside it, hating that he had to get inside it, 'cause he deserved a more stylish ride than this.

Why someone would do this to him and Kenneth he didn't know. But that someone, whoever it was, was someone who needed to be got.

DEREK STRANGE HAD a one-bedroom place in an apartment house on the northeast corner of 13th and Clifton, just above Cardozo High School, a handful of blocks up from the very heart of Shaw. It was close to his parents, Howard University, U Street, and everything else a young black man could want or have need for in a city. The building sat atop the very edge of the Piedmont plateau. The landscape and the street dropped down sharply from there, with the downtown skyline, including the monuments, spread out below. The apartment was not plush in any way, and the neighborhood was what it was, but Strange had a million-dollar view. a one-bedroom place in an apartment house on the northeast corner of 13th and Clifton, just above Cardozo High School, a handful of blocks up from the very heart of Shaw. It was close to his parents, Howard University, U Street, and everything else a young black man could want or have need for in a city. The building sat atop the very edge of the Piedmont plateau. The landscape and the street dropped down sharply from there, with the downtown skyline, including the monuments, spread out below. The apartment was not plush in any way, and the neighborhood was what it was, but Strange had a million-dollar view.

That view was no secret, either. Consequently, the apartments in this building rarely turned over. When one had come up empty, Strange had gotten in over the other candidates when the landlord found out he was a cop. Strange had emphasized it on the application and told the man he would keep an eye out for any criminal activity around the building, though he had no plans to do so at all. Using his uniform to get the place he wanted, well, that was just another perk of having the job.

Except for the view from his window, Strange's place was unremarkable, a bachelor's crib that appeared to be furnished with one eye on economy and the other shut. His couch, eating table, and chairs were secondhand. He didn't have an interest in that kind of thing anyway, and if he knew a woman was coming up, he could make the place look reasonably neat in a matter of minutes. For art and decor, he had hung a couple of posters. On one wall, the Man with No Name, wearing a poncho, that little cigar hanging out his mouth. On another, Jim Brown, grenades in hand, readying himself to make that run across the courtyard of the chateau in The Dirty Dozen, The Dirty Dozen, which Strange had seen first run at the Town theater on 13th and New York two times. He had yellowed newspaper clippings of Brown in uniform as well, from his playing days with Cleveland, which he'd framed on the cheap and hung up around the place in a haphazard way. He had a TV set that he hardly used. He was happy here. Only thing wrong with this building, they didn't allow dogs. He'd seen this boxer at the pound, a tan female, who looked good and had a real nice disposition, too. That would have to wait. which Strange had seen first run at the Town theater on 13th and New York two times. He had yellowed newspaper clippings of Brown in uniform as well, from his playing days with Cleveland, which he'd framed on the cheap and hung up around the place in a haphazard way. He had a TV set that he hardly used. He was happy here. Only thing wrong with this building, they didn't allow dogs. He'd seen this boxer at the pound, a tan female, who looked good and had a real nice disposition, too. That would have to wait.

The dominant feature of the living room was Strange's sound system, purchased at Star Radio on Connecticut and Jefferson, and his music. He had sprung for the components, powered by a Marantz tube amplifier, the previous year, and he would be paying on them through '68. The purchase was an extravagance, given his salary, but to Strange it made coming home every night worthwhile.

Around the stereo was his wax collection, stored in fruit crates, arranged alphabetically. From his father, Strange had gotten full-length alb.u.ms by Ray Charles, Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson, and others, along with some gospel recordings by groups whose members had gone on to careers in R&B. But Strange kept these records mainly because they were a gift from his father; these days he rarely pulled them from their sleeves. Strange was into the new soul thing. To be precise, he was a lover of southern soul. There were exceptions, like the Impressions, who were out of Chicago and making some beautiful, politically courageous music, and some of the artists recording for the Blue Rock and Loma labels, but generally he went for the southern sound.

Otis Redding, the greatest soul singer who ever lived, was his man and would be his man forever, wasn't any question of that. But there were others. He especially liked James Carr, the personification of deep soul, a gut-wrenching, from-the-bottom vocalist who seemed to be intimate with heartache and pain. Also, O. V. Wright, the self-proclaimed Ace of Spades who brought muscle and real emotion to every track he cut, and Solomon Burke, a survivor who always surprised and could work up a head of steam like no other, his songs often climaxing in thrilling ways.

To find his bounty, Strange visited small record stores in Shaw and Petworth, and spent too much money at the Soul Shack, on 12th and G, and Super Music City, down on 7th. He only bought alb.u.ms that he felt were keepers, those that he suspected he would still be listening to in thirty years: Otis Blue Otis Blue and and The Great Otis Redding Sings Soul Ballads, The Great Otis Redding Sings Soul Ballads, Aretha's Aretha's I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You, I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You, and the one full-length that every brother and sister he knew seemed to own, James Brown's legendary and the one full-length that every brother and sister he knew seemed to own, James Brown's legendary Live at the Apollo. Live at the Apollo.

But mainly Strange was a collector of singles. He would buy d.a.m.n near any 45, unheard, if it carried one of "his" labels, because he had come to recognize that these labels had a certain sound. He'd been told by the counter clerk at the Soul Shack that it was session men from Booker T. & the MG's who were doing most of the playing on the hottest songs, but he already knew, without having to be told, that Atlantic, Atco, Dial, Stax, and Volt shared musicians. You could hear the same rhythm and horn sections on cuts from Wilson Pickett, Otis, Rufus and Carla Thomas, Sam & Dave, Aretha, William Bell, Joe Tex, Johnnie Taylor, and others. You could hear this same kind of rough old sound on releases from smaller labels like Goldwax and Back Beat. Most of these recordings, he noticed, came out of Memphis or Muscle Shoals. James Brown was an exception. He recorded on King and Smash, and had a sound that was all his own, but JB, a man who seemed to have dropped down from another planet, was an exception to everything. But there was something about those southern singers and the cats who were backing them up that separated them from their counterparts coming out of Detroit. Some said that the Motown machine had purposely tried to take the s.e.xuality and rawness out of their tracks so they could sell records to the ma.s.ses in general and to white teenagers in particular. Some went even further and more to the point, saying that Motown got you thinking on kissing, while Stax/ Volt made you want to f.u.c.k. But that wasn't exactly fair or right. True, the southerners' vocals were wet with s.e.x, but in them you could also hear the joy and hurt that came along with love. This combination of blues, country, gospel, R&B, and hard history could only have risen up from the area south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Whatever it was, it had gotten into Strange. He had even begun to catalogue the release numbers of each single he owned in a notebook he kept by the stereo. It was a sickness with him, almost an obsession, and he couldn't talk about it or explain it, but what he did know was that when he listened to this music, it just about moved him to tears.

And here he was, feeling that way now. Sitting on the couch, his eyes closed, listening to James Carr singing his new one, "A Man Needs a Woman," Goldwax number 332.

He heard a knock on his door and got up out of his seat. He looked through the rabbit hole and opened the door.

Dennis stood in the frame, wearing yesterday's clothes. There was that smell coming off him, the sweetness of smoke and the cut of cheap wine, that Derek Strange had come to know as his brother's since he'd been back from the service. He was always walking around with some book, and he had one in his hand now. Everything was like it always was, except his eyes, which looked different today, brighter somehow than they had in a while.

"Young D."

"Dennis."