Hard Revolution_ A Novel Part 36

"Ah," said Mike with a wave of his hand. "I don't worry 'bout nothin'."

"Where's Derek?" said Billy.

"Seventh Street, right about now," said Darius, turning up the collar of his jacket. "Working."

"G.o.d bless the MPD," said Billy. "Tell him I was thinking about him, okay?"

"I will," said Darius.

"Hey," said Mike, his voice stopping Darius as he reached for the door. Mike's forehead was streaked with sweat, and his barrel chest rose and fell with each labored breath. A cigarette burned between his fingers.

"What is it?"

"Thanks for comin' in today, Darius," said Mike.

Darius nodded, looking without emotion into Mike's eyes. Neither could know that they would both be dead within the year.

Darius walked from the diner to his car on the street.

"Let's go," said Billy to his father. "Pa-meh." "Pa-meh."

"I ain't goin' nowhere, G.o.dd.a.m.nit," said Mike. "Those boys gonna break my window, somethin'."

"We can fix a window," said Billy, putting his hand on Mike's shoulder. "C'mon, Ba-ba. Ba-ba. It's time to go." It's time to go."

Mike left the register's cash drawer open, as he did every night at closing, so that anyone could see from the street that it was empty. He took the store keys from his pocket and locked the front door.

DESPITE THE WARNING from Derek Strange, Kenneth Willis had phoned Alvin Jones at Ronnie Moses's apartment on Thursday afternoon and told him that Strange was looking to hunt him down. Strange had put a scare into Willis, and a hurting on him, too, but it didn't stop Willis from making the call. He couldn't do Alvin like that. Alvin was kin. from Derek Strange, Kenneth Willis had phoned Alvin Jones at Ronnie Moses's apartment on Thursday afternoon and told him that Strange was looking to hunt him down. Strange had put a scare into Willis, and a hurting on him, too, but it didn't stop Willis from making the call. He couldn't do Alvin like that. Alvin was kin.

On the phone, Jones denied any knowledge of the murder of Dennis Strange. He had decided not to admit it, on account of Dennis was Kenneth's boy from way back and he didn't want Kenneth to get upset. Also, he didn't care to give Kenneth anything the police could use against him if Kenneth got picked up on something later on. Kenneth was strong, but even a strong man could get flipped.

"All right, Ken," said Jones. "Thanks for the tip."

"What you gonna do?" said Willis.

"What you think?" said Jones, as if he were speaking to a child. "Keep my head low. Understand, I ain't have s.h.i.+t to do with your boy's demise, but I can't be f.u.c.kin' with no police nohow."

"You got a plan?"

"Man like me always got a plan," said Jones before hanging up the phone.

The riots of Thursday night had given him his plan. Jones had gone out, near midnight, and stepped onto an eastbound D.C. Transit bus on Rhode Island Avenue with a stocking over his face and his gun in his hand, robbing the driver of eighty dollars in cash. It was the easiest robbery he'd ever pulled. Seemed like all of the police were over in Shaw. He knew they weren't gonna give a good f.u.c.k about some little old stickup job when 14th Street was going up in flames.

And here he was today, in Ronnie's apartment near 7th Street. Standing in front of the mirror, admiring his new s.h.i.+t, which he and Ronnie had looted from the Cavalier Men's Shop between L and K just a little while back. Looking at his new Zanzibar slacks, his Damon knit s.h.i.+rt, and his side-weave kicks. The s.h.i.+rt, especially, was right on, a real nice color gold. Picked up the gold band on his favorite black hat. He c.o.c.ked the hat a little so it sat right on his head.

Ronnie had left the crib to get more vines. Said he was heading down to his place of employment, the big-men's shop, to get what he could, 'cause those clothes there were the only ones in town that could fit a horse like him. Said he knew where his sizes were and exactly the items he wanted, 'cause he'd had his eye on them for some time. Jones telling him he wasn't thinking straight, to be s.h.i.+ttin' in his own feeding trough like that, but Ronnie had waved him away.

"I know what I'm doin'," Ronnie Moses had said, heading for the door. "You with me, blood?"

"Go on," said Jones. "I'm gonna take a little rest."

"Lock the apartment, man, you go out."

"Yeah, all right."

Jones thinking, Now I am really gonna roll. Take someone off for some real cash. 'Cause the police, they are busy. Too busy tryin' to contain those thousands of black motherf.u.c.kers out on the street to worry over one one black motherf.u.c.ker like me. Make a nice score, real money, none of this eighty-dollar s.h.i.+t, and leave town. Go down to South Carolina, where his mother's people still stayed, and visit for a while. See what he could score down there. black motherf.u.c.ker like me. Make a nice score, real money, none of this eighty-dollar s.h.i.+t, and leave town. Go down to South Carolina, where his mother's people still stayed, and visit for a while. See what he could score down there.

Thank you, Dr. King. Thank you for this opportunity.

Jones went to his bag, had all his clothes and s.h.i.+t inside it, which he kept beside the sofa where he slept. He withdrew his old .38, had the bluing rubbed off the barrel. Jones had wrapped black electrical tape around the grip; his hands tended to sweat when he was working, and he needed to have a tight hold on his gun. He released the cylinder, checked the five-shot load, and snapped it shut. He dropped the pistol into the right pocket of his Zanzibar slacks. He found a crumpled-up stocking in a bedroom drawer, belonged to Ronnie's bottom girl, and shoved it into the left pocket of his slacks. He checked himself in the mirror one more time, readjusted his hat, and left the apartment, locking the door behind him as he had said he would.

He went down to 7th Street and walked south.

There were hundreds of young people out on the street, looting stores, hollering and laughing, having fun. Boys and girls, and some older people, too. Cops trying to contain the rioters, having little success. Firemen hosing down burning buildings, ducking the occasional rock and bottle thrown their way.

Leventhal's Furniture Store, at Q, it wasn't much more than a sh.e.l.l now. The store had been stripped of goods and was burning inside. The apartment houses nearby were burning with it.

Leventhal's, thought Jones, stepping around a flaming mattress. Jew name, wasn't it? Like most of the stores down here, owned by Jews. Long after they'd moved out the neighborhood their own selves, they were still doing business on 7th, selling jewelry and furniture and stereos and appliances to blacks. Selling credit, really, and high-interest credit at that. Jones could see the glee on the faces of the looters as they broke into another store. Wasn't much about Dr. King anymore, was was it? It was about getting things for free, and getting back at every motherf.u.c.ker, Jew and white man alike, who'd been bleeding them and stepping on their necks their whole G.o.dd.a.m.n lives. Leastways, that's the way Jones saw it. His people, getting a little bit back. it? It was about getting things for free, and getting back at every motherf.u.c.ker, Jew and white man alike, who'd been bleeding them and stepping on their necks their whole G.o.dd.a.m.n lives. Leastways, that's the way Jones saw it. His people, getting a little bit back.

His people. Truth was, Jones didn't give a f.u.c.k about them. When this was done, they'd go back to their sad-a.s.s lives. While he, Jones, would be driving south with cash in the pockets of his new outfit, maybe under the wheel of that white El D he'd seen across town. Had electric windows and everything.

He pa.s.sed a brother in the street, wearing shades and fatigues, imploring some other young brothers to drop the stolen s.h.i.+t they were carrying and go home.

"Dr. King wouldn't want this!" shouted the man.

Jones laughed. Now he'd seen it all.

A black man stood outside his deli, holding a pistol at his side, watching the neighborhood burn. His store was untouched. Jones pa.s.sed other stores and heard dogs barking and growling viciously behind their doors. These stores, too, had gone untouched.

People ran around him and b.u.mped and said not one thing. He coughed and rubbed at his eyes. The police had started using gas. He was sweating some, too. The fires in the buildings were throwing off serious heat.

Down by the big-men's shop, he saw Ronnie lying facedown in the street, a sweaty white cop over him, knee down, cuffing Ronnie's hands behind his back, other cops doing the same to some other young brothers, a paddy wagon parked nearby.

You f.u.c.ked up, cuz, thought Jones. You have lost your job now, too. But I can't help you, can I? You'll be out in a few days, if you're lucky, and you can put your life together then. In the meantime, I got work to do.

Down below L, past the Cavalier Men's Shop, which had been picked clean, Jones could see a row of police and squad cars blocking off Mount Vernon Square. This was the line dividing black residents from the commercial center of downtown, white D.C. Isn't no surprise, thought Jones. They're protecting the master's castle, like they always do.

Jones cut right and then right again, going north of Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue. He had parked his car over here the night before. He had heard talk on the street that 7th was going to burn the next day. Funny how most everyone down here knew, when the police, they hadn't known a thing.

THE HOUSE IN Wheaton had gone quieter through the morning and into the afternoon. Olga sitting at the kitchen table, smoking her Larks, watching the news broadcasts on the little black-and-white Philco set on a rolling metal stand. Olga telling Alethea how sorry she was for her "people," not meeting Alethea's eyes as she spoke. Frank lumbering around in his robe, reading the sports page, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, like it was any other day. Only their son, Ricky, had talked to her not as a Negro woman but as a woman. Asked her, also, if there was anything he could do to help her get back home. Wheaton had gone quieter through the morning and into the afternoon. Olga sitting at the kitchen table, smoking her Larks, watching the news broadcasts on the little black-and-white Philco set on a rolling metal stand. Olga telling Alethea how sorry she was for her "people," not meeting Alethea's eyes as she spoke. Frank lumbering around in his robe, reading the sports page, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, like it was any other day. Only their son, Ricky, had talked to her not as a Negro woman but as a woman. Asked her, also, if there was anything he could do to help her get back home.

"Your father's going to drive me," she said. "Thank you."

He hugged her outside the kitchen, unselfconsciously, as he had when he was a child. She had always been fond of him. Maybe there was hope in the young. Maybe she and the Vaughns and everyone like them needed to die out before this sickness was erased. It was a shame it had to be that way. But she had the feeling it was so.

Alethea stood in the foyer by the front door, waiting for Frank Vaughn to come downstairs and drive her back home. She could hear his m.u.f.fled voice coming from his and Olga's bedroom, and the music behind the closed door of Ricky's room.

Up in the bedroom, Vaughn slipped his .38 Special into his shoulder holster and went to the small nightstand on his side of the bed. He opened its drawer and used a key on a green lockbox. Inside the box was another gun: a cheap .32 automatic holstered in a clip-on. He removed it from its holster, checked the magazine, and palmed the six-shot load back into the laminated-wood grip. He clipped the reholstered .32, which he had taken off a pimp in Shaw six months earlier, onto the belt line behind his back. He folded a cloth handkerchief into a small square and dropped it into the pocket of his pants. He shook himself into his Robert Hall suit jacket, gray with light blue stripes, and looked himself over in the mirror.

"Why do you have to go in?" said Olga, looking at him from across the room, leaning against the frame of their master bathroom door.

"I'm workin' a case."

"Today?"

"Homicide never sleeps."

"Haven't you been watching the news?"

Vaughn formed his mouth into an O, gave Olga a theatrical look of surprise. "Why, is somethin' goin' on?"

"Don't be an ape."

"I'm not goin' near the trouble spots, Olga. Don't worry."

"Promise me, Frank."

"Okay, I promise."

It was a lie.

"Come here," said Vaughn.

She crossed the room and put her arms around his waist. He lowered his face and kissed her on the lips. He pushed himself against her to let her know he was alive. He thought of Linda Allen and her warm box.

"I might be late tonight, doll."

"Call me. So I know you're all right."

Vaughn left the room and stepped onto the second-floor landing, glancing at Ricky's closed door before going down the stairs. Alethea Strange was waiting for him in the foyer, b.u.t.toning her coat over her uniform dress.

"Let's go," said Vaughn.

"Aren't you gonna say good-bye to your son?"

"What, you kiddin'?"

"Tell him you love him. Hug Hug him, Mr. Vaughn." Alethea made a motion with her chin, pointing it toward the second floor. "Go ahead. I can wait." him, Mr. Vaughn." Alethea made a motion with her chin, pointing it toward the second floor. "Go ahead. I can wait."

Something in her liquid brown eyes told him not to protest. He went back up the stairs and knocked on Ricky's door.

DOWNTOWN GOVERNMENT WORKERS and private-sector employees, hearing the ongoing reports of escalating rioting on the radio, getting panic calls from spouses, and seeing the smoke drifting toward them from the eastern portion of the city, began to leave their jobs in numbers. Retail employees on F Street and in the rest of the downtown district did the same. Ma.s.sive uptown and crosstown traffic jams ensued. Some citizens stepped into four-ways and tried to direct cars through gridlocked intersections. Others abandoned their automobiles and walked, trying to relieve the anxiety they felt at being trapped inside their vehicles. and private-sector employees, hearing the ongoing reports of escalating rioting on the radio, getting panic calls from spouses, and seeing the smoke drifting toward them from the eastern portion of the city, began to leave their jobs in numbers. Retail employees on F Street and in the rest of the downtown district did the same. Ma.s.sive uptown and crosstown traffic jams ensued. Some citizens stepped into four-ways and tried to direct cars through gridlocked intersections. Others abandoned their automobiles and walked, trying to relieve the anxiety they felt at being trapped inside their vehicles.

On Georgia Avenue, the northbound lanes were at a virtual standstill. Vaughn drove his Polara south with relative ease, Alethea Strange beside him on the big bench seat. They had pa.s.sed through Shepherd Park and Sheridan, where there had been scattered window-breaking and looting at places like Ida's department store, but nothing of the magnitude of 7th Street below. The sky had darkened and the smell of smoke grew stronger as they drove deeper into the city.

Vaughn lit a cigarette and kept it in his left hand, hanging it out the window so as not to bother Alethea. He turned on the radio and tuned it to a middle-of-the-road station just as the DJ began to introduce a song: "And here's one you're gonna like, Frank and Nancy Sinatra doing 'Somethin' Stupid.' I'm Fred Fiske, and you're listening to twelve six-oh, WWDC."

Vaughn sang the Frank parts under his breath and let Nancy do her thing without his accompaniment. Alethea had to marvel at Vaughn's nonchalant att.i.tude in the face of the ongoing events. But then, that was Frank Vaughn all over. Single-minded, unchanging, stuck in a time that never was and that existed, perhaps, only in his mind.

"Did you talk to Ricky?" said Alethea as the song came to an end.

"A little," said Vaughn, keeping his eyes on the road.

"He's a good boy."

"Yeah, he's all right."

"It's important to tell them that you love them," she said. "Every time they leave the house, or you leave . . . You just don't know if you'll ever have the chance again. Only the Lord has that kind of knowledge."

"Amen," said Vaughn clumsily.

He was sweating a little under his collar. He knew she was reflecting on the death of her firstborn son and her own regrets. He had never been comfortable with these kinds of conversations.

When he'd gone into Ricky's room, their brief exchange had been awkward and forced. Ricky hadn't even turned down the music, some guy singing about his "white room," something to do with drugs, most likely. Vaughn had given his son a hug before he left, as Alethea had suggested, the first one he'd given him in years. It felt as okay as an embrace could feel between two men. What he hadn't done was tell Ricky that he loved him. He didn't understand why you had to say you loved your kid or, for that matter, put your arms around him to show it. h.e.l.l, he'd been feeding him, clothing him, and buying him things his whole life. For Chrissakes, wasn't that enough?

"Thank you," said Alethea.

"For what?"

"Looking after Derek yesterday during that robbery. He told me the whole story."

"He . . ." Vaughn searched for the word. "He acquitted himself well. He's a fine young man. Gonna be good police."

They drove into Park View and neared her street.

"I'm worried about him," said Alethea. "Out there in all this."

Vaughn could feel her eyes on him directly.

"I'll look after him," said Vaughn as casually as he could. "I'm goin' down there now."

Down there, thought Vaughn, to find the one who murdered your son. I have f.u.c.ked up everything good in my life, but there is one thing that I still do right.

"Thank you, Frank," she said.

He felt himself blush as he heard her say his name. He turned left onto Princeton and went slowly up the street. He stopped at her row house, where her husband, Darin or whatever his name was, stood out front. He turned to look at her. She nodded at him once and smiled with her eyes. Vaughn thinking, She's no Julie London. But, d.a.m.n, that is a woman right there.

Vaughn watched husband and wife embrace on the front stoop of their row house before he turned the Dodge around. He felt an unfamiliar stab of jealousy as he drove down to Georgia Avenue and hung a left. He put this feeling from his mind and punched the gas. At Irving, a group of kids stood on the sidewalk yelling things at southbound cars. A kid screamed "white motherf.u.c.ker" at Vaughn as he pa.s.sed.

Vaughn flicked his cigarette out the open window and laughed.

THIRTY-THREE.