Hard Revolution

answered.

“… I don’t like to predict violence, but if nothing is done between now and June to raise ghetto hope, I feel this summer will not only be as bad, but worse than last year.”

Some of the men in the crowd looked at their wives as this was said. These same men and women then glanced at their children.

Soon the boy grew bored, as he did not understand the meaning of Dr. King’s words. He walked from the cathedral grounds back toward the property where his own church and people stood. His grandfather was leaning against his gold ’63 Buick Wildcat, parked on Garfield. He flicked the last of his cigarette onto the street and opened the passenger door for the boy. Then he got under the wheel of his car and turned the ignition.

“You went to hear the mavros, eh?” said the grandfather, pulling away from the curb.

“I heard a little,” said the boy. “Is he good?”

“Good?” The grandfather shrugged. “What the hell do I know? I think he believes what he’s sayin’. Anyway, he’s stirring things up, that’s for sure.”

The boy reached for the radio switch. “Where we goin’?”

“To see Kirio Georgelakos, over on Kennedy Street. He ran out of tomatoes. I told him we’d drop some by.”

The boy, whose name was Nick Stefanos, fiddled with the dial of the radio, stopping it at 1390. He found a rock-and-roll song he liked on WEAM and upped the volume. He began to sing along.

“What the hell?” said the grandfather, also named Nick Stefanos, with a gruff voice. But he was not annoyed. In fact, he was amused. He looked across the bench and gave the boy a crooked smile.

BIG NICK STEFANOS parked his Wildcat in the alley behind a fastback Mustang, got a crate of tomatoes out of his trunk, and called through the screen door of the Three-Star before he and his grandson walked inside. He dropped the crate in the small storage room before going through a doorway leading to the dishwashing area behind the counter.

“Niko,” said Mike Georgelakos, holding a spatula, leaning over the grill, his bald dome framed by patches of gray.

“I put the tomatoes in the back.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Tipota.”

Nick and his grandson went around the counter, nodding at Billy, Mike’s son, who was working colds. Billy, a younger, taller, hairier version of his father, wore an apron and kept a ballpoint pen lodged behind his ear. Over by the urns, a thin waitress pulled down on a black handle and drew a stream of coffee into a cup. The two Nicks found seats on empty stools.

All the booths and half the counter seats were taken. Mike Georgelakos opened for a few hours on Sundays to catch an after-church flurry that occurred between noon and one o’clock. Many of the customers wore dresses and suits. Gospel music came from the radio set on the AM station that normally played rhythm and blues.

A black cop and a white cop, both in uniform, sat at the counter having breakfast. Before them were cups of coffee and plates of eggs, potatoes, grilled onions, and half smokes. Occasionally they said a few quiet words to each other, but mostly they worked on their food. A couple of teenage boys sitting in a booth with their mother stared boldly at the backs of the police officers, studying their size and the service revolvers holstered on their hips.

“That your new car out back, Billy?” said the older Nick.

“It’s a two-plus-two,” said Billy Georgelakos, his eyes on the club sandwich he was making on the board in front of him.

“Orayo eine.”

“Yeah, it’s nice.”

“Tha fas simera?” called Mike from behind the grill.

“No food today,” said Nick Stefanos. “Just a quick caffe for me and a cherry Co-Cola for my boy.”

The frail, pretty waitress drew a coffee for the older man, poured a shot of cherry syrup into a glass of Coke she had pulled from the soda dispenser, and served them both.

“Ella, you do good work.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nick.”

They drank up their coffee and soda. The boy was not uncomfortable here, as his grandfather also owned a lunch counter, Nick’s Grill, on 14th and S, that catered to blacks. Still, in both establishments he was always aware that he was in a different world than his own.

Big Nick left a dollar under his saucer for Ella. He and the boy went to the register, where Mike had just finished ringing up a sale. It was understood that Mike would not give Nick money for the tomatoes and that sometime in the future the debt would be repaid in kind. Also understood was that the drinks were on the house.

“How you doin,’ young man?” said Mike to the boy. “You all right?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy.” Mike turned to the older man, whom he’d known for twenty-some-odd years. “You went to church, eh? I heard the mavros was supposed to talk down there.”

“King?” said Nick Stefanos. “He talked. Got a big crowd, too.”

“He’s gonna make trouble,” said Mike, lowering his voice. “He’s gonna get ’em all stirred up.”

“Whatever’s gonna happen’s gonna happen,” said Nick with a shrug. He looked across the counter at Mike, carrying twenty pounds he didn’t need, sweating, breathing hard from walking down twenty feet of rubber mats. “You can’t stop it, patrioti, so don’t waste your time worryin’ about it. You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

Mike waved his hand. “Goddamn, you know me, I don’t worry about nothin’.”

“Looks like you can use some help. Where’s your grill man today?”

“He don’t work Sundays. Between me and my boy and Ella, we can handle it all right.”

“Take it easy, Michali,” said Nick, reaching over the counter to shake Mike’s hand.

“You, too.”

As Nick Stefanos and his grandson left the store, the two cops dropped some change on the counter, got up off their stools, and walked to the register. The boys who had been staring at them so boldly looked down at their plates as the tall men crossed the room.

“How you like it, boys?”

“I’m gonna be dreamin’ about those half smokes tonight,” said the white cop, who had the South in his voice.

“That’s my signature,” said Mike, catching the black cop’s eye. “I learned it from a pro.”

“How much, Mr. Mike?” said the black cop.

“Two dollars for both,” said Mike, charging them two dollars less than he would have charged civilians.

“Have a blessed day, young man,” said the waitress, Ella Lockheart, as she passed behind the black cop, who was in the process of returning his wallet to the back pocket of his slacks.

“You do the same.”

At the door, the young black cop, broad shouldered, dark skinned, and handsome,