headlights, grille, hood, and front quarter panels of a red Ford. He’d visit certain garages that had a history of breaking down or repairing vehicles associated with criminals and crime.
If it was determined that this was something other than a homicide, then his involvement would end. It might have been a garden-variety blind drunk who had hit the kid, panicked, and fled. If so, then the hope would be that the driver would wake up sober, see Jesus, call the police, and turn himself in. But Vaughn was almost certain this would become one of his.
North of the death spot, the grassy strips framing the sidewalk had been tracked and dug up in spots, telling Vaughn that the driver of the Ford had deliberately gone off the road. Also, the car had burned rubber on the street, with skid marks at the scene, indicating recklessness and acceleration. It was as if Vernon Wilson had been hunted. The loud music meant the driver or occupants were young and, to some degree, enjoying the game, too.
It was highly doubtful that Wilson was connected to someone of importance in some political way, so there would be no pressure to solve the case. This was, at bottom, a colored kid with a broken neck, a low priority at best. Still, Vaughn would do his job.
DENNIS STRANGE STOOD in the alley that ran behind Princeton and Otis. He struck a match and cupped his hand around the flame. Masking its flare, he lit the joint he’d rolled, drew on it, and let the sweet smoke lie in his lungs.
A dog was barking at the north T of the alley, up near Park View Elementary. He knew from the deep sound that the dog, a long-haired German shepherd, was the family pet of those people, the Broadnaxes, who’d recently lost a son in the war. They’d had that animal for fifteen years. He could identify most every dog around these blocks by their barks. It was a thing that happened when you stayed in one place so long. In his case, too long. Wasn’t natural for a man to be staying with his parents past a certain age, he knew. But then, he hadn’t planned it. Problem was, he never had planned a thing.
Dennis let the smoke out and took more in.
Up in the kitchen of his parents’ apartment, the circular fluorescent in the ceiling had been shut off. He could see the blue light of the television playing on the walls, bleeding out from the living room, where his father still sat. Watching a western if there was one on; if not, one of those cop things.
Dennis had delivered the check to his man, James Hayes, the longtime dealer who lived over on Otis, and had gotten some smoke in return. Hayes was on the old side, not flashy, dressed clean, quiet. Lived alone and occasionally entertained women friends. Every neighborhood seemed to house dealers like him, one for gage and one for heroin. Sometimes, but not often, the same man sold both. Many of the adults living in the vicinity knew what the man did to make his living, and as they grew, the kids learned, too. Most of the time, people decided to go about their business and let him be.
Dennis drew hard on the reefer and felt it hit him like a kiss.
You didn’t talk to the police. That was the rule. Not unless some violent shit got perpetrated on an elderly person or a kid. In the eyes of many, a snitch was worse than a criminal. That’s just the way it was. Even his father, about as straight as a man could be, felt that way.
Not that his father didn’t admire Derek and his uniform. It was understating it to say that he did. Loving his son the policeman was different, though, than loving the police. To go to a police for something that could work itself out or be worked out by means other than the law, well, that was wrong. Dennis felt that way for sure. Course, it did present problems sometimes. Like that thing that was gonna go down tomorrow with Alvin and Kenneth. If his father knew about something like that in advance and one of those involved was his friend, what would he do?
The reefer had begun to work on Dennis’s head. His thoughts grew grandiose and bold.
Okay: He wasn’t gonna stand back and let those boys rob that market. Way Alvin was wired, he might just murder that older brother behind the counter if things went wrong. And he, Dennis, would have that on his head. Another thing to add to his list of shame.
He could do something about it. Something that would make his father look at him the way he looked at Derek. The way he himself looked at Derek in his mind.
“Oh, shit,” said Dennis, chuckling at the thought, liking the thought, staring at the joint burning between the fingers of his hand.
Maybe I’ll let this high come on me full now, he thought. Walk around a little, think up a plan.
That would be a change for me, thought Dennis Strange. A plan.
FIFTEEN
ON MONDAY, DOWN in Memphis, the body of sixteen-year-old Larry Payne, shot and killed by a white policeman, lay in state at Clayborn Temple African Methodist Episcopal Church, the starting point for the previous week’s march led by the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Hundreds of blacks came to the church to pay their respects under the gaze of National Guard troops. King would return the following day to Memphis, where he was scheduled to lead another march on Friday.
On Monday, around the country, politicians commented publicly on LBJ’s withdrawal from the race and his new, relatively dovish stance on the war in Vietnam. Former Vice President Richard Nixon, the leading Republican candidate, said that “a bombing halt in itself would not be a step toward peace.” California governor Ronald Reagan stated that “de-escalation has usually resulted in the death of more Americans” and added that he “would favor a step-up of the war.” Robert Kennedy, Eugene McCarthy, and Vice President Hubert Humphrey publicly expressed support for the president’s decisions while scrambling behind the scenes to capitalize on this unexpected opportunity and position themselves more favorably for the upcoming race. Johnson himself, in an unusually candid and relaxed speech to the National Association of Broadcasters, said that there were “some things that a president cannot do to buy popularity” and admitted to his “shortcomings as a communicator.”
On Monday, in D.C., working-class people went about their day-to-day. Derek Strange and Troy Peters patrolled their district. Buzz Stewart followed Walter Hess to a garage in Hyattsville, Maryland, where Hess dropped off his Galaxie to be repaired. Then Stewart drove Hess to his job at the machine shop and went on to his own shift at the Esso station, where Dominic Martini was already on the clock, pumping gas. Inside the Three-Star on Kennedy Street, Darius Strange stood over a hot grill, trying not to think of the pain in his back, while Mike Georgelakos patrolled the diner, operating the register and making small talk with the customers. Ella Lockheart served food around him. Kenneth Willis cleaned an elementary school off Kansas Avenue in Northwest. Alethea Strange cleaned a house on Caddington Avenue in Silver Spring. Her older son, Dennis, rode down 7th Street in a D.C. Transit bus.
Dennis Strange, carrying a book he had been reading, got off the bus between Florida and Rhode Island and walked east into the low-number streets of LeDroit Park. He found the market with the green-and-gold sign over the door and went inside.
The old Jew, Mr. Ludvig, sat behind the counter, the
Mr. Ludvig raised his head as Dennis entered the shop. Negative recognition came to his watery eyes. Then he forced himself to smile. “You’re my pack of Kools. Am I right?”
“That was me,” said Dennis, “but not today. I’m lookin’ for that man works here, goes by John.”
“Mr. Thomas is in the stockroom.”
“I speak to him?”
Ludvig looked Dennis over, then got off his stool slowly, grunted, and walked into the stockroom. Dennis heard muffled voices, and in short order Ludvig returned.
