Hard Revolution

“Look here, Dennis…”

“What?”

“I’m going out soon. Lydell and me are going by this party, over near Howard.”

“Can I come?”

“Wouldn’t be a good idea,” said Derek, too quickly. “I mean, it’s not like you’d know anyone, right?”

“Relax. I’m just playin’ with you, man. You and me don’t exactly swing with the same crowd.”

Derek was instantly ashamed for trying to talk his brother out of coming with him and Lydell. There was a time when he’d looked way up to Dennis. When, aside from his father, his big brother had been his main hero. Back then, he would have given anything for Dennis to ask him to come along to a party or anywhere else. In those days, it felt like a privilege just to walk by his side.

“You’re welcome to stay here tonight,” said Derek. “Put some space between you and Pop. I know it’s been rough lately between you two.”

“Yeah, it’s been rough. On my side of things, it’s hard to live up to his expectations. But I can dig it. I been a disappointment to him, I know.”

Derek said nothing.

“Think I might have turned a corner, though,” said Dennis.

“How’s that?”

“Seein’ things more clearly, is all I’m trying to say.”

“Somethin’ happen?”

“Wasn’t like a lightning bolt came shootin’ out of heaven. It came to me slow. The point is, it came. What I was thinking was, a man’s got to have a plan.”

“True.”

“Doesn’t have to be a big plan.”

“I hear you.”

“You were talking about trying to hook me up with a job. I think I’d like to look into that. I mean, it would be something, right?”

“Sure would be,” said Derek. “It would be a start.”

“Nothing too strenuous, ’cause of this back of mine.”

“Right.”

“Anyway,” said Dennis. “I was on the bus, heading down to U. Saw Clifton Street and pulled the cord. Thought I’d stop by and see you. If you were wondering why I came by.”

“You’re welcome anytime.”

Dennis picked his book up off the coffee table and rose from the couch. “Well, let me get on out of here, then.”

“You’re not gonna stay?”

“I don’t think so. Gonna catch a movie, somethin’, then head back to the house. Talk to Pop the way I talked to you.”

Derek stood and shook Dennis’s hand. “Thought you looked different when you walked in here.”

“I’m still me.”

“So we shouldn’t be expecting you to buy any tickets to this year’s policemen’s ball, huh?”

“I’m angry, man. I’m always gonna be angry about the way things are. And I’m gonna keep speaking my mind.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that.”

“I just hope I live to see a better world.”

“I do, too.”

“But I want you to know somethin’, Derek. I been angry, but I ain’t never been angry at you. Matter of fact, I always been proud of you, man. Always.”

Derek took a step toward his brother. Dennis brought him in and held him tight. They patted each other on the back. They broke apart and Dennis stood straight.

“I felt that,” said Dennis, wiping at his eye.

“What?”

“You tried to grab my rod.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You damn sure did.”

“Go ahead, man.”

“I’m gone,” said Dennis. He smiled and went out the door.

Later, Derek Strange stood at his southern window, watching his brother limping down the hill of 13th Street. Thinking, I should’ve told him I was proud of him, too.

EIGHTEEN

AFTER WORK, DOMINIC Martini went down to the 6,000 block of Georgia, entered John’s Lunch, and took a seat on a stool at the L-shaped counter. He ordered a Swiss steak dinner and had a smoke while old man Deoudes prepared the meal. There was no kitchen in the back, so Martini knew the place was okay. That was one of the few useful things his father had taught him: “Eat in a place has the kitchen out front. That way, you gonna know it’s clean.”

John Deoudes’s wife, whose name was Evthokia but who the customers called Mama, was behind the counter. Their youngest son, Logan, back from the navy in ’65, was working the grill. On the stools and in the booths were neighborhood old-timers and other locals who were just getting off work. Martini saw one of the butchers from Katz’s, the kosher market across the street, take two steaks from inside his jacket and slip them to Mama. She put one in the refrigerator for her family and gave the other to Logan to cook for the butcher. Martini realized he knew everyone in here by name or sight. This place hadn’t changed since he was a kid.

He had his food, a cup of coffee, and another smoke. Logan Deoudes, compact and muscular, came by and said hello.

“Whaddaya know, Dom?”

“Nothin’ much. You still got that dog?”

“Greco? He’s breathin’.”

“Nice dog.”

Deoudes looked him over. “You all right?”

Martini paid up, put some change on the counter, and left John’s. He went south on Georgia Avenue. He loved his Nova but usually walked from his mother’s house to the station and back again. He was never in a hurry to get home.

Across the street, a small crowd was gathered around the box office of the Sheridan. When they were teenagers, Martini and his brother, Angelo, used to climb up a fire ladder that led to the roof and sneak in a window that opened to a hall near the projection booth. If the manager, a guy named Renaldi, didn’t nail them right away, they’d hide in the men’s room until the show began, then take their seats in the dark. The theater was the hot spot of the neighborhood, an A house that was also a good place to try and pick up girls. Now they ran second-bill westerns, Universal Bs, and Greek movies on Wednesday nights.

Tonight was a George Peppard picture, Rough Night in Jericho, had Dean Martin in it, too. All Italian Americans knew that Martin’s real name was Martini. Angie used to ask him, “Hey, Dom, you think we’re related, like?” and Martini would smack him on the back of the head and say, “Yeah, and Nancy Sinatra’s our sister, too.”

Dominic Martini would have given his life, right now, to take back all the times he’d