Hard Revolution

“They gonna try and make you talk.”

“They already did,” said Willis, sick from the coppery taste in his mouth.

“You got a lawyer?”

“They gonna give me one, I expect.”

“You can beat a little old gun rap.”

“Yeah, but they ain’t even charged me yet. They just gonna let me sit here for a while, I guess.”

“That ain’t legal.”

“Black motherfucker like me, legal ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.” Willis shifted his eyes to the sergeant, then back to the wall in front of him. “Thing of it is, they knew about our plan.”

“Say what?”

“The market,” said Willis. “They knew. Now, why you think that is?”

Alvin Jones let that lie in his brain.

“Kenneth.”

“Yeah.”

“You call here again, I might not be in, you understand?”

“You goin’ back with Mary?”

“Nah, man. That baby’s got the cryin’ disease, and I cannot take it. I’ll be at cousin Ronnie’s crib, over there off 7th. But that’s for you only. Don’t you tell no one where I went.”

“I won’t say nothin’.”

“I know it. You a soldier, Ken.”

Jones told his cousin to be strong, then hung up the phone. His eyes went narrow and he began to mumble. Sitting there in the living-room chair of Lula Bacon’s apartment, rattling ice cubes in a highball glass where bourbon had been.

They knew. His cousin’s words burned through his head.

“What’s wrong with you?” said Lula, standing over him, her hand on her hip.

“Nothin’,” said Jones.

“You talkin’ to yourself and your eyes are funny.”

“Go on, bitch,” said Jones, holding out his glass. “Get me another drink.”

Jones watched her head into the kitchen. He lit a Kool and dragged on it deep.

Okay. They knew. But how’d they know? Who the fuck would have the nerve to talk to the police about their plans, and why? Lula? Nah, he never told her anything. Only one he could think of… that smart-mouthed boy Dennis, one had the police brother. Yeah, he was the one. Had to be. Tryin’ to be all Dudley Do-Right and shit.

Jones remembered Dennis, right in this very spot, advising him on how to draw the number out the box score. Telling him that Frank Howard was seven ’cause he played left.

Jones grabbed the phone off the stand, dialed, and got his bookie on the line.

“Alvin,” said the bookie. “How’s it goin’, brother?”

“What the number was?” said Jones.

The bookie told him he hadn’t hit. The numbers that had come out weren’t even close to the ones he’d played.

Jones hung up the phone. He pictured Dennis Strange in his head. Acting superior, talkin’ all that clever shit, looking to play him. Defying him, sitting in the backseat of the Mercury the night before, holding one of his dumb-ass books, like he was better than him and Kenneth, his so-called friend. The friend that he’d betrayed. Boy gave out bad advice, too.

Alvin Jones watched his hand shake as he ashed his cigarette. He felt his blood go tick tick tick.

NINETEEN

DEREK STRANGE WAS listening to a Dial single, Joe Tex doing “A Sweet Woman Like You,” when Lydell Blue buzzed him from the lobby. Strange turned off the music, checked himself in the full-length mirror he had hung by the front door, and went down to meet Lydell. Night had fallen on the streets.

Strange dropped into the bucket of Lydell’s gold Riviera. Blue’s big arms and chest stretched the fabric of his shirt as he put the car in gear.

“Where we headed, Ly?”

“Barry Place.”

“Shoot, we coulda walked.”

“I walked a beat all day. Besides, we meet some girls tonight, you think they’re gonna want us to walk them home?”

“You got a point.”

“I ain’t makin’ payments on this Riv for nothin’.”

They went down the hill alongside Cardozo, then east on Florida. Blue punched the gas, and the car seemed to lift off.

“What you got in this thing, the Apollo rocket?”

“Four-oh-one Nailhead,” said Blue, stroking his thick black mustache.

Strange had a look at the interior of the car. Blue kept it spotless, in and out; you could groom yourself looking into the mirror finish on the body. It was the ’63, the first year Buick had offered the model. Auto turbine, power windows, power seats, even had an antenna went up and down when you pushed a button. He’d bought it used, off that little old lady from Pasadena that every car lover was looking for. Still, even though it was five years old, it hadn’t come cheap. Blue still lived with his mother and father over there in Petworth because he couldn’t afford both an apartment and the nut on this car.

“It is nice,” said Strange.

“What is?”

“Your ride. But the question is, you do meet a girl tonight, where you gonna take her later on?”

“Your place,” said Blue, like he was telling a stupid man his own name. He used Strange’s apartment regularly for just that purpose.

“Fine with me, long as it ain’t like it was with that last girl you had.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“Y’all kept me up half the night.”

“One of those churchgoing types,” said Blue with a wink of his eye. “Girl sings gospel.”

“Sounds like she screams it, too.”

“Go on, Derek.”

Strange smiled. As kids, he and Blue had stood up for each other in the schoolyard and on the streets. At Roosevelt High, both had played football, with Strange going both ways at tight end and safety, and Blue a star halfback. Strange was more a blocker than he was a receiver and had opened many holes for Lydell, who had set that year’s Interhigh record for ground yardage gained in his senior season. It was in one of those final games that Strange had torn the ligaments in his knee, an injury that would keep him out of the draft. After graduation, Blue went into the army while Strange worked a succession of futureless jobs and recovered from the operation that fixed his knee. Then, when Blue returned from the service, both applied to the MPD and entered the academy. You made new friends all your life, but none were as special as the ones you’d made early on.

“Wanna hear somethin’?” said Blue.

“Pick it,” said Strange.

Blue reached over and turned on the AM. DJ Bob Terry was introducing Marvin Gaye’s