“I was hoping you would.”
“Pop?”
“What?”
“I don’t want you to worry. I’m gonna take care of this, hear?”
“Your mother told you something tonight. I want you to mind it.”
“I will.”
“You been given a responsibility, son. You’re not just protecting your community out here. You’re representing us, too. You do something to betray that, you don’t deserve to be wearin’ that uniform.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go on, boy,” said Darius. “And be quiet goin’ along back there. I don’t want you to wake your mother.”
Derek fell asleep in Dennis’s bed, the smell of his brother in the room.
TWENTY-FOUR
ON THURSDAY, APRIL 4, in Memphis, Dr. King met with his staff in a room of the Lorraine Hotel and made plans for Monday’s march.
At midmorning in D.C., Alethea Strange answered a knock on her door. In the open frame stood a dark-skinned man, near her husband’s age, with gray in his close-cropped hair. A bag of groceries was cradled in his arm.
“My name is John Thomas. Is this the Strange residence?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the mother of Dennis?”
“I am.”
“My sympathies on the death of your son.”
Alethea cocked her head. “Were you a friend to Dennis?”
“Not exactly. We spoke briefly this past Monday. I read about his death in the
“Yes?”
“When one runs out of something, the other helps him out. I volunteered to come pick this stuff up, after reading the papers… Your son told me you lived up on Princeton, so I asked Mr. Meyer where your place was.”
“I don’t understand.” Alethea had backed up a step and was holding on to the door for support. “Why have you come here?”
Thomas knew he was talking too fast, confusing the woman, who was obviously weak with grief. But he was nervous, too, and didn’t quite know how to get to the point.
“I knew your husband,” said Thomas.
“I don’t recall him ever speaking of you.”
“We weren’t tight… What I mean is, I knew him by sight, from the American Legion. Post Five? I used to see him at those meetings at Republic Gardens, long time ago. We talked a few times, you know.” Thomas cleared his throat. “I was wondering, could I speak with him for a minute, if he’s not too busy? I’ve got some information about your son.”
“My husband is at work,” said Alethea.
Darius had gone in early, despite the fact that Mike Georgelakos had insisted he take the day off. Darius felt that the place would fall apart without him, and anyway, it was worse for him to be sitting around the apartment with nothing to occupy his mind. Alethea understood. She was not physically ready to return to work, but she would be soon. In fact, she planned to go to her regular Friday house, the Vaughns’, the next day.
“Maybe I ought to stop by later,” said Thomas. “I don’t mean to trouble you.”
“Please come in,” said Alethea, pulling back the door, stepping aside. “My younger son, Derek, is here.”
“I should stop by later,” said Thomas, not wanting to say what he had to say to some kid.
“If you have some information,” said Alethea with a sudden firmness, “you should speak to my son. Please come in.”
Thomas did as he was told and stepped into the apartment. As he entered, Derek Strange emerged from a hall leading to the bedrooms.
“What’s goin’ on?” said Derek.
“This man is here to see you,” said Alethea.
“About what?” said Derek, in no mood for pleasantries.
“You can speak freely,” said Alethea, looking at the man with the gray hair and the kind eyes. “My son’s police.”
VAUGHN SAT AT the kitchen table in his boxers and a T-shirt, nursing a hangover that two Anacin, coffee, eggs and bacon, and a couple of L amp;Ms had not yet cured. He read the sports page, mechanically saying “yep” and “uh-huh” and “yes, Olga” every so often, as his wife described a pair of double- strap sling-back patents she’d seen at the Franklin Simon in the new Montgomery Mall. She leaned against the sink, her yellow apron standing out in contrast to her helmet of raven black hair.
“They’re only sixteen dollars,” said Olga. “It’s not like it’s gonna break us.”
“It’s only money,” said Vaughn, his lids at half-mast, his eyes squarely on the paper spread before him. “Easy come, easy go.”
Vaughn read that the Baltimore Bullets, who had finished in last place the previous season, were looking to draft Wes Unseld, the big All-American kid out of Louisville.
“I can put them on our Central Charge,” said Olga.
“That’s an idea,” said Vaughn. Not a good idea, but an idea.
The Kentucky Colonels, from that new league, were trying to get Unseld as well. Coach Shue would pull it off. Shue was all right. Vaughn had seen him in a bar one time, with a nice-looking redhead, lighting her cigarette. A man’s man.
“Frank, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Olga.”
The phone, canary yellow like Olga’s apron, rang in the kitchen. Olga crossed the linoleum and snatched the receiver off the wall.
“Vaughn residence… Just a moment.” She held the receiver out for Vaughn. “It’s you. Business.”
Vaughn’s arm shot out with a rush of energy he had not felt all morning. “Frank Vaughn here.”
He listened to the man on the other end of the line. He told the man that he needed an hour, to “shit, shower, and shave.”
“See you there,” said Vaughn before hanging up the phone.
“What’re you smiling about?” said Olga as Vaughn got out of his chair.
“I got a hit,” said Vaughn.
Going up the stairs to the split-level’s second floor, he passed Ricky, coming down with books under his arm on his way to classes. Vaughn said nothing to his son, thinking only about the phone call and what it meant. He had that feeling he got, light on his feet, when he was close.
