Hard Revolution

days. I hated to even call you up, but I’m callin’ everyone, understand?”

“I’m fine,” said Strange, thinking of Alvin Jones, thinking of where Kenneth Willis had said he’d be. “I’m right off Georgia Avenue, just a couple of miles north of Seventh. I’ll head down there now.”

“Good luck.”

Strange went to the stove in the kitchen and used a straight match to light the gas of one of the burners, where his mother had left half a pot of coffee. He returned to the living room and turned on the television news.

Fourteenth Street was burning. Hundreds of youths were reported to be moving south on 7th Street, looting and starting fires. The Charles Macklin Furniture Store, at O, had been looted and was now aflame. Crowds were forming on H Street, where a liquor store was on fire. Sporadic burning and looting had begun east of the Anacostia River. In the downtown shopping district, the Hecht’s and Woodward and Lothrop’s flagship stores had shut down and carpenters had boarded their windows after youths ran through the aisles, stealing small items and yelling obscenities and threats at customers and clerks.

Strange got a cup of hot black coffee, came back out to the phone, and looked up the number of the Washington Sanitarium in the book. The receptionist put him through to Troy Peters’s room. He told Troy about his night and relayed the current situation.

“I’m watching it on TV,” said Peters. “The reporter said that LBJ’s gonna call in the army and the guard.”

“You’re gonna miss all the action.”

“Looks like I caught a lucky bullet.”

“I guess you did. You, who wanted to be on that welcome wagon come revolution time.”

“It shouldn’t have happened like this.”

“Wasn’t but one way for it to happen. Everybody saw the fuse burnin’, but they turned their heads away.”

“Listen…”

“Lotta people sorry now,” said Strange. “I gotta get to work.”

“Take care of yourself, Derek.”

“You, too.”

Strange built a sandwich, not knowing when he’d get his next meal, and washed it down with two glasses of water. He drank another cup of coffee while he got back into his uniform in his brother’s room. The uniform stank of last night’s dirt and sweat. He fastened his utility belt around his waist, patted his handcuffs at the small of his back, and felt for the backup ammo in his dump pouch. He pushed his nightstick down through its loop. He checked the load of his.38 and slipped it into his swivel holster. He looked at his brother’s unmade bed before walking back out to the living room and picking up the phone.

Strange called his father at the diner. He told him that he was going in and suggested that his father get back home.

“I’m leaving now,” said Darius. “Mike’s about to close.”

“What about Mama?”

“I called her at the Vaughns’. She says that Frank Vaughn’s heading into town. He’s gonna drive her in.”

“Vaughn’s okay,” said Strange. “He’ll make sure she gets in safe.”

“Right.”

“I might be out here for a while, Pop. I don’t want y’all to worry about me.”

“I’ll see you at supper on Sunday,” said Darius, trying to steady the catch in his voice.

“I’ll be there,” said Strange.

He left the apartment, went down Princeton, and turned left on Georgia Avenue. He walked south, hearing the sirens of police cars and fire trucks coming from all directions. A young man yelled something angrily at him from a passing car, and Strange did not react. He stopped for a moment at the crest of the long hill that descended along Howard University and looked down to the Florida Avenue intersection, where Georgia became 7th Street. People swarmed in the canyon there under a smoke-dark sky.

THIRTY-TWO

OUTSIDE THE THREE-STAR Diner, on Kennedy Street, young men stood on the sidewalk, occasionally looking through the plate-glass window, alternately laughing and hard-eyeing Mike Georgelakos and his son, Billy, both behind the counter. Mike knew all of them by sight and many by name; he knew their parents and had served a few of their grandparents as well.

Darius Strange had used a brick to clean the grill, left his toque lying on the sandwich board, and was in the process of putting on his jacket. Ella Lockheart had finished filling the ketchup bottles and the salt and pepper shakers, and now sat on one of the red stools, applying lipstick that she had taken from her purse. Halftime, the dishwasher and utility man, had phoned in sick.

“Mavri,” said Mike with disgust, looking at the kids.

“Dad,” said Billy.

“What the hell,” said Mike.

Darius had heard all the bad Greek words come from Mike’s mouth over the years. He knew that mavri, in all its variations, meant black people, and usually when Mike added something before or after, or did that curling thing with his lip, its meaning was negative and foul.

Darius’s and Ella’s eyes met for a moment. She dropped her lipstick into her purse.

“I’m gonna be gettin’ on,” said Ella.

“You need a ride?” said Darius.

“No, thank you,” said Ella. “I’ll walk.”

“I’m gonna call you both,” said Mike, “let you know about tomorrow. I’m hopin’ this here is gonna blow over and we’re gonna open up.”

Ella went out the door without a word. Darius watched her walk down the sidewalk through the group of kids, which parted to let her pass.

“You better get goin’,” said Mike.

“You, too,” said Darius.

“Ah,” said Mike with a wave of his hand. “I don’t worry ’bout nothin’.”

“Where’s Derek?” said Billy.

“Seventh Street, right about now,” said Darius, turning up the collar of his jacket. “Working.”

“God bless the MPD,” said Billy. “Tell him I was thinking about him, okay?”

“I will,” said Darius.

“Hey,” said Mike, his voice stopping Darius as he reached for the door. Mike’s forehead was streaked with sweat, and his barrel chest rose and fell with each labored breath. A cigarette burned between his fingers.

“What is it?”

“Thanks for comin’ in today, Darius,” said Mike.

Darius nodded, looking without emotion into Mike’s eyes. Neither could know that they would both be dead within the year.

Darius walked from the diner to his car on the street.

“Let’s go,” said Billy to his father. “Pa-meh.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, goddamnit,” said Mike. “Those boys gonna break my window, somethin’.”