Hard Revolution

Hess hit it. He drove up 14th as sirens gathered in the distance. Martini closed his eyes. Stewart put a Marlboro between his lips and pushed the lighter into the dash. Hess goosed the gas and shifted for speed, muttering all the while. He was wondering just how bad he’d fucked up his car.

VAUGHN WAS COMING up 16th Street in his unmarked, freshly fucked and relaxed from his last highball, listening to his dash radio, his two-way turned down low, when he heard the news about LBJ’s decision. The newsman on WWDC said that local reaction to the a

“Scores of local college students, some reportedly barefoot, danced in celebration, singing ‘We Shall Overcome’ across from the White House in Lafayette Park. Many wore McCarthy bumper stickers on their backs…”

“Christ,” said Vaughn. He only hoped his son wasn’t among the celebrants. Way his hair was hitting his collar, he’d fit right in.

A call came in from the station. Vaughn pulled the mic from its cradle and responded. It was a hit-and-run on a residential block of a two-syllable cross street on 14th. He hit the gas. By the time he got there, uniforms, ME suits, and a meat wagon had already arrived.

In the flashbulb light of an MPD photographer, amid the strobe of the cherry tops, Vaughn saw the twisted body lying in a slick of blood on the street. The young man, Vernon Wilson, age seventeen, had been IDed by the contents of his wallet. Uniforms had begun to canvass the residents, but as of yet no one claimed to have seen a thing, though one man said that, through his screen windows, he had heard the squeal of tires, loud music, and a collision. Headlight glass, bits of a grille, and a Ford insignia were found near the body. The light of a flashlight revealed red paint on the dented portion of the white Dodge where the crime had taken place.

Vaughn walked up and down the block and examined the general area. Tomorrow he’d try to determine the make of the Ford by having his lab man, who was good with cars, study the grillwork, logo, and shards of glass. Vaughn would put the word out at the usual body shops to look out for damage to the fender, 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 co

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 pla

De

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.

De

De

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. De

The reefer had begun to work on De

Okay: He wasn’t go

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 De

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 De