Hard Revolution

Stewart walked across the lot, patting his Brylcreemed blond hair. He admired his veins, like root tendrils, standing up on the inside of his forearms and popping out on his biceps. He felt strong. He went six-three and one ninety, none of it waste. Some guys thought they could challenge him, all that harder-you-fall bullshit they had to tell themselves ’cause they were small. Stewart could back up his size and didn’t need to be pushed to prove it.

He went inside the station. The manager, built-guy once, fat-guy now, was sitting behind his desk, doing his usual heap of nothing. “Party Doll” was coming from the radio, Buddy Knox with his stutter-step vocals, then that nice guitar break with the walkin’ rhythm behind it coming in right after. Stewart liked that one. It wasn’t no Link, but it was nice.

“We talk?” said Stewart.

“Go ‘head,” said the manager, not meeting Stewart’s eyes.

“When am I go

“When you take the course.”

“I could take apart an engine and put it back together with my eyes closed.”

“Maybe they could use you at the circus,” said the manager. “But the sign out front says ‘Certified Mechanics.’ You wa

Fuck a course, thought Stewart. Last course I took was at Montgomery Blair, and that was when I was sixteen. I didn’t need no courses then and I sure as hell didn’t need no high school degree. You didn’t have to sit in no classroom to know how to work on cars.

“Maybe later,” said Stewart, jerking a thumb toward the clock on the wall. “I’m out.” He took the bill roll he kept in his pocket, undid the change belt he wore around his waist, and put both on the manager’s desk.

“Wait for me to count it out,” said the manager.

“If it’s wrong, you’ll let me know.”

“You in a hurry?”

“Yeah,” said Stewart. “I got places to go and people to meet, and none of ’em are here.”

Stewart walked out.

“Big maaan,” said the manager, but only after Stewart had left the office.

Buzz Stewart got into his bored-out ’50 Ford, outfitted with headers and dropped near to the ground. The paint job, a purple body over a blue interior, had been customized. He and his crowd named their cars and scripted the names on their right front fenders. His read “Lavender Blue,” because of the color scheme, and also for that Sammy Turner song. He was proud of the name. He had thought of it all by himself.

Stewart cranked the ignition and drove north out of D.C., toward his parents’ house in Silver Spring.

A little ways over the District line he drove under the B amp;O bridge and passed the Canada Dry plant on the left. He and his boys used to hit the plant on Saturdays, when there wasn’t but one security guard on duty, and steal as many cases of ginger ale as they could carry. In a nearby wooded area they dumped out the soda, then turned in the bottles to local merchants for pocket change. You could make a few bucks like that, but it had ended one day a few years back when a gray-haired guard happened upon him and his group. Luckily, Stewart’s best bud, Shorty Hess, was behind the guard and knocked him out with a crack to the skull from a length of pipe he kept slipped down his jeans. They were afraid at first he’d killed him, but it didn’t make the newspapers or nothin,’ so they guessed the old guy lived. Since then, he and his buddies had gone on to bigger things, like break-ins. For fun they liked to race cars, drink beer and hard liquor, run coloreds off the sidewalks, and fuck girls. They also liked to fight.

Stewart drove to his house. He lived with his folks in a detached place on Mississippi Avenue, between Sligo and Piney Branch. The house, a square of bricks fronted by a wooden porch, sat on nearly a half acre of land. In the back was a freestanding garage where Stewart worked on vehicles. Beside the garage ran a large garden plot where his mother would plant vegetables-corn, tomatoes, bell peppers, and the like. Stewart had recently turned the soil for her, as she would begin planting her summer crop soon.

Inside he found his father, Albert, sitting in his upholstered chair in the living room, drinking Old German beer and smoking a straight Camel. Al bought his beer for $2.50 a case and went through a case every two days. He was watching a Cisco Kid rerun on TV. Albert was as big as his son and nearly bald. Like his son, he was neither handsome nor ugly, with no features of prominence or note, a bland, perpetually scowling man, thin lipped, small eyed, quick to anger and judge.

“What you doin’?” said Al, not turning his head.

“Nuthin’,” said Buzz, staring openmouthed at the TV.

“You get paid?”

“Yesterday.”

“You eighteen now, boy. Time you started paying rent.”

“I know it.”

“Then pay it up.”

“I will.”

“When?”

Stewart went past the kitchen, where his mother, Pat, was sitting at a Formica-top table, smoking a cigarette. She wore a housedress with a floral print, one of two she had bought years ago at Montgomery Ward’s and wore on alternate days. Her gray hair was pi

“ Carlton,” she said, using her son’s given name.

“Yeah, Ma.”

“You staying for di

“Nah, I’m going out. I’ll take a sandwich or somethin’, though.”

“You think this is a restaurant?” called Al from the living room.

“Yeah,” said Stewart, raising his voice. “Can I get a steak? Make it medium. And I’ll take one of them fine brews you drinkin’, too.”

“Stupid sumbitch,” said Al.

Buzz Stewart went down to his room.

THREE

FROM THE SIXTH Precinct station house, the boys walked back up to the Avenue. Dominic Martini bought a bottle of Coke from a red cooler up at the Esso station and assured his boss he’d be there on time for the late shift. On his way back to the group, he said, “Hey, Buzz,” to a big guy, his sleeves rolled up to show off his biceps, who was pumping gas.

Dominic passed the bottle to his brother, who then passed it without thinking to Derek. Derek took a pull from the bottle and handed it back to Dominic. Dominic wiped the neck off before putting it to his mouth. As he did this, he locked eyes with Derek.

Eventually, they made their way to Ida’s, the department store up on the east-side corner of Georgia and Quackenbos. In addition to selling household goods, the store clothed most of the kids in the area, colored and white alike. The PF Flyers on Derek’s feet were from Ida’s, as was the old Boy Scout uniform in Billy Georgelakos’s closet. Ida’s was the uptown equivalent of the downtown Morton’s.

The boys entered the store, hit one of the aisles, and went toward the back. The employees were busy with customers and no one had taken note of them yet. There was no good reason for them to be here, as none of them had any money to spend, but Derek had a good idea of their intent. Still, he went along. Almost immediately he saw Dominic take an Ace comb out of a bin and slip it into his back pocket in one smooth motion. Angelo, sweat on his upper lip, did the same.

“Let’s get outta here, Derek,” said Billy.

“Yeah, you pussies take off,” said Dominic.

“Who you callin’ pussy?” said Derek, regretting his words as they left his tongue.

“Do somethin’, then,” said Dominic. “Prove you got some balls on you, Derek.”

“I will,” said Derek Strange.

Dominic smiled. “See you out on the street.”

Derek went farther into the store and cut down another aisle as the Martini brothers vanished. Billy stayed with Derek. Derek came upon the tool and hardware section, saw a padlock, thought his father could use it for something. He must have stood there for a full minute, staring at the lock. He looked around, saw no one in the aisle, and slipped the padlock into the right front pocket of his blue jeans. He started walking for the front of the store, Billy at his heels.