Hard Revolution

“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.

“Wa

“Pick it,” said Strange.

Blue reached over and turned on the AM. DJ Bob Terry was introducing Marvin Gaye’s brand-new one, “You,” on WOL. Blue kept his hand on the dial and with a smirk on his face looked at Strange.

“That’s good right there,” said Strange.

“Thought you didn’t like Motown.”

“I make an exception for Marvin.”

“It’s got nothin’ to do with him bein’ local, does it?”

“A little.”

“You are your father’s son,” said Blue.

In more ways than you know, thought Strange.

They parked on Barry Place. Ahead, halfway up the street toward Georgia, they saw young people outside a row house, on the concrete porch and in the small yard, talking, dancing a little, getting their heads up on things they were drinking out of bottles and paper cups. Soul music was coming softly down the block.

Strange and Blue walked toward the house side by side. Both were dressed clean; both moved with their shoulders squared and their heads held up. To be young, handsome, and employed, to walk into a party looking strong, standing with your main boy from childhood, trusting him to watch your back, there wasn’t a feeling much better than that.

“Feels good,” said Blue.

“What does?”

“To be out of uniform for a change. Not that I don’t like my job, because I do. It’s just, you know, nice to have brothers and sisters lookin’ at me like I’m one of them.”

“You are.”

“I mean like I’m on their side.”

“You don’t have to explain it,” said Strange. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“It’s just hard. On top of it, I got a genuine sonofabitch for a partner. Old brother is always schoolin’ me. To him, if I open my mouth, I better be just breathin’, ’cause if I speak, I’m wrong.”

The comment made Strange think of Troy Peters. He tried too hard sometimes, but his heart was right. All in all, he was about as good a partner as a man could have.

“Come on, Ly,” said Strange as they hit the steps going up to the house. “Let’s have a little fun.”

Strange and Blue waded into the outdoor crowd. They got a couple of Miller High Lifes out of a washtub filled with ice and popped the tops with an opener hung on a string from the tub. Blue introduced Strange to the host, a young Howard student named Cedric Love, who was renting the house with two other young men. Lots of Bison here on Barry Place and the surrounding streets, as Howard U wasn’t but a long spit east. Strange looked around, moving his head to the Wilson Pickett, “Don’t Fight It,” coming from a couple of speakers set up on the porch. People in the yard were coupling up and dancing to the driving rhythm, the Stax/ Volt horns and Wilson exhorting them on. Up on the porch, Strange saw the back of a young woman, had a short baby-blue dress on, going into the house. Strange knew those legs and that shape.

“Excuse me,” said Strange to Cedric Love, “I’m go

Strange went up on the porch. A guy he knew from high school said, “What’s goin’ on, big man?” and Strange said, “Everything’s cool, George, how you been?” and gave the guy the soul shake and moved on. Then he was in the house.

It was warm inside and packed with folks. People against the walls and tight in groups, and men and women leaning into each other, Afros on the men and some of the women, the women wearing big hoop earrings and a few of the dudes wearing shades. Tobacco smoke, and the smoke and fragrant smell of marijuana, hung thick in the air. Conversation and laughter rumbled up under the music, louder in here than it had been outside.

Strange caught some eyes as he walked slowly through the crowd. He saw two fine young women, Rachel Phillips and Porscha Coleman, who had come out of Cardozo a few years back. He recognized many of the faces here. The people who recognized him knew he was police.

He went into a room that was more crowded than the one before it. An O. V. Wright song, “Eight Men, Four Women,” came up on the system, with those lazy-voiced female backup singers he liked to use, and Strange thought, Back Beat number 580. And then he thought, Someone at this party knows his shit.

“Derek,” said his friend Sam Simmons, tall and rangy, who came up on him suddenly out of the hall. “My brother.”

Simmons was with a dude, had a black beret and a soul patch, who Strange didn’t know. Probably a college boy, ’cause many of them had that ready-for-the-revolution look going on.

“Cootch,” said Strange, using Simmons’s nickname, giving him skin.

“Here you go,” said Simmons. “Groove on this.”

Simmons passed Strange a lit joint. Strange looked at it for a moment, then put it to his lips and hit it deep. Smoke was still streaming from his nose when he hit it again. It was smooth to his lungs, which meant it would be good to his head.

Strange passed the joint to the man in the beret, who looked at Simmons first, then took it after Simmons made a small go-ahead motion with his chin. Simmons, who’d played end for Dunbar when Strange was playing safety for Roosevelt, smiled at his former adversary. There had always been respect between them, especially when a game had been on the line.

“My man’s all right,” said Simmons to his companion.

“I am now,” said Strange.

“Heard you been keepin’ the streets safe,” said Simmons.

“Streets go

They talked about football and who was coming out of what high school and what colleges they were going on to. The dude with the beret never did warm up to Strange, but that was all right with him. Strange was higher than a motherfucker by the time he finished his beer and could muster no bad will toward anyone. He shook hands again with Simmons and went to the kitchen, where he found another High Life and opened it. He drank its neck off down to the shoulders and drifted into another room.

It was an all-couples room. Someone had cleared the furniture and changed the bulbs in the lamps so the room was bathed in blue. Solomon Burke was on the stereo now, singing “Tonight’s the Night,” Solomon telling his woman, “And when the lights are low, I’m go

“Carmen,” said Strange. “How you doin’?”

“I’m good.”

She had a little blue ribbon tied in her hair, the same color as the dress. She had big dark eyes, dimples in her cheeks, and smooth, deep-brown skin. She had a figure that caused his breath to come up short. Carmen Hill had it all. The memory of her naked in his bed made Strange’s mouth go dry. He had a sip of his beer.