Hard Revolution

“Who am I speaking to?”

Vaughn killed the line. He stepped out of the phone booth and went to his car.

TWENTY-SIX

THE WOMAN LIVED on Fairmont Street, west of 13th, just two blocks from Strange’s apartment building. Strange stared at the check in his hand, reading the address at the top of it, and then he looked up at the tall row house at the end of a concrete walk. It was one of those old houses capped with a turret, a common architectural touch unique to D.C. The house had probably been fine once, maybe even grand, but it was in disrepair and in need of paint now.

Strange went up the walk and into the ground-floor foyer. He matched the woman’s name to the name on one of the mailbox slots and took the stairs up to the second floor. He knocked on her door.

She opened the door without asking who was there. She was young, on the tall side, not yet twenty, her face a mess of large, wide features, her eyes almond shaped, her skin light. Her figure had been lush, most likely, in her early teens, but it had gone to fat. She held a baby wrapped in a blanket, and the baby was fussing, its eyes closed tight, its tiny fingers reaching out. It was trying to get to one of her breasts, which it had been suckling moments before. The woman’s shirt, unbuttoned halfway down, was wet with her own milk. She wore bright orange plastic earrings showing a silhouette of an Afroed woman with the words “Black Is Beautiful” written below the silhouette. A crucifix hung between her large breasts.

“Afternoon,” said Strange. She had trusting eyes and had opened her door to a stranger without caution. He decided to use that naïveté against her and not tell her that he was police.

“Derek Strange.”

“Mary,” she said.

“I’m lookin’ to get up with Alvin Jones.”

“He’s not here,” said the woman, her voice soft and high.

“Alvin ran with my brother, De

She nodded slowly and kept her eyes on his. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I just want to speak with Alvin, see if he can give me some information regarding my brother’s last hours.”

“I’d like to speak to him, too,” she said with a long, tired exhale. “You wa

Strange went through the open door.

THE HOUSES ON the north side of Longfellow Street, between 13th and Colorado Avenue, were detached, with small backyards ending in garages built along the alley. In the kitchen of the Martini house, Angela Martini prepared her weekly batch of Sunday gravy. Angela had begun by browning pork neck bones, veal shoulder chops, and sausages in hot oil. She was working on the base now. The sauce itself would take three hours to cook. Its garlic and basil smell would linger in the house for days.

In the garage, Dominic Martini, Buzz Stewart, and Walter Hess stood grouped around Martini’s Nova. The space was tight, packed with garden implements, a manual push mower, automotive tools, a gas can, and a small bale of chicken wire. Angelo Martini’s old bicycle, which still had baseball cards clothespi

The door to the garage was closed. Stewart’s Belvedere was parked in the alley, tight to the yard. Behind it sat the green Rambler owned by Mrs. Hess.

Walter Hess threw his head back and killed the Schlitz he’d been drinking, then crushed the can in his hand and tossed the empty into a box. He dipped his hand into a brown paper bag and pulled another can free. He pulled the ring, dropped the ring into the hole in the top, and took a swig of beer.

“You better slow down,” said Stewart.

“I’m thirsty.”

“It’s that speed you ate.”

“Who don’t know that?”

“Slow down.”

“I could drink a case.”

Stewart didn’t doubt that he could. Up on Beauties, Hess could take alcohol forever. When he was using amphetamines, beer didn’t slur his speech or lame him. It just took the edge off Shorty’s hot nerves.

“Dom,” said Stewart, “you check the gauges?”

“Pressure’s fine,” said Martini, staring at his car with dead eyes. “Fluids are tight.”

The Nova would not attract attention. It was a two-door Chevy II SS, black over black, and stock in appearance. It had a four-speed Hurst between the buckets and a 350 engine with a four-barrel Holly carb under the hood. It was light, tight, and fast. The Cragar mags were the sole adornment indicating that the car could run.

Hess put himself down on the concrete floor in push-up position and looked under the car.

“No leaks,” he said as he rose to his full five foot four inches.

“Said I checked it.”

“Just backin’ you up, Pretty Boy.”

“You get them plates?” said Stewart to Hess.

“They’re out in the Rambler. Took ’em off a Mustang out at PG Plaza.”

“Told you to get ’em someplace far away.”

“I just boosted ’em an hour ago. By the time it gets reported and into the system, them plates’ll be down some sewer hole, and you and me will be rich and gone.”

“All right.” Stewart pointed his chin over the shoulders of Martini and Hess toward the workbench. “Let’s see what we got.”

An open duffel bag sat on the workbench, and in the bag were guns: the Italian double-trigger twelve-gauge with the cut-down barrel and stock; two S amp;W.38s with nickel finish, walnut grips, and four-inch barrels; and a Colt Combat.45. The guns had been passed along through the criminal underworld for years. All had been thoroughly cleaned and oiled. All serial numbers had been filed off. Also in the bag were three sets of thin leather gloves, a harness for the cut-down, two shoulder holsters, bricks of bullets in both calibers, a full magazine for the Colt, and shotgun shells with copper-covered loads.

In addition, Stewart had his.38 caliber single-shot derringer slipped into his right boot. Hess was armed with a commando knife with a five-inch stainless blade, sheathed in a scabbard.

They grouped themselves around the bag. Stewart withdrew the shotgun, harness, and shells, and placed them on the bench as Hess dressed himself in the shoulder holsters. Stewart handed him the.38s.

Hess holstered both, cross-drew them, and dry-fired at the wall. He had practiced this in the mirror of his bedroom many times. He stared at the guns for a moment and smiled. He turned, pointed one of them at Martini’s face, and pulled its trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber, its dull sound echoing in the garage.

Hess cackled like a witch. “Shit, boy, you oughtta see the look on your face.”

“That ain’t fu

“Aw,” said Hess, “old Dom can handle it. Him and his rough-and-tough soldier-boy friends, I bet they seen all sorts of things scarier than that over in ’Nam. Ain’t that right, Dominique?”

Martini said nothing.

“Here,” said Stewart, pulling the Colt from the bag, handing it to Martini. He then handed him its magazine.

Martini palmed the magazine into the grip of the automatic. He thumbed off the safety and racked the receiver. He flashed the gun up and touched the muzzle to Hess’s cheek. Hess moved back a step, and Martini went with him. Hess could go no farther than the workbench, and Martini pushed the gun into his cheek and dented it. Hess could do nothing but turn his head. Martini moved the muzzle and pressed it into the side of Hess’s porcine right eye. Martini pulled back the lanyard-style hammer and locked it in place.

“Easy,” said Stewart, who had not moved at all.

“Those men I served with?” said Martini. “Don’t ever mention them again.”

“All right,” said Hess, his rasp not much more than a whisper. “All right.”

Martini stepped back and hefted the heavy steel-framed Colt. He hadn’t held one since his discharge. It felt like part of his hand.