Hard Revolution

“I’m watching it on TV,” said Peters. “The reporter said that LBJ’s go

“You’re go

“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 go

“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 Ke

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 go

“You need a ride?” said Darius.

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

“I’m go

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 go

“We can fix a window,” said Billy, putting his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “C’mon, Ba-ba. It’s time to go.”

Mike left the register’s cash drawer open, as he did every night at closing, so that anyone could see from the street that it was empty. He took the store keys from his pocket and locked the front door.

DESPITE THE WARNING from Derek Strange, Ke

On the phone, Jones denied any knowledge of the murder of De

“All right, Ken,” said Jones. “Thanks for the tip.”

“What you go

“What you think?” said Jones, as if he were speaking to a child. “Keep my head low. Understand, I ain’t have shit to do with your boy’s demise, but I can’t be fuckin’ with no police nohow.”

“You got a plan?”

“Man like me always got a plan,” said Jones before hanging up the phone.

The riots of Thursday night had given him his plan. Jones had gone out, near midnight, and stepped onto an eastbound D.C. Transit bus on Rhode Island Avenue with a stocking over his face and his gun in his hand, robbing the driver of eighty dollars in cash. It was the easiest robbery he’d ever pulled. Seemed like all of the police were over in Shaw. He knew they weren’t go

And here he was today, in Ro

Ro