Hard Revolution

“Young man,” said a voice behind Strange.

He turned. It was Vaughn. His face was smudged, and his hair had darkened from the soot drifting in the air.

“Detective,” said Strange.

“I went to Ro

“And?”

“Jones is staying there, I think,” said Vaughn. “He’s not in… yet.”

“So?”

“You want him, don’t you?”

Strange nodded tightly.

“I just spoke to a lieutenant down here,” said Vaughn. “The powers that be are about to a

“What are you sayin’?” said Strange, raising his voice above the burglar alarms and shouts around him.

“Let’s get outta here for a minute,” said Vaughn. “All this bullshit, I can’t hear myself think.”

Vaughn and Strange cut down P, stepping around a steel girder that was glowing red in the street.

MAYOR WASHINGTON, in consultation with Police Chief John Layton, Director of Public Safety Patrick Murphy, and President Johnson, imposed a strict curfew on the District of Columbia to be in effect from 5:30 p.m. Friday evening to 6:30 a.m. the following morning. Police, firemen, doctors, nurses, and sanitation workers were excepted. Beer, wine, and liquor sales were forbidden. Gas would only be sold to motorists who were dispensing it directly into their cars.

Sixth Cavalry troops had arrived late in the afternoon on 14th Street. They assembled down at S and moved north in columns, chanting “March, march, march,” in cadence. They threw tear gas canisters liberally and, with police, made sweeping arrests. They secured the top and lower ends of the corridor with two 700-man battalions.

As on 7th and H Streets, there was little left to protect.

Lydell Blue sat on the bed of a four-ton army truck, eating a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and drinking water from a canteen. A woman from the neighborhood had come with sandwiches to feed police and soldiers on a needed break.

Blue’s uniform had taken on the color of charcoal. His back ached, and he could have slept where he sat. He had coughed up blood into his hands moments earlier.

With all of that, he felt good.

In the middle of it, at its worst, as he was protecting his city and his people, he had come to the realization of who he was and what he would always be. He was a black man, through and through. And he was police. The one didn’t cancel out the other. He could be both, and be both with pride.

A BROTHER ON the street warned Jones about the curfew. Now Jones knew that he would have to travel with extra care across the city. His plan was to stay below Massachusetts Avenue, keeping close to the downtown buildings, in the shadows, out of sight of the soldiers and police. Then head east to 6th and up to his cousin’s crib. Grab his duffel bag, which held his few possessions, and reverse his path. He could do it, the darker it got. All he had to do was reach his Buick, over there on 15th, and he’d be southern bound and stone free.

It took a while, but he reached 6th without incident and went north and east until he came to the block of Ro

Back in the depths of the market, looking through the space where the front window had been, Frank Vaughn stroked the wheel of his Zippo, got flame, and lit a cigarette. He snapped the lid shut.

Little black man with light, almost yellow-colored skin. Just as Strange had said, he was wearing a black hat with a gold band. Now all Vaughn had to do was look up at the window of Ro

Vaughn hit his L amp;M. Its ember flared, faintly illuminating the ruined market. The only light in there now was the dying light of dusk. There was little inventory remaining on the shelves. Paperback novels, boxes of cake mix and flour strewn about the tiles. Water dripped loudly from a busted pipe. A heap of half-burned newspapers sat piled in the middle of the shop. Someone had set the papers on fire, but the fire had not spread. The smell of carbon was strong in the shell of the store.

Vaughn stepped forward, close to the doorway. From here he could see Ro

“Make him talk and let him go,” Vaughn had told Strange. “Flash a light in the window if he confesses. I’ll do the rest.”

“Do what?” Strange had said.

Vaughn hadn’t needed to spell it out for the rookie. He would let the young man make the decision himself.

Vaughn dragged deeply on his cigarette.

SOON AS HE had got to the landing, Jones could tell someone had busted through his cousin’s apartment door. It opened, too, with just a little push. Someone had broke into his cousin’s crib, that was plain, ’cause he remembered clearly that he’d locked the door. But Jones reasoned that the break-in was just part of the general mayhem of the day. Kids being kids.

He drew his gun from his slacks just the same. He stepped inside.

Strange came from behind the open door and put his service revolver to the back of Jones’s head.

“Don’t say nothin’,” said Strange. “Let go of that gun and drop it to the floor.”

“Gun could discharge like that,” said Jones, not moving, not turning his head.

“Do it,” said Strange.

Jones dropped the old revolver. It hit the hardwood with a hollow thud.

“Now move over there to the center of the room,” said Strange, “and turn around.”

Jones obeyed the command. Strange kept the gun trained on Jones and closed the door with his foot.

Jones smiled a little as he turned around and took in Strange.

“Lawman,” said Jones. “Heard you were lookin’ for me.”

Strange said nothing.

“This about your brother, right?”

Strange did not reply.

“I heard he got hisself dead. My cousin Ke

“Yes,” Strange heard himself say, looking into the odd golden eyes of Alvin Jones.

“I don’t know nothin’ about it,” said Jones. “I mean, if that’s why you been huntin’ me down, I’m just sayin’… I was with a woman the night he was killed.” Jones chuckled. “The whole night. Bitch would not let me out the bed, you hear what I’m sayin’? I could give you her phone number, you want it. She’ll tell you.”

“I don’t want any phone numbers,” said Strange.

“What, then? You standing there holdin’ a gun on me. Tell me what you want. I told you I don’t know nothin’, man. I don’t know what else to do.”

Strange stared at Jones.

“If you think I cut him,” said Jones, “you are wrong. It wasn’t me.”

I didn’t say anybody cut him. I didn’t tell Willis he died that way. The newspapers, they didn’t print it… so how could you know?

Strange lowered his gun.

“There you go,” said Jones, smiling. “Now you seein’ things clear. No hard feelings, blood. I can understand you bein’ upset.”

“Get out of here,” said Strange, very softly.

Jones went to the side of the couch, bent down, zipped his duffel bag shut, and snatched it off the floor.

“I’m gone,” said Jones.

He walked toward the front door, eyeing the gun on the floor. Strange shook his head. Jones laughed a little, like a kid, and kept on going, straight out of the apartment. Strange listened to his footsteps on the stairs.

He turned off the main overhead light in the living room. He walked to the window that fronted the street. A naked-bulb lamp sat on a small table near the window. Strange put his finger to the switch on the lamp. He hesitated for a moment; Jones had not confessed, exactly. But he had known that De