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“Is this about Alvin again?” said Mary. “What, did you find him?”
“Looks like he’s gone,” said Strange. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Anyway,” said Strange, reaching into his pocket and retrieving the roll of cash. “I just came to give you this. It’s for your baby boy.”
Mary eyed the bills in Strange’s hand. “I don’t understand.”
“I took it off a suspect tonight,” said Strange. “Down in the trouble, on Seventh. Had to be stolen out the register of some store. I couldn’t keep it. And I couldn’t see turning it in. Now, I don’t mean to insult you, but… look, I know you can use it. You can use it to buy some things for your son.”
Her brow wrinkled in suspicion. “How much is it?”
“Count it,” he said, holding it out.
She hesitated for a moment.
“Hold my baby,” she said.
Strange exchanged the money for the child. Mary’s lips moved as she counted the bills. Strange looked down at the light-ski
“There’s eight hundred dollars here.”
“It’s yours,” said Strange, still looking at the boy. “What do you call him?”
“Granville,” said Mary. “Granville Oliver. I gave him my last name.”
“He’s go
“I hope he’ll be a fine young man,” said Mary Oliver, smiling at Strange for the first time. “Thank you for this.”
It ain’t nothin’ but blood money, thought Strange. Something to ease my conscience, is all it is.
“I better be gettin’ on,” said Strange.
GOING DOWN FAIRMONT, Strange took in the fragrance of a lilac bush growing against a fence. He turned right on 13th and walked the two blocks south to his building without looking over the crest of the big hill.
He went through the double glass doors and into the lobby, where groups of young people sat, talking and smoking cigarettes. They fell silent at the sight of him. He wondered if they knew that this was his last night as police.
“You’ve been given a responsibility, son. You do something to betray that, you don’t deserve to be wearing that uniform.”
Up on his floor, he stepped down the carpeted hallway, hearing music coming from behind the door of his apartment. As he arrived at his place, he put his ear against the door and listened to a familiar voice. Strange smiled.
It was Otis, with those ace session men behind him. “That’s How Strong My Love Is.” Volt single number 124.
Strange used his key to enter his apartment.
She was there by the open windows, wearing that light blue dress, the blue ribbon in her hair. Strange crossed the room and moved into her embrace, taking in the smell of her dime-store perfume. He kissed her mouth full, then said her name.
Below, in Shaw, lights glimmered faintly through the curtain of black smoke that hovered there and darkened the night sky. A breeze came in through the windows. Magnolias, dogwoods, and cherry trees had bloomed around the city. The scent of their flowers, and the smell of things burned and cleansed, was in the air.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my friends Logan Deoudes and Jerome Gross, who gave me extensive, invaluable assistance during the research stages of Hard Revolution. Thanks go out as well to Dan Fein, Leonard Tempchin, Pete Glekas, Tim Thomas, Bob Fegley, Gary Phillips, Ruby Pelecanos, Bob Boukas, Paulina Garner, Billy Caludis, Frazier O’Leary, Mary Rados, Jim and Ted Pedas, Michael Pietsch, Reagan Arthur, Claire McKi
As it has for me in the past, the Washingtoniana room of the MLK Library provided the tools and atmosphere I needed to write this novel. Ten Blocks from the White House, by Ben Gilbert and the staff of the Washington Post, provided the time line and factual backbone of the riot section of the book. Peter Guralnick’s Sweet Soul Music and Mark Opsasnick’s Capitol Rock gave me the music details I needed. The recordings of Otis Redding, O. V. Wright, the Impressions, James Carr, Wilson Pickett, Joh
This one goes out to all the good people-workers, parents, children, volunteers, teachers, clergy, and police-of Washington, D.C., and to my family: Emily, Nick, Pete, and Rosa. Much love and respect to you all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
George Pelecanos is a screenwriter, independent-film producer, award-wi