Hard Revolution_ A Novel Part 17

"You know how I been tellin' you to change up? Thought today would be a good day to start. I just had this feeling, you know?"

"This feeling wouldn't have something to do with that guy came to see you, would it?"

"Nothing at all," said Thomas. "We were just talking. Turns out I know his father."

"He looked suspicious, is why I asked."

"You know how it is when you get to be our age. Most young men walkin' in here, unless we know 'em, they look like trouble, to us."

"True," said Ludvig.

"That boy's good," said Thomas.

Troubled, thought Thomas. But good.

SIXTEEN.

PAT MILLIKIN'S GARAGE, a cinder-block structure on a stretch of gravel running behind a strip of parts and speed shops, was off Agar Road in West Hyattsville, in Maryland's Prince George's County. There was no sign to identify the place, but a certain kind of customer knew where to find it, and Millikin was never at a loss for business. He catered to the chop trade and specialized in rentals. For a hundred bucks, a man could get an inspection certificate for his rag. Services and products aside, what Millikin truly sold, and guaranteed, was silence. a cinder-block structure on a stretch of gravel running behind a strip of parts and speed shops, was off Agar Road in West Hyattsville, in Maryland's Prince George's County. There was no sign to identify the place, but a certain kind of customer knew where to find it, and Millikin was never at a loss for business. He catered to the chop trade and specialized in rentals. For a hundred bucks, a man could get an inspection certificate for his rag. Services and products aside, what Millikin truly sold, and guaranteed, was silence.

Millikin's brother, Sean, a three-time loser, had been incarcerated on a manslaughter charge with Walter Hess up in the Western Maryland prison. Hess was no particular fan of the Irish, but Sean was white, and in the joint that made them allies. Sean had told Hess about his brother, Pat, and what he could do for him if he ever got jammed up. Hess had given Pat some referrals, and he and Stewart had used him for a couple of minor things in the past. Hess needed Pat now.

Buzz Stewart drove his washed-off Belvedere down Agar Road, listening to "Jimmy Mack" on the radio, enjoying Martha and the Vandellas, one arm out the window, a Marlboro burning between his fingers. He was following Hess, who was behind the wheel of his Galaxie and doing the limit. Hess didn't want to get pulled over for any reason now, especially not here. The PG County cops had a rep for taking no man's s.h.i.t. Hess figured he'd drive slowly, not blow off any reds, and get the Ford over to Pat's. He accomplished that, he'd be fine.

Shorty, h.e.l.l, sometimes he just went too far. Wasn't any good reason to run down that colored boy, but it was done. Get the car fixed up and put it behind you, that was the thing to do. Dominic Martini, with all that Catholic guilt he had, was the weak link. Way he was acting after it happened, it was like he wanted to confess. Stewart had to make Martini understand, you could confess all you wanted to, wasn't n.o.body, priest or G.o.d almighty himself, could bring that colored boy back. But Stewart didn't think Martini would be a problem. He just needed to be told. Martini was a follower and always would be.

They found Pat Millikin's garage. Hess drove into the open bay, where Millikin had left a spot for the Ford, and cut the engine. Stewart parked outside, behind a plum-colored Dart GT. He got out and locked down the Belvedere.

A hard-looking, big-limbed colored guy was sitting on a folding chair outside the garage, having a smoke. He studied the Belvedere and as he did a small smile came to his face. Stewart figured he was admiring it, so he nodded at him, expecting something back. But he got nothing in return. Stewart thinking, Every place you go now, it's the same way.

He walked into the garage, where a radio was playing "Cherish." Millikin, pale and freckled, with horseman arms, walked around the Ford, giving it the eyeball, a.s.sessing the damage. He wore coveralls with the sleeves cut off. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Where he walked, Hess followed.

"Well," said Millikin, "you didn't lie."

"I did it," said Hess. "I f.u.c.ked it up royal."

"What'd you hit, a moose?"

"A monkey," said Hess, glancing at Stewart, giving him a grin.

"We just had an accident," said Stewart, warning Hess with his eyes. "Too much drinkin', is all. But you know, we didn't exactly leave a note on the guy's windshield with our, uh, insurance information."

"Say no more," said Millikin.

Right about then, Hess noticed that the colored guy, the one who was sitting outside when they'd rolled up, had followed Stewart into the bay. Hess wondered if he'd heard the monkey comment. And then he wondered why he was sweating over it. He didn't care.

"Lawrence, come here," said Millikin.

Hess and Stewart watched the hard colored guy cross the concrete floor and inspect the Ford. He looked at it carefully. He said "yeah" and "uh-huh" and looked at it some more. He put his hands in his pockets and looked at Millikin.

"Well?" said Millikin.

"Gonna take some work," said Lawrence.

"No s.h.i.t," said Hess. He turned to Millikin. "The question is, when and how much?"

"Got to check down in Brandywine," said Lawrence, still talking to Millikin like Hess was not there. "See if I can't raise the parts at the junkyard. Otherwise I gotta order them from the factory. 'Nother words, I'm gonna have to let you know."

"You heard him, Shorty," said Millikin. "I can't give you a price just yet. Timewise, we'll just have to see how it goes."

"Yeah, okay."

"Pat," said Stewart. "We get a minute here?"

"He's all right," said Millikin, meaning Lawrence.

"A minute," said Stewart.

Lawrence walked out of the garage without a word.

"I'm gonna be needin' a rental," said Stewart. "With plates. Something fast but no flash."

"When?"

"Soon."

"I'll find you somethin'," said Millikin.

"You used to work alone around here," said Hess.

"I needed more help. I got another place where I work on projects like this one. This here location is too visible, if you know what I mean. So I have to have another man."

"Yeah, well, I don't know Lawrence Lawrence from Kingfish. He don't make me too comfortable." from Kingfish. He don't make me too comfortable."

"Lawrence did time, just like you. He doesn't talk to the law, just like you." Millikin's eyes caught mischief. "Matter of fact, now that I think of it, he ain't all that much different than you."

"That's a laugh," said Hess.

Millikin flicked his b.u.t.t out the open bay door. "I'll let you know when you can pick up your car."

Hess and Stewart walked from the garage. Lawrence Houston was back in his seat, staring ahead, working on another cigarette.

In the Belvedere, up the road, Hess shook his head.

"Ever notice how they always have these real high-cla.s.s names?" said Hess. "Couldn't be plain old Larry. Had to be Lawrence. Lawrence."

"Your mother named you Walter, didn't she?" said Stewart, looking at Hess out the side of his eyes. "No one ever called you Wally, right?"

"It ain't the same thing."

"I guess it's like Pat said. That c.o.o.n back there, he ain't all that different from you."

"Aw, shut shut up, Buzz." up, Buzz."

Stewart smiled, reaching for the radio on the dash.

KENNETH WILLIS TOOK the last of the garbage cans from the cafeteria to the Dumpsters behind the school. Willis carried the can up on his shoulder, the way some men carried a sport jacket, casual like. He was strong enough to do it, too. Unlike his supervisor, an old man with the name of Samuel, who Willis called Sambo to hisself. Always yessirin' everybody, keeping his eyes downcast, and scratching at his head. TOOK the last of the garbage cans from the cafeteria to the Dumpsters behind the school. Willis carried the can up on his shoulder, the way some men carried a sport jacket, casual like. He was strong enough to do it, too. Unlike his supervisor, an old man with the name of Samuel, who Willis called Sambo to hisself. Always yessirin' everybody, keeping his eyes downcast, and scratching at his head.

Carrying a full trash can that way, it showed off the muscles in his arms. At work, he rolled the sleeves of his shirt high so that the ladies could see what he had. Wore his pants tight for the same reason. He could feel the eyes of a couple of the female teachers they had at the school studying him as he walked the halls. Some of the little girls who went to the school there, sometimes they'd be noticing him, too. Even if they were were too young to know what was making them feel warm inside. too young to know what was making them feel warm inside.

Coming out the back door, he dumped the garbage into this big old green container and put the can down on the asphalt. He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a Kool, and lit himself a smoke. He dragged on his cigarette and watched the kids the way he liked to do. They had finished their lunch and were out there on the edge of the playground, kicking a red rubber ball around on a weedy field.

There was this one girl Willis had been keeping his eye on. Did her hair in braids and always came to school in some kind of skirt. Wore little white socks on her feet. Girl was only ten, but she already had an a.s.s on her like a girl of thirteen. Willis had checked out the mother when she came to pick the girl up around dismissal time. If the mother was any kind of road map to where the girl was headed, well, this girl was going to a real good place.

Not that he was into little girls or nothin' like that. He did have a few things with some young ones now and again, and that last thing with that fourteen-year-old, the one who'd put him in jail. Fourteen? s.h.i.t, the way that girl moved her hips? Only a full-grown woman knew how to gyrate like that. But that was behind him, anyhow. He had to be careful now who he put his eyes on. He'd gotten this job, even with his priors, because someone had been lazy in looking into his past. He didn't want to lose this position, not yet.

Wouldn't be long, though, before he was out. This market thing, and then a couple of hotel jobs that Alvin had been talking about. Willis would throw away this piece he was wearing, had his name st.i.tched across the front. Like they thought he couldn't remember it, had to write it on his shirt. And these dirty pants, always smelled like food the kids had thrown away no matter how hard he scrubbed them in the sink. This was not a job for a man like him. He needed to start living right. These mothers that came to get their kids, and these teachers, and some of these kids, all of them who looked away when he smiled, had to be because he was a janitor. After those jobs with Alvin, he'd come back in his street threads, driving a new car, maybe a Lincoln, and see how they looked at him then.

Willis dropped the cigarette to the asphalt and crushed it. He had one more look at that girl out there. He wondered what color panties she had on underneath that skirt.

He turned and went back into the school, headed for the janitors' room, where Samuel was having his lunch. It was time to go to work. Not to do this bulls.h.i.t work right here, but to do the work of a man.

Willis stepped into the cramped room, poorly lit by one bulb. Samuel was sitting at a table, eating a sandwich his wife had made him, drinking one of those little cartons of milk he'd gotten from the cafeteria, the way he did every day. Him and those baggy-a.s.s clothes, with those clown patches of gray around a bald-a.s.s head.

"I feel poorly," said Willis, putting a palm to his stomach.

"That right," said Samuel.

"Tellin' you, I'm sick."

"Uh-huh."

"I just came from the bathroom, man. Didn't know so much could drop out of one man."

"Maybe you got yourself a worm."

"Sums.h.i.t like like it, that's for d.a.m.n sure." it, that's for d.a.m.n sure."

"You better go home, then," said Samuel in a tired way.

"Thanks, boss."

"Don't forget to punch yourself out."

Okay, thought Willis. I'll go ahead and do that now. You just sit there, eating your sad-a.s.s, sorry-a.s.s sandwich, and let me go. Shoot, blind man in a coffin could see he wasn't sick. Strong as he looked? Now Samuel was gonna stick around, making his pennies, while he, Willis, went on that thing with his cousin and scored some real cash. Wasn't no trick to getting free to do it, either. You could fool this fool here every single day.

Samuel Rogers watched Kenneth Willis punch his time card, then watched him walk from the room. He chuckled under his breath. Boy thought he was fooling him. He didn't mind giving Willis the afternoon off, even if it meant more ch.o.r.es for him. Rogers plain didn't care for Willis. Him with his sleeves rolled up to show his muscles, and that hungry-wolf way he looked at the women and even the little girls. Him hiding those soiled magazines in the office, back behind the lockers, like he was getting away with something. Not knowing enough about himself to admit what he was.

Through the years, Samuel Rogers had seen many of these slick young ones who thought they were too smart to work. Them thinking he was some kind of fool for sticking with it. Them who were in such a big hurry to get in the unemployment line. Samuel just did not like to be around that kind.

Man wore his pants too tight, too.

OLGA VAUGHN STOOD beside her husband, Frank, who was seated at the kitchen table, having a coffee and a smoke. They had just finished lunch. Olga had gone up to their bedroom and returned with a new pair of boots, looked like something out of the 1930s, on her feet. She had drawn a cigarette from Frank's pack and was moving it, unlit, to and from her mouth in a cigar smoker's pantomime. She had her free hand cupped alongside her hip, as if she were holding a tommy gun. beside her husband, Frank, who was seated at the kitchen table, having a coffee and a smoke. They had just finished lunch. Olga had gone up to their bedroom and returned with a new pair of boots, looked like something out of the 1930s, on her feet. She had drawn a cigarette from Frank's pack and was moving it, unlit, to and from her mouth in a cigar smoker's pantomime. She had her free hand cupped alongside her hip, as if she were holding a tommy gun.

"Whaddaya think, Frank?"

"Who you supposed to be?"

"Faye Dunaway!"

"She's a blonde. You got hair like the ace of spades."

"I'm talkin' about the look." Olga glanced down at her feet so that Frank's eyes would go there, too. "I got 'em down at the Bootery on Connecticut. They're called gunboots."

"You don't say."

"They go with my Capone stripes. You know, the pants suit I got last week at Franklin Simon?"

"The one came with the hat?"

"It's a beret. Don't you know the difference?"

"Sure. Like the painters wear."

Olga wiggled one foot. "You likee?"

"Me no sabbee," said Vaughn, tapping ash off his cigarette. He'd be glad when this bulls.h.i.t Bonnie-and-Clyde craze was done.

"Oh, Frank," said Olga with a roll of her eyes.

Olga tied an ap.r.o.n around her waist, went to the sink, and began to wash their dishes. Frank watched her with affection.

From upstairs, he heard the thump of ba.s.s coming from the stereo in Ricky's room. It was Vaughn's own fault if it was driving him nuts. He'd bought the system for Ricky himself, a birthday present and also a little something to kick off his college education. It was a Zenith component setup, eighty watts, had a feature called "Circle of Sound." The salesman at George's, over there on Queen's Chapel Road, said it was a nice "unit," then said it was "only" one hundred and sixty-nine. When Vaughn heard the price he felt like grabbing his slacks and telling the guy, Turn around, I got a nice unit for you right here. But he just smiled politely and said he'd come back. Vaughn got his fence friend down off 14th to find a Zenith just like it, or one that was d.a.m.n close. And it didn't cost him no buck sixty-nine. Course it was a little on the warm side. Only thing it didn't come with was a box and a warranty card. But for twenty-five dollars you could do without the cardboard and the serial number.

Vaughn had felt a little bad that the kid was living at home while some of his friends went off to school, so buying the system for him was like, what did you call that, a consolation prize. But now Vaughn had to pay the price.

When Ricky wasn't listening to music, he was gabbing about it with his friends. Talking about a group named Flavor at the Rabbit's Foot on Wisconsin and, all last summer, a guy named Hendrix who'd played the Amba.s.sador and then "sat in" with another guy named Roy at a place called the Silver Dollar, and on and on. The kid could talk on the phone. He was like his mother that way.

"Does he ever study?" said Vaughn.

"He must," said Olga. "He got decent grades last fall."

"Three hundred dollars a semester and he's up there playin' that s.h.i.t all day. He oughtta have his face buried in the books."