Hard Revolution_ A Novel Part 7

"Gonna see what's goin' on over there. I'll be right back."

"Okay, boy. Meet me at the karo. karo."

The big man watched his grandson cross Garfield, go down a set of concrete steps, and disappear into the grounds of the National Cathedral.

The boy followed the voice and walked through a lawn landscaped with azaleas and other shrubs, finally reaching the edge of a huge crowd. He made his way into the middle of the crowd, which was mostly white, but a different kind of white than he and his grandfather and friends. His grandfather called these people Amerikani, Amerikani, or sometimes simply or sometimes simply aspri. aspri. They were facing the loudspeakers that had been placed outside the cathedral and they were listening to that voice, sounded like a black man, which was coming from somewhere inside the stone walls. From the look of concentration on their faces, the boy could tell that what was being said was important. They were facing the loudspeakers that had been placed outside the cathedral and they were listening to that voice, sounded like a black man, which was coming from somewhere inside the stone walls. From the look of concentration on their faces, the boy could tell that what was being said was important.

". . . we are not coming to Washington to engage in any histrionic action, nor are we coming to tear up Washington. . . ."

The boy turned to the man beside him and tugged on his suit jacket.

"Excuse me," said the boy. "Who is that?"

"Dr. King," said the man, who did not take his eyes from the loudspeakers as he answered.

". . . I don't like to predict violence, but if nothing is done between now and June to raise ghetto hope, I feel this summer will not only be as bad, but worse than last year."

Some of the men in the crowd looked at their wives as this was said. These same men and women then glanced at their children.

Soon the boy grew bored, as he did not understand the meaning of Dr. King's words. He walked from the cathedral grounds back toward the property where his own church and people stood. His grandfather was leaning against his gold '63 Buick Wildcat, parked on Garfield. He flicked the last of his cigarette onto the street and opened the pa.s.senger door for the boy. Then he got under the wheel of his car and turned the ignition.

"You went to hear the mavros, mavros, eh?" said the grandfather, pulling away from the curb. eh?" said the grandfather, pulling away from the curb.

"I heard a little," said the boy. "Is he good?"

"Good?" The grandfather shrugged. "What the h.e.l.l do I know? I think he believes what he's sayin'. Anyway, he's stirring things up, that's for sure."

The boy reached for the radio switch. "Where we goin'?"

"To see Kirio Kirio Georgelakos, over on Kennedy Street. He ran out of tomatoes. I told him we'd drop some by." Georgelakos, over on Kennedy Street. He ran out of tomatoes. I told him we'd drop some by."

The boy, whose name was Nick Stefanos, fiddled with the dial of the radio, stopping it at 1390. He found a rock-and-roll song he liked on WEAM and upped the volume. He began to sing along.

"What the h.e.l.l?" said the grandfather, also named Nick Stefanos, with a gruff voice. But he was not annoyed. In fact, he was amused. He looked across the bench and gave the boy a crooked smile.

BIG NICK STEFANOS parked his Wildcat in the alley behind a fastback Mustang, got a crate of tomatoes out of his trunk, and called through the screen door of the Three-Star before he and his grandson walked inside. He dropped the crate in the small storage room before going through a doorway leading to the dishwashing area behind the counter. parked his Wildcat in the alley behind a fastback Mustang, got a crate of tomatoes out of his trunk, and called through the screen door of the Three-Star before he and his grandson walked inside. He dropped the crate in the small storage room before going through a doorway leading to the dishwashing area behind the counter.

"Niko," said Mike Georgelakos, holding a spatula, leaning over the grill, his bald dome framed by patches of gray. said Mike Georgelakos, holding a spatula, leaning over the grill, his bald dome framed by patches of gray.

"I put the tomatoes in the back."

"Thanks, boss."

"Tipota."

Nick and his grandson went around the counter, nodding at Billy, Mike's son, who was working colds. Billy, a younger, taller, hairier version of his father, wore an ap.r.o.n and kept a ballpoint pen lodged behind his ear. Over by the urns, a thin waitress pulled down on a black handle and drew a stream of coffee into a cup. The two Nicks found seats on empty stools.

All the booths and half the counter seats were taken. Mike Georgelakos opened for a few hours on Sundays to catch an after-church flurry that occurred between noon and one o'clock. Many of the customers wore dresses and suits. Gospel music came from the radio set on the AM station that normally played rhythm and blues.

A black cop and a white cop, both in uniform, sat at the counter having breakfast. Before them were cups of coffee and plates of eggs, potatoes, grilled onions, and half smokes. Occasionally they said a few quiet words to each other, but mostly they worked on their food. A couple of teenage boys sitting in a booth with their mother stared boldly at the backs of the police officers, studying their size and the service revolvers holstered on their hips.

"That your new car out back, Billy?" said the older Nick.

"It's a two-plus-two," said Billy Georgelakos, his eyes on the club sandwich he was making on the board in front of him.

"Orayo eine."

"Yeah, it's nice."

"Tha fas simera?" called Mike from behind the grill. called Mike from behind the grill.

"No food today," said Nick Stefanos. "Just a quick caffe caffe for me and a cherry Co-Cola for my boy." for me and a cherry Co-Cola for my boy."

The frail, pretty waitress drew a coffee for the older man, poured a shot of cherry syrup into a gla.s.s of c.o.ke she had pulled from the soda dispenser, and served them both.

"Ella, you do good work."

"Thank you, Mr. Nick."

They drank up their coffee and soda. The boy was not uncomfortable here, as his grandfather also owned a lunch counter, Nick's Grill, on 14th and S, that catered to blacks. Still, in both establishments he was always aware that he was in a different world than his own.

Big Nick left a dollar under his saucer for Ella. He and the boy went to the register, where Mike had just finished ringing up a sale. It was understood that Mike would not give Nick money for the tomatoes and that sometime in the future the debt would be repaid in kind. Also understood was that the drinks were on the house.

"How you doin,' young man?" said Mike to the boy. "You all right?"

"Yes."

"Good boy." Mike turned to the older man, whom he'd known for twenty-some-odd years. "You went to church, eh? I heard the mavros mavros was supposed to talk down there." was supposed to talk down there."

"King?" said Nick Stefanos. "He talked. Got a big crowd, too."

"He's gonna make trouble," said Mike, lowering his voice. "He's gonna get 'em all stirred up."

"Whatever's gonna happen's gonna happen," said Nick with a shrug. He looked across the counter at Mike, carrying twenty pounds he didn't need, sweating, breathing hard from walking down twenty feet of rubber mats. "You can't stop it, patrioti, patrioti, so don't waste your time worryin' about it. You're gonna make yourself sick." so don't waste your time worryin' about it. You're gonna make yourself sick."

Mike waved his hand. "G.o.dd.a.m.n, you know me, I don't worry about nothin'." you know me, I don't worry about nothin'."

"Looks like you can use some help. Where's your grill man today?"

"He don't work Sundays. Between me and my boy and Ella, we can handle it all right."

"Take it easy, Michali, Michali," said Nick, reaching over the counter to shake Mike's hand.

"You, too."

As Nick Stefanos and his grandson left the store, the two cops dropped some change on the counter, got up off their stools, and walked to the register. The boys who had been staring at them so boldly looked down at their plates as the tall men crossed the room.

"How you like it, boys?"

"I'm gonna be dreamin' about those half smokes tonight," said the white cop, who had the South in his voice.

"That's my signature," said Mike, catching the black cop's eye. "I learned it from a pro."

"How much, Mr. Mike?" said the black cop.

"Two dollars for both," said Mike, charging them two dollars less than he would have charged civilians.

"Have a blessed day, young man," said the waitress, Ella Lockheart, as she pa.s.sed behind the black cop, who was in the process of returning his wallet to the back pocket of his slacks.

"You do the same."

At the door, the young black cop, broad shouldered, dark skinned, and handsome, turned and called to Billy Georgelakos, standing at the colds station.

"Yasou, Vasili."

"Yasou, Derek." Derek."

The black cop, Derek Strange, and the white cop, who was named Troy Peters, walked out of the Three-Star and headed toward their squad car, parked out on the street.

STRANGE KEYED THE mic and radioed in to tell the station operator that he and his partner were back on duty. They cruised west down the strip, Peters under the wheel. A few kids were lining up for the matinee at the Kennedy; its marquee read "Joan Crawford goes mic and radioed in to tell the station operator that he and his partner were back on duty. They cruised west down the strip, Peters under the wheel. A few kids were lining up for the matinee at the Kennedy; its marquee read "Joan Crawford goes Berserk! Berserk!" Bars, cleaners, and other shops were shuttered. A couple of young men dipping down the sidewalk cold-eyed Strange as the squad car pa.s.sed.

"Go on, fellas," said Peters. "Wave to Officer Friendly."

"Don't you know the po-lice is your buddy?" said Strange. Peters chuckled, but Strange could not bring himself to smile.

This was the part of the job, the open contempt, that got under Strange's skin. Wouldn't have been so bad if he only got it while he was in uniform. But he was reminded of it even when he was not on duty. Once, at a party near Florida and 7th, a woman told him in front of Darla Harris, his date, that what he was doing was a form of betrayal, that, in essence, he was a traitor. But he felt that he was not. He was protecting protecting his people. He was doing a job that few were willing to do and that needed to get done. He had convinced himself of this early on so he could get through his day-to-day. his people. He was doing a job that few were willing to do and that needed to get done. He had convinced himself of this early on so he could get through his day-to-day.

It was true that he had been warned by the experienced black officers to expect this kind of att.i.tude. But he didn't know it would continue to bother him as deeply as it did. He talked about it with his friend Lydell Blue whenever he could, because he could not talk about it with Troy Peters. Lydell had also become an MPD cop, straight out of the army. He knew.

Wasn't everybody. Plenty of people showed him respect. Older folks, mostly, and little kids. Still, as he got into the poorer neighborhoods, he was looked upon as the enemy by everyone, especially by the young. Sometimes he caught it from his own blood. On the afternoon of Strange's graduation from the academy, his brother, Dennis, high on something, had congratulated him, then said, "You a full-fledged member of the occupying army now." Strange was tempted to tell his brother that he had no call to be cuttin' on anyone who had a job, but he held his tongue. Dennis didn't mean anything by it, for real. He had always been against anything that smelled like the system. His parents, at least, had looked at him with pride.

"You hear those two old birds in there, talkin' about Dr. King?" said Peters.

"I heard 'em," said Strange.

"They're afraid, is what it is."

Strange looked across the bench at his blond-haired partner. "Now you're gonna tell me you're not."

"Not in that way. Look, if these people out here don't get some kind of relief, it's all gonna boil over. I don't look forward to that kind of violence. I'm afraid afraid of it, okay? But those old guys, what they're afraid of is the change itself. I'm talkin' about how their world is gonna change forever when all of this gets settled once and for all. Me, I welcome that kind of change." of it, okay? But those old guys, what they're afraid of is the change itself. I'm talkin' about how their world is gonna change forever when all of this gets settled once and for all. Me, I welcome that kind of change."

"You welcome it, huh?"

"You know what I mean."

"Okay. But here's something for you to remember while you're bein' so broad-minded. Come revolution time? You go out there and greet these people these people with open arms? Yours is gonna be the first throat they cut." with open arms? Yours is gonna be the first throat they cut."

"Something's coming, is all I'm saying. You can't deny it. It's like trying to stop the sunrise."

Strange nodded tightly. Living conditions had deteriorated as poverty had grown throughout the decade. At present, only one out of three students in the city graduated from public high schools, resulting in a huge unskilled workforce released into a white-collar, government-industry town that yielded few jobs and little in the way of prospects. For many, the promise of the civil rights movement seemed broken. And if the ghetto was thought of by its residents as a kind of prison, then its police force was seen as the prison guard. This perception was exacerbated by the fact that, in D.C., roughly three out of four citizens were black, while four out of five police officers were white. No wonder that crime, civil disobedience, and unmasked hatred were on the rise.

The government, meanwhile, was making eleventh-hour efforts to ease the tension. President Johnson had appointed Walter Washington, longtime head of the National Capital Housing Authority, to be D.C.'s first black mayor. Mayor Washington then brought in Patrick V. Murphy, former chief of the Syracuse police, and put him in the newly created position of director of public safety. Murphy, who was perceived to be more sympathetic to the race problem than Police Chief John Layton, was charged with overseeing both the MPD and the fire department. Immediately, Murphy promoted blacks to higher ranks and stepped up efforts to recruit rookie black police officers. This did not make Murphy popular with senators and congressmen of a certain stripe, who feared that blacks were getting too much power in the federally controlled nation's capital. Nevertheless, a new opportunity had presented itself, and black men and women began to sign on in numbers for the uniform, badge, and gun. Derek Strange and Lydell Blue were two of many who had heard the call.

Disenfranchised Washingtonians, however, considered these efforts to be too little, too late. The race divide remained the nation's powder keg, and its ultimate explosion seemed destined to occur in D.C. In August of '67, arson and minor riots had broken out along 7th and 14th Streets, with rocks and bottles thrown at firemen attempting to extinguish the flames. Since then, unrest and disorder had become almost weekly occurrences. Stokely Carmichael, the high-profile former spokesman for the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, had moved to town. H. Rap Brown was being extradited from New Orleans to Richmond and ultimately to Maryland's Eastern Sh.o.r.e, where he faced charges of arson and inciting a riot in the town of Cambridge. Black Panthers and other Black Nationalist factions had become active and entrenched around the city. And Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was promising, some said threatening, to bring his Poor People's Campaign, a ma.s.sive rally, to Washington on April 22. But first he had to deal with Memphis.

Days earlier, King had led a six-thousand-strong march down Beale Street in support of an ongoing garbage workers' strike in Memphis, where almost all the refuse men were black. Rioting and violence had ensued, ending in serious injuries, scores of arrests, and the death of a sixteen-year-old boy. Witnesses claimed the boy, Larry Payne, had been shot by a white policeman after putting his hands up in surrender. Subsequently, a prominent group of radicals had called for the annexation of five southern states with the intention of forming a separate black nation, warning that the country would have "no chance of surviving" if their demands were not met. A visibly worn down President Johnson stated that rioting could only serve to divide the people, while presidential candidate Richard Nixon declared that "the nation must be prepared to meet force with force if necessary." King had pledged that the Memphis incident would not deter his plans to march in D.C. in April.

"Troy?"

"What?"

"Think we could get through one afternoon without talkin' about all this bulls.h.i.t for a change?"

"It's not important to you?"

"I hear enough about it in my my world every day. I just don't need to be discussin' it all day at work." world every day. I just don't need to be discussin' it all day at work."

Discussing it with a white man, Strange might have added. But there wasn't any need to say it aloud. Peters was smart enough to read between the lines.

Strange had been riding with Peters for a while now, but it had only taken one day to know his history. Peters was twenty-nine years old, a devout Christian married to his college sweetheart, Patty, who worked for an American Indian-rights group on Jefferson Place in Northwest and drove a VW Bug with a flower-shaped McCarthy sticker affixed to its hood. Peters had strong feelings on civil rights, women's rights, organized labor, and the war in Vietnam. On all of these issues, Peters believed he was on the side of the angels.

Right or not, his opinions often came off as speeches, like he was up in front of one of those poli-sci cla.s.ses he had taken back in school. Strange sometimes felt it was his duty to bring Peters back down to reality. Let him know in his own way that while all black people were looking for equality, few were looking to be accepted, or loved, by whites. It was, in fact, just about the furthest thing from black folks' minds. This was something that many of these well-meaning types could not seem to understand.

One thing about Peters, he was different for sure from most of the cops Strange had come to know. A Carolina boy who'd graduated from Princeton, joined the Peace Corps, then signed up for the MPD, he was one of several high-profile recruits with similar backgrounds who'd come to the force with Ivy League degrees in hand, hoping to change the system from the inside. There had even been a New York Times New York Times article written on these men in which Peters had been quoted, and a article written on these men in which Peters had been quoted, and a Look Look magazine spread that featured a photograph of his freckly, blue-eyed face. He claimed to be embarra.s.sed by all the attention, and Strange had no doubt that he was. Certainly his notoriety and well-heeled upbringing did not endear him to many of his fellow officers, black or white. To them he was just playing dress-up until he got bored and moved on to something else. magazine spread that featured a photograph of his freckly, blue-eyed face. He claimed to be embarra.s.sed by all the attention, and Strange had no doubt that he was. Certainly his notoriety and well-heeled upbringing did not endear him to many of his fellow officers, black or white. To them he was just playing dress-up until he got bored and moved on to something else.

Not that Peters was soft. Boys tended to be built bigger and tougher in the South, and Peters was a southern boy all the way. From what Strange had seen so far, he was unafraid to enter into a conflict and had no physical problem subduing suspects on the street. More important, Strange was secure in the belief that Peters would have his back in the event of a situation.

So Peters was all right. He wasn't Strange's boy or anything like that, but he was fine. Strange just wished he didn't try so hard to endear himself to his "black" partner all the time. It got tiring sometimes, listening to the beat of his pure heart.

"I wish I could have been there," said Peters.

"Where?"

"The cathedral. I would've liked to have heard him speak."

"Thought we were done with that," said Strange.

"The radio said four thousand showed up to hear him," said Peters, unable to give it up.

"Gonna be four hundred hundred thousand," said Strange, "he comes back in April." thousand," said Strange, "he comes back in April."

"First he's gotta go back to Tennessee to try and put a Band-Aid on that situation they got down there."

"Fine by me," said Strange. "Let the Memphis police deal with it for a while. Leave us with some peace."

He looked out the window of the squad car, saw a man washing his Cadillac curbside. A s.n.a.t.c.h of "Cold Sweat" came from its radio. Two kids were dancing on the sidewalk, one of them trying to do a JB split beside the man's ride.

"Maceo," said Strange under his breath.