Hard Revolution_ A Novel Part 8

Farther along, a woman in a gone-to-church outfit walked alone, swinging a handbag, her backside moving beautifully beneath her short skirt.

"What'd you say?" said Peters.

"I love this city," said Strange.

NINE.

BUZZ STEWART WALKED through an open bay door, stepped into the cool spring air, and lit himself a smoke. He had just finished changing the oil on a '66 Dart, needed a break, and felt he was due. Behind him, from the garage radio, came that new one from the Temptations, "I Wish It Would Rain." Now, that was a nice song. through an open bay door, stepped into the cool spring air, and lit himself a smoke. He had just finished changing the oil on a '66 Dart, needed a break, and felt he was due. Behind him, from the garage radio, came that new one from the Temptations, "I Wish It Would Rain." Now, that was a nice song.

"Day in, day out, my tear-stained face is pressed against the windowpane," sang Stewart, soft and off-key, his eyes closed, the sun warming his face. David Ruffin on vocals, you couldn't go wrong there. Course, Stewart couldn't stand the sight of most n.i.g.g.e.rs. But, boy,they could sing.

After Stewart's discharge from the army, the manager of the Esso station at Georgia and Piney Branch had rehired him straightaway. Manager said he hoped the service had made a man out of him, and Stewart a.s.sured him that it had. Soon Stewart had been promoted to junior mechanic, a t.i.tle that allowed him to do simple work: water pumps, belts, hoses, battery replacements, thermostats, and the like. No valve jobs, though, or even tune-ups, because the fat man still insisted he pa.s.s the certification course before he could take on those kinds of procedures. Stewart wouldn't do it. He had long ago decided that he was never gonna sit in any kind of cla.s.sroom again, have anyone laugh at him the way kids used to laugh at him back at St. Michael's just because he couldn't read the long words in those stupid books.

Manager said, "You take the cla.s.s, you make full mechanic, it's as simple as that."

Stewart said, "f.u.c.k a lot of cla.s.s," ending the discussion right there.

Stewart liked to work on cars, but he was no longer looking to make a career of it. There were easier ways to make money.

"Hey, Dom," said Stewart, watching Dominic Martini sc.r.a.pe a rubber squeegee across the windshield of a '64 Impala over by the pumps. "You missed a spot. How you gonna get employee of the month like that?"

"I dunno, Buzz," said Martini without looking away from the ch.o.r.e at hand. He had to have known Stewart was cracking on him, but if it bothered him, he didn't let it show.

"Just don't want to see you get off that management track you're on."

"Thanks for lookin' out for me, man."

Stewart grunted. Martini was in his midtwenties, dark and pretty like Broadway Joe. He could have been a movie star, maybe, or one of them gigolos got paid to go on dates with old ladies, he wanted to. And here he was, a pump jockey, still cleaning windshields in the neighborhood he grew up in, a neighborhood gone half spade.

"Dumb a.s.s," said Stewart.

Dumb, maybe, but tough. Unlike Buzz Stewart, who had been stationed in the Philippines for the duration of his enlistment, Dominic Martini had seen Vietnam. Talk was his outfit had been involved in some real action, too. But Martini, who had been a c.o.c.ky sonofab.i.t.c.h when he was a teenager, had lost something overseas. Funny how being in the middle of that s.h.i.t storm had took the fire out of him. Or maybe it had something to do with his kid brother. The boy, Angelo, a weak t.i.t if you asked Stewart, had always been his shadow when the two of them were growing up.

Whatever it was that had turned his lights off, and despite his lack of enthusiasm, Stewart had made Martini a part of his plans. He figured that if something went down, Martini would act without thought and also act with authority. After you've been programmed to kill, thought Stewart, the instinct never left you.

Martini had said that whatever Stewart had in mind was okay. He had said it without enthusiasm, like he said everything else, but agreed to come along. Stewart had brought Shorty in, too, soon as he'd done his straight time. Prison had made the little guy crazier than s.h.i.t, and that could be useful, too. Not that he'd ever been normal or anything close to it. Walter Hess didn't need no Marine Corps to teach him how to kill.

Stewart hit his smoke, hit it again, hot-boxed it so the paper collapsed under the draw. He crushed the cigarette under his boot. There was an Olds 88 in the garage beside the Dart, waitin' on its tires to get rotated. It was time to get back to work.

He stopped by his car, a '64 Plymouth Belvedere, double red with a white top, parked along the cinder-block wall of the garage. Stewart babied his ride, a customized 440 with a Max Wedge head scoop, Hooker headers, three-inch pipes, a 727 automatic trans, and chrome reverse mags. On the left front quarter panel, in white script, was written the word "Bernadette." He'd named the car after one of his favorite songs.

Stewart noticed a smudge on the hood. He grabbed at the hip area of his belt line, where a clean shop rag always hung, and pulled the cloth free. He rubbed the smudge and removed it. Now she looked right.

WASN'T LONG BEFORE Stewart had the Olds up on the lift and was using an air gun to loosen the lugs on the wheels. The old lady who owned the car would be by soon to pick it up. Stewart had the Olds up on the lift and was using an air gun to loosen the lugs on the wheels. The old lady who owned the car would be by soon to pick it up.

He had his sleeves rolled up high on his biceps, and as he worked he periodically checked his arms to regard their size. He had always been a big boy. The army had made him big like Kong.

Barry Richards, that fast-talking DJ on WHMC, introduced the brand-new Miracles record, "If You Can Want," saying, "Go ahead, Smokey," before the tune kicked in. It wasn't no "I Second That Emotion," but it was okay.

Walter Hess gave Stewart much s.h.i.t about his newfound love of R&B. It was true that Stewart had been a rocker way back when, but something had changed in him early in the decade, when he started going to the Howard, down off 7th Street below Florida Avenue, to see the live acts with his friends. Most of the time they were the only whites in the place, but the colored kids were so into the show that there never had been any kind of trouble. None to speak of, that is, outside of the occasional hard look. Stewart always sat in the balcony, where he was less visible, just in case. Because of his size, he stood out too much as it was.

Early on, he caught the big-name acts. For fifty cents, in the early years, you got live performances and a movie, too. Comedians, sometimes, like Moms Mabley and Pigmeat Markham. But mostly musicians, and it was them he would remember most: James Brown and the Famous Flames, Little Stevie Wonder, Martha and the Vandellas, the Impressions, Joe Tex, and Aretha when she wasn't much more than a little girl. h.e.l.l, she was so young then, her father had to be onstage with her, like a chaperone. Stewart had gotten tired of the hits he'd been hearing on the radio, especially that British s.h.i.t, but what he saw at the Howard put a hot wire up inside him and got him buying music again.

He liked all kinds of R&B. But when he was looking to spend money in the record stores, he kept his eye out for the labels Tamla, Gordy, and Motown. There wasn't nothin' better than the Motown sound. Those blue-gum singers they had down south, Otis Redding and Wilson Pickett and them, some of their stuff was okay, but when they got to grunting and sweating they were way too n.i.g.g.e.rish for Stewart's tastes. The Motowners, they dressed high-cla.s.s, in tuxes and gowns, and wore their hair like whites. What they were singing about, you could tell it wasn't just meant for colored. h.e.l.l, they could have been singing about things that happened in white people's lives. Sometimes, you closed your eyes, you could even pretend that they were white.

Not that Stewart had given up on rock completely. He and Shorty, sometimes with Martini in tow, still went out to the clubs. And Link Wray remained his man.

Stewart had missed Link's long run at Vinnie's, a rough old bar down around the Greyhound station on H, because those were the years he had been in the service. When he returned, Wray and the Raymen were the house act at the 1023 Club in Far Southeast. It was a bikers' bar, with members of Satan's Few, the Phantoms, the Pagans, and others in the mix. By then that part of Anacostia was going from working-cla.s.s white to colored, and tensions between the neighborhood residents and the club patrons had begun to boil. In the summer of '66, coloreds attacked the club, cutting power lines, knocking over bikes, and tossing bricks through the 1023's windows. The following week the Pagans retaliated with some righteous a.s.s kicking of their own. Buzz Stewart and Walter Hess had joined the melee. This was before Shorty went to jail for something else he'd done. But on the b.l.o.o.d.y night of that retaliation, Stewart had seen him take a gravity knife to some c.o.o.n's face during the free-for-all. Last Stewart had seen that man, he was running down the street screaming like a girl. Shorty musta cut him good.

Eventually that club had to close. Link moved to the Famous, on New York Avenue, across from the Rocket Room, another rough-and-tumble joint. Stewart followed him and continued to drink there and in other bucket-of-bloods just like it. There was the Anchor Inn, in Southeast, which was known to employ a wh.o.r.e waitress or two; and Strick's, on Branch Avenue, which still had country music; the Alpine, on Kennedy; the Lion's Den, on Georgia; and Cousin Nick's, another Pagan dive, near the bus depot, high on 14th. Coloreds were not welcome in most of these places, though many of these bars were in colored neighborhoods. If one came in and leered at one of the white girls, well, that was his misfortune. You just had to go ahead and stomp his a.s.s.

Inside these establishments, Stewart felt safe with his own. It was like he was with his car-club boys in the parking lot of Mo's, the Chantels were singing from the dash radio, and the calendar still read 1959. But outside the club walls, the att.i.tude had changed. Coloreds weren't looking away when you stared them down. They walked real slow across the street, almost daring you to hit 'em. Young ones especially had that laughing, f.u.c.k-you look in their eyes. Clearly they weren't going to take any s.h.i.t from white boys anymore.

There were other changes as well. Greasers were no longer cool. Hot rods were out, muscle cars and pony cars were in, and Elvis was for squares. Stewart lost the Brylcreem in his hair and let it grow, just a little, over his ears. Some of Stewart's friends got into pot. A few got into worse. Walter Hess still drank beer and sometimes Jack, but somewhere along the line, probably in prison, he'd started in on amphetamines, too. As for Stewart, he stayed with beer and hard liquor. He liked Ten High bourbon and ginger ale. On certain nights, when he wanted to get way outside his head, he went with gin and c.o.ke.

In their day, Stewart and Hess had relied mainly on their fists. Now they never went into the colored sections of town without some kind of weapon. Buzz kept a derringer in his boot; Shorty always carried some kind of knife. They wore the same accessories in the after-hours bars they frequented on 13th and 14th Streets, down in Shaw. Of course, the races in those joints mixed, as a certain tension release came with the late-hour buzz. The patrons were a drunken blur of black and white. The wh.o.r.es were mostly black.

"You got that Olds ready?" It was the fat manager, standing in the open bay door.

"Just about," said Stewart, who had balanced and rotated the tires and was now tightening the lugs.

"The blue-hair's waiting."

"Said I was near done."

Stewart looked out the door. The manager was already waddling back to his office. Out by the pumps, Martini was talking to a big guy wearing a suit and hat, the gas line going into his old-man's Dodge. The big guy had a sleepy set of eyes, and his hair was cut real short. You'd think he was military from the first glance. But Stewart had been around enough to know different. This guy was a cop.

Stewart wasn't surprised. Dominic Martini knew most of the cops in the neighborhood. It was like a game he played, knowing their names. He'd been hanging around precinct houses, watching them, since he was a kid.

Dumb s.h.i.t, thought Stewart. It was like he looked up to them. Imagine, looking up to a cop.

Soon after, a squad car drove into the lot with two uniforms, colored and a white guy, in the front seat. The driver, the white guy, pulled up near the plainclothesman's Dodge.

Stewart said, "What the f.u.c.k."

FRANK VAUGHN LIKED to get out of his car and stretch while the young man at the Esso station ga.s.sed up his car. This one had been working here on and off for many years. to get out of his car and stretch while the young man at the Esso station ga.s.sed up his car. This one had been working here on and off for many years.

On his shirt, the name Dom was st.i.tched onto a patch. There was a long period there when this Dom had been gone. Vaughn guessed he had done an active tour. He had the look of someone the government would s.n.a.t.c.h. He sure wasn't college-deferment material, and he was no rich man's son. Probably a high school dropout to boot. But plenty big enough to be a soldier. When Vaughn used to come here years earlier, the kid was full of p.i.s.s and vinegar. Knew Vaughn was a cop and was a smart-a.s.s about it, too. Now it looked like all that att.i.tude had drained right out of his eyes.

"Don't fill it all the way," said Vaughn, who was admiring a shiny, tricked-out Plymouth Belvedere parked alongside the garage. "Leave some room for the tiger."

"Huh?"

"Your sign says 'Put a tiger in your tank.'"

"Oh, yeah," said Dom, like he didn't get the joke. More likely, he heard the same crack ten times a day.

A squad car pulled into the lot. Vaughn knew the occupants. Peters, the Ivy Leaguer, and the colored rookie, Derek Strange. The white knight and his black partner, crisp as a newly minted bill, part of the new look of the MPD. To Vaughn, it seemed like more of a publicity stunt than anything practical. Peters was a high-profile uniform who sometimes got his picture in the papers. Put him next to a colored guy, a good-looking one who could speak in full sentences, to make some sort of point. This is the face of your future po-lice officer.

Vaughn felt that the MPD was hiring black cops too quickly, with little regard for their qualifications. In theory, it was a good idea to have coloreds policing colored citizens. But Vaughn was not sure that he or the department was ready for the change. Like everything else rushing by him these past few years, it seemed to be happening too fast.

This young man was all right, though. h.e.l.l, he was Alethea's son, so that wasn't any kind of surprise.

The Ford stopped on the other side of the pump and idled. Derek Strange was on the pa.s.senger side, his arm resting on the lip of the open window.

"Detective Vaughn," said Strange.

"How you fellas doin' today?" said Vaughn.

"We're about off shift."

"And here I am, just gettin' on. You need somethin'?"

"Just sayin' h.e.l.lo. You looked kinda lonely, standing out here."

"Thanks for your concern."

The pump jockey turned and had a glance at Strange. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then the jockey looked away.

Strange recognized him. Martini, the teenager from Billy's neighborhood who he'd hung with a couple of times back when they were boys. A JD-lookin' kid, on the mean side, had a little brother who was kind, which this one probably mistook for weak. They were all together that day when Strange had been popped at Ida's for trying to boost a padlock, nine years back.

Strange didn't acknowledge Martini. He didn't look like he wanted him to. Looked like he'd fallen some off that high horse of his. Strange let him be. Strange's father had always told him, Don't be kickin' a man when he's down. Ain't no good reason for it, he'd said. Wrong as it was, though, Strange had to admit it felt good, wearing his clean uniform, looking at Martini, grease all over his.

"Your mother all right?" said Vaughn.

"She's fine," said Strange with a tone of finality. It was plain to Vaughn that Strange was asking him to say no more.

"All right, then," said Vaughn. "You fellas keep your eyes open out there."

"Have a good one, Detective," said Peters, who then put the Ford in gear and drove out of the lot.

Martini replaced the pump handle in its holster. "That'll be five."

"Here," said Vaughn, handing over the bill.

Vaughn walked over to the beautiful red Plymouth parked beside the garage. He studied the car. The owner had named it Bernadette, most likely for his girl. Well, thought Vaughn, young men do stupid things when it comes to young women. Vaughn himself had a tattoo on his shoulder that read "Olga," the word on a banner flowing across a heart. She had been his girlfriend when he'd had the tattoo done one drunken night in a parlor overseas, twenty-four years earlier. After he gotten it, he'd gone into a wh.o.r.ehouse next door and spent the rest of his leave money on a skinny little girl who called him Fw.a.n.k, had a shaved s.n.a.t.c.h, and liked to laugh.

Vaughn walked to the open bay door of the garage. A mechanic, farm-boy big, was lowering an Olds to the cement floor.

"That your Belvedere out here?" said Vaughn.

"Yeah," said Stewart, not even bothering to look at Vaughn. He was breathing through his mouth as he worked. Vaughn put him in his late twenties. A greaser, not too bright, whose time had already pa.s.sed him by.

"Nice sled," said Vaughn.

"Somethin' wrong?"

"It just caught my eye. I'm a Mopar man myself."

"Huh," said Stewart. It was more of a grunt than a response.

Friendly type, thought Vaughn. Okay, then, f.u.c.k you, too.

He walked back to his own car, a '67 Polara with cat-eye taillights. It only held a 318 under the hood, not much horse for the weight. Everything on it was stock, straight off the lot at Laurel Dodge. Nothing like the young man's Plymouth, a head-turner and a genuine rocket. But the Polara was plenty sporty for a man who was watching fifty coming up in the rearview mirror. It was a pretty car.

Vaughn lit a cigarette as he drove out of the Esso lot and headed for the station. Sunday was a good shift. Not too much happening, usually. Maybe he'd have a free hour. Enough time to visit his girl.

COMING OUT OF the Esso, Strange and Peters responded to a call, a domestic dispute down on Ogelthorpe. Peters told the dispatcher that they'd take it and got them on their way. the Esso, Strange and Peters responded to a call, a domestic dispute down on Ogelthorpe. Peters told the dispatcher that they'd take it and got them on their way.

"We parked here?" said Strange.

"There ain't no hurry, rook."

"You're drivin' the limit."

Peters checked the speedometer. "So I am."

Peters knew that domestics usually worked themselves out before the police arrived. Cops who had been around for a while weren't in any hurry to jump into a conflict between a man and a woman, not if they didn't have to.

"Detective Hound Dog," said Peters, giving the Ford a little extra gas as he hit the hill on 14th. "He knows your mother?"

"From work," said Strange.

"I guess Vaughn gets those choppers of his cleaned real regular."

"I guess he does," said Strange.

Strange had told Peters early on that his mother worked reception in a dental office. He was instantly ashamed of himself for doing so and wondered why he had. Now he had to keep up the lie.

"You got plans tonight?" said Peters.

"Gonna catch an early show down at the Tivoli. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly."

"You've seen it twice already."

"Guess I'll make it three times. Anyway, my girl hasn't seen it yet."

"Woman's gonna be a girlfriend to you, I guess she has to like westerns, too."

"She likes that good thing, she gonna have to learn."

"Quit braggin'."