Hard Revolution by George Pelecanos
“Mary,” she said.
“I’m lookin’ to get up with Alvin Jones.”
“He’s not here,” said the woman, her voice soft and high.
“Alvin ran with my brother, Dennis. Dennis was killed a couple of nights back.”
She nodded slowly and kept her eyes on his. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I just want to speak with Alvin, see if he can give me some information regarding my brother’s last hours.”
“I’d like to speak to him, too,” she said with a long, tired exhale. “You wanna come in? I need to finish feedin’ my little boy.”
Strange went through the open door.
THE HOUSES ON the north side of Longfellow Street, between 13th and Colorado Avenue, were detached, with small backyards ending in garages built along the alley. In the kitchen of the Martini house, Angela Martini prepared her weekly batch of Sunday gravy. Angela had begun by browning pork neck bones, veal shoulder chops, and sausages in hot oil. She was working on the base now. The sauce itself would take three hours to cook. Its garlic and basil smell would linger in the house for days.
In the garage, Dominic Martini, Buzz Stewart, and Walter Hess stood grouped around Martini’s Nova. The space was tight, packed with garden implements, a manual push mower, automotive tools, a gas can, and a small bale of chicken wire. Angelo Martini’s old bicycle, which still had baseball cards clothespinned to the spokes, leaned against a wall. Two nylon-stocking masks and two plain unbelted raincoats, purchased by Stewart at Montgomery Ward’s, hung on pegs.
The door to the garage was closed. Stewart’s Belvedere was parked in the alley, tight to the yard. Behind it sat the green Rambler owned by Mrs. Hess.
Walter Hess threw his head back and killed the Schlitz he’d been drinking, then crushed the can in his hand and tossed the empty into a box. He dipped his hand into a brown paper bag and pulled another can free. He pulled the ring, dropped the ring into the hole in the top, and took a swig of beer.
“You better slow down,” said Stewart.
“I’m thirsty.”
“It’s that speed you ate.”
“Who don’t know that?”
“Slow down.”
“I could drink a case.”
Stewart didn’t doubt that he could. Up on Beauties, Hess could take alcohol forever. When he was using amphetamines, beer didn’t slur his speech or lame him. It just took the edge off Shorty’s hot nerves.
“Dom,” said Stewart, “you check the gauges?”
“Pressure’s fine,” said Martini, staring at his car with dead eyes. “Fluids are tight.”
The Nova would not attract attention. It was a two-door Chevy II SS, black over black, and stock in appearance. It had a four-speed Hurst between the buckets and a 350 engine with a four-barrel Holly carb under the hood. It was light, tight, and fast. The Cragar mags were the sole adornment indicating that the car could run.
Hess put himself down on the concrete floor in push-up position and looked under the car.
“No leaks,” he said as he rose to his full five foot four inches.
“Said I checked it.”
“Just backin’ you up, Pretty Boy.”
“You get them plates?” said Stewart to Hess.
“They’re out in the Rambler. Took ’em off a Mustang out at PG Plaza.”
“Told you to get ’em someplace far away.”
“I just boosted ’em an hour ago. By the time it gets reported and into the system, them plates’ll be down some sewer hole, and you and me will be rich and gone.”
“All right.” Stewart pointed his chin over the shoulders of Martini and Hess toward the workbench. “Let’s see what we got.”
An open duffel bag sat on the workbench, and in the bag were guns: the Italian double-trigger twelve-gauge with the cut-down barrel and stock; two S&W .38s with nickel finish, walnut grips, and four-inch barrels; and a Colt Combat .45. The guns had been passed along through the criminal underworld for years. All had been thoroughly cleaned and oiled. All serial numbers had been filed off. Also in the bag were three sets of thin leather gloves, a harness for the cut-down, two shoulder holsters, bricks of bullets in both calibers, a full magazine for the Colt, and shotgun shells with copper-covered loads.
In addition, Stewart had his .38 caliber single-shot derringer slipped into his right boot. Hess was armed with a commando knife with a five-inch stainless blade, sheathed in a scabbard.
They grouped themselves around the bag. Stewart withdrew the shotgun, harness, and shells, and placed them on the bench as Hess dressed himself in the shoulder holsters. Stewart handed him the .38s.
Hess holstered both, cross-drew them, and dry-fired at the wall. He had practiced this in the mirror of his bedroom many times. He stared at the guns for a moment and smiled. He turned, pointed one of them at Martini’s face, and pulled its trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber, its dull sound echoing in the garage.
Hess cackled like a witch. “Shit, boy, you oughtta see the look on your face.”
“That ain’t funny, Shorty,” said Stewart.
“Aw,” said Hess, “old Dom can handle it. Him and his rough-and-tough soldier-boy friends, I bet they seen all sorts of things scarier than that over in ’Nam. Ain’t that right, Dominique?”
Martini said nothing.
“Here,” said Stewart, pulling the Colt from the bag, handing it to Martini. He then handed him its magazine.
Martini palmed the magazine into the grip of the automatic. He thumbed off the safety and racked the receiver. He flashed the gun up and touched the muzzle to Hess’s cheek. Hess moved back a step, and Martini went with him. Hess could go no farther than the workbench, and Martini pushed the gun into his cheek and dented it. Hess could do nothing but turn his head. Martini moved the muzzle and pressed it into the side of Hess’s porcine right eye. Martini pulled back the lanyard-style hammer and locked it in place.
“Easy,” said Stewart, who had not moved at all.
“Those men I served with?” said Martini. “Don’t ever mention them again.”
“All right,” said Hess, his rasp not much more than a whisper. “All right.”
Martini stepped back and hefted the heavy steel-framed Colt. He hadn’t held one since his discharge. It felt like part of his hand.
“I need to talk to my mother,” said Martini.
“You go on,” said Stewart.
Martini placed the automatic on the workbench and walked quietly and ramrod straight from the garage.
“I was only playin’ with him,” said Hess, rubbing at his cheek.
“All for one,” said Stewart with a crooked smile. “That boy’s ready now.”
VAUGHN DROVE UNDER the B&O railroad tracks at Sligo Avenue, going south toward D.C. He dragged out the last of his L&M. If Hess and Stewart were leaving town, what would be their last stop? Visits to girlfriends. Road beer and cigarettes from Morris Miller’s, for sure. The very last stop would be the Esso station, where Stewart could fill up with gas on credit or for free.
Vaughn pitched his smoke out the window. He passed over the District line, then by the Shepherd Park Restaurant, Morris Miller’s, the A&P, the drugstore, the dry cleaner, and the small bank at the end of the shopping center, the Capitol Savings and Loan. He goosed the gas and headed for the Esso station at Georgia and Piney Branch Road.
THE APARTMENT SMELLED of soiled diapers and cigarettes. The baby boy, who Mary said was two months old, had been fed and now slept in an old bassinet beside the sofa. Strange sat on the sofa, sipping coffee from a chipped cup set on a dirty saucer, Mary beside him.
“I don’t know where he be stayin’ at now,” said Mary.
“He was here the other night, wasn’t he? With Kenneth and my brother?”
“Alvin and them came over to give me a little smoke and take some of my money. He comes by from time to time, when he needs somethin’. But not too much anymore. Basically, he left out of here soon after my baby got born.”
“It sure was hard for him.”
“Isn’t the boy his?”
“Yes. But that didn’t make no difference to Alvin. He said he couldn’t stand to hear him cry. I said, ‘Alvin, that’s what babies do. They just askin’ for somethin’ when they cryin’, the only way they know.’ But he didn’t want to hear about all that. I woke up one morning and he was just gone.”
“No idea where he went to, huh?”
“I got an idea it was to another woman, ’cause that’s how he did. He never had a job long as I knew him. He charmed women and he lived off them until he found a new one. I know because he came to me the same way, full of promises and smiles. But I don’t know the new girl’s name.”
Strange lifted his saucer and saw antennae moving behind the cup. A roach emerged and crawled around the saucer. Strange placed the cup and saucer back down on the table in front of the couch.
“Where would he be staying if he wasn’t staying with a woman?” said Strange. “He mention any relatives that you can recall?”
Mary stared at the television set, running without sound. Strange recognized the program, Eye Guess, had that crippled game show host, wore the thick glasses. Dennis had liked to look at those shows sometimes in the afternoons, shout the answers out before the contestants had a chance to. Drove their father crazy to see Dennis in his underwear, watching that show. “Man’s playing games,” he’d say, “while other men go to work.”
“Any relatives?” said Strange.
Mary cleared her throat. “Kenneth.”
“Anyone else?”
“Alvin did have a stepbrother, but he’s in Leavenworth forever. His mother’s dead. The only time he mentioned his father was in hate. He had this other cousin he talked about, lived down off Seventh, worked in a big-man’s store down that way. Ronald, Ronnie, somethin’ like that. Maybe he can tell you where Alvin’s at.”
Strange made a mental note of the information.
“If you do run into Alvin,” said Mary, “tell him he needs to come see his son.”
“I will.”
“Alvin ain’t right. But I believe that a child can change a man. A boy needs a father in his life to make him whole.”
“I agree,” said Strange.
“You say Alvin and your brother were friends?”
“Yes,” said Strange, the simple lie coming with difficulty from his mouth.
“I hope your brother’s at peace with the Lord.”
“I better get goin’,” said Strange, rising quietly so as not to wake the baby. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“Was it all right? You ain’t hardly drink any.”
“It was fine.”
He looked at the clock on her wall. He had time for one more stop before his shift.
“MAMA,” SAID DOMINIC Martini to his mother’s back. She stood facing the stove in her black dress, socks, and thick black shoes, stirring the contents of a pot set over a gas flame.
“What, Dominic?”
“I’m goin’ out.”
“Who you goin’ with, eh?”
“Buzz and Shorty.”
“Those guys are bums,” said Angela. “You gonna get in trouble with those two.”
“Ma.”
“Come here and taste the gravy before you go.”
Martini crossed the linoleum kitchen floor. On the way, he hung the key to the garage padlock on a nail driven into the molding. He reached his mother and stood beside her as she dipped a wooden spoon into the mix of chopped tomatoes, tomato paste, pork neck bones, veal shoulders, sausages, garlic, basil, and pepper. She blew on the spoon to cool the sauce and held it up to her son’s mouth.
Martini leaned into it, the garlic coming strong from the steaming spoon, bringing a pleasant burn to his nostrils. He tasted the sauce. “It’s good. But it needs a little salt.”
“I’m gonna add it later!” said Angela with great emotion.
Martini looked down at her with affection. “Awright, Ma.”
Her eyes, magnified behind their lenses, blinked one time. “You gonna be home for dinner?”
“Yeah,” said Martini. “I’m gonna come home.”
He kissed her cool cheek.
TWENTY-SEVEN
VAUGHN GOT OUT of his car and stood beside it as the Esso man, a fat guy breathing loudly, pumped eight gallons of high-test into the Polara. There was a car behind Vaughn waiting for gas and another, its driver staring at the fat man with impatience, on the far side of the pumps. The fat man removed the gas gun, closed the tank door, and reholstered the nozzle in the cradle of the pump. Vaughn handed him bills and waited for the man to make change from a coin bank he wore on the front of his belt.
“No help today?” said Vaughn, reading the “Manager” patch on the man’s chest, seeing the sweat on his brow and temples.
“My mechanic’s off and my pump boy called in sick.”
“The young guy who’s always here?” Vaughn was picturing him, dark-haired, good-looking kid with the haunted eyes, in his head.
“Yeah, Dominic,” said the manager, handing Vaughn his change. “If I find out he ain’t sick, his ass is gone.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Christ, can’t you see I’m busy?”
Vaughn produced his badge case and flipped it open. “His last name.”
The manager used a dirty shop rag to wipe at his face. “Last name’s Martini. Like Dean Martin’s before he changed it.”
“Martini was in the military, right?”
“He served.”
“He friends with Stewart?”
“Yeah. They’re asshole buddies.”
Vaughn chewed on his lip as he tossed over the new information: Stewart, Hess, and Martini had all made themselves absent from work on the same day.
“What’s Martini drive?” said Vaughn.
“A black Nova,” said the manager, moving to the car on the other side of the pump, adding over his shoulder, “but he better not be drivin’ it today. If he’s doin’ anything other than lyin’ in a sickbed . . .”
His ass is gone, thought Vaughn, finishing the manager’s sentence in his mind as he got back under the wheel of his Polara.
Vaughn drove to the Sixth Precinct station, a half mile down the road, to dig up Martini’s address.
DEREK STRANGE WENT through the residential entrance beside the liquor store on H, took the steps two at a time, and reached the second-floor landing. He found the door of Willis’s apartment and began to pound on it with his fist. He stopped pounding when he heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind the door.
“Who is it?” said Willis, his voice muffled, angry, and filled with attitude.
Strange did not identify himself. He waited for the peephole to darken. When he was certain that Willis was there, his face up against the wood, Strange stepped back and kicked savagely at the area of the doorknob. The door splintered and gave in.
Strange stepped into the apartment and shut the door behind him. Willis was on his back, one hand holding his jaw. He rolled over, moaned, and got to his knees.
Willis spit on the floor.
“Get your ass up,” said Strange.
Willis got to his feet slowly and turned around.
“Fuck you want?” he said.
Strange stepped in quickly and grabbed ahold of Willis’s shirt with his left hand. He threw a short right into Willis’s mouth, turning his hip and body into the punch. Willis’s head snapped back. Strange felt a burn in his knuckles and, as Willis’s head sprang forward, punched him again. Willis’s eyes went funny and he lost his legs. Strange took his shirt in both hands and pushed him. Willis tripped backward and landed in a heap on the couch.
Strange drew his .38 from his clip-on. He went to Willis and put the muzzle of the gun to his temple and then moved it to his eye. He pulled back the hammer and locked it in place.
“Who murdered my brother?” said Strange.
&
“Dennis?” said Willis, his voice quavering and high. “I don’t know. Dennis was my boy. . . .”
Strange believed him. But he pressed the revolver harder to the corner of Willis’s eye.
“Where’s Jones?” said Strange.
Under the pressure of the gun, Willis tried to shake his head. Some of his blood dripped onto Strange’s hand.
“Where?” said Strange, his teeth bared, his hand slick with sweat and tight on the grip of the .38. “I will kill you, motherfucker, I swear to God.”
“He stayin’ with our cousin Ronnie. Ronnie Moses.”
“Say where that is.”
Willis described the approximate location of Moses’s apartment. He claimed he didn’t know the exact address.
“You got his number?”
Willis pointed weakly to a phone on a stand. Beside the phone was a small book with a marbleized cover.
“You got something to write with?”
“Under them magazines,” said Willis, pointing with his chin.
Strange stepped back and holstered the .38. He looked for paper and a pen, found both under some stroke magazines topped with an ashtray. Strange swept the magazines and ashtray to the floor. He went to the address book, got the number on Moses, and wrote it on the paper. He went to the front door, then turned to speak to Willis. Willis was hunched over on the couch, looking at his shoes, too ashamed to look at Strange. Bright red blood colored the front of his white shirt.
“I wasn’t here,” said Strange.
Willis nodded. Strange went out the door.
AT THE PRECINCT house on Nicholson, Vaughn scored the information he needed: Dominic Martini lived on Longfellow, two blocks away. He got the tag numbers of the Nova, a black-on-black ’66, registered in Martini’s name, and wrote them in his spiral notebook. Martini’s sheet was relatively clean: a couple of minor FIs from his youth and no adult priors.
Vaughn traded his Polara for an unmarked Ford and asked a couple of uniforms smoking cigarettes back by the Harley garage to come along in a squad car. He told them to keep in radio contact.