"Go ahead and find something on the box," said Strange, putting his right arm around Darla's shoulder, settling into his seat.

She turned on the dash radio. At WWDC, she came upon a symphonic instrumental and recognized the theme.

"That's from the movie."

"The bulls.h.i.t version," said Strange.

Darla got off of 1260. At all-news WAVA the announcer said that President Johnson would address the nation that night. She spun the dial, went right by a rock-and-roll tune, then stopped for a moment on WOOK. Strange caught a couple lines of an Otis Redding, which he recognized as "Chained and Bound," before Darla went past it. She found WOL at 1450, took her fingers off the dial, and sat back.

"Girl, you got a quick hand."

"Tired of listening to that 'Bama."

"He was from Georgia."

"Same thing to me. Anyway, you play him all the time at your crib." Darla smiled as "Love Is Here and Now You're Gone" came up through the shelf speaker. "This is more like it right here."

Just another thing gonna drive me away from her eventually, thought Strange. Woman runs by Otis to get to the Supremes.

"Aw, don't be like that," said Darla, looking at the frown on Strange's face.

"Motown," said Strange dismissively.

"So?"

"Ain't nothin' but soul music for white people, you ask me."

ALVIN JONES, KENNETH Willis, and Dennis Strange sat in the green Monterey across from a corner store, parked under a street lamp. Dusk had come and gone. The children of the neighborhood and most of its adults had gone indoors. The men had been there, and had been in strong discussion, for some time. Willis, and Dennis Strange sat in the green Monterey across from a corner store, parked under a street lamp. Dusk had come and gone. The children of the neighborhood and most of its adults had gone indoors. The men had been there, and had been in strong discussion, for some time.

"Go on in, boy," said Jones to Dennis.

"Told you I don't need nothin'."

"Go on."

"And do what?"

"You the detail man. Use your eyes. Come on back and tell us what you see."

"Why would I?"

"'Cause me and Kenneth here are fixin' to rob this motherf.u.c.ker," said Jones. "What you think?"

They were on a single-digit street off Rhode Island Avenue, in LeDroit Park. The market was just like many others serving the residential areas of the city. It catered to the needs of the immediate neighborhood in the absence of a large grocery store. A green-and-gold sign hung over the door. The door was tied open with a piece of rope. The lights were on inside.

"Go on in your own self, then," said Dennis.

"Can't do that," said Jones. "It would ruin the surprise we got planned for later on."

"Well, you gonna have to find someone else to do it," said Dennis Strange. "'Cause this kind of thing, it ain't me."

"You could use the money, right?" Jones, on the pa.s.senger side, looked in the rearview at Dennis, alone in the backseat, his book in his hand. Jones's eyes smiled. "You d.a.m.n sure look look like you could." like you could."

Dennis ignored the cut. He flashed on his father and mother, his brother in his uniform. He said, "It ain't me."

Jones adjusted himself in his seat, looked at Willis behind the wheel, looked back in the mirror at Dennis. "So you all talk, then."

"What'd you say?"

"All the time I been knowin' you, been hearin' you talk. How the white man be exploitatin' the black man, all that. How these crackers come into where we live and open their businesses. Suck all the money out of our people and never put anything back into the community."

"You got a point?"

"I bet you walk in there, you gonna see some Jew motherf.u.c.ker behind that counter, doin' just what you claim. All I'm tellin' you is, me and Kenneth, we just gonna go and take back what motherf.u.c.kers like that been takin' from all of us us all our lives. But you go on ahead and keep talkin' about it. Meanwhile, me and Kenneth here? We gonna all our lives. But you go on ahead and keep talkin' about it. Meanwhile, me and Kenneth here? We gonna do do somethin'." somethin'."

"Yeah," said Dennis, shaking his head, "y'all are a couple of real revolutionaries."

"More than you. you."

"And what you gonna do with all those pennies you get, huh? Put 'em toward the cause?"

"Gonna be a whole lot more than pennies," said Jones.

"I heard that, that," said Willis.

"Let me ask you somethin', man," said Jones, still eyeing Dennis. "What's the date today?"

"Last day of March," said Dennis.

"And what happens on the first of the month in these places, all over town? I bet you have a market just like this one over in Park View, so you must know."

"The owner collects," said Dennis, answering without having to think on it, knowing then what this was about.

"What I'm sayin'. People in the neighborhood got to pay their debt on that day, otherwise they gonna lose their credit. So we ain't talkin' about no pennies. We get it done before the man goes to the bank, late in the afternoon, we could walk away with, s.h.i.t, I don't know, a thousand dollars. You do this thing for us, you gonna get yourself a cut."

"And you ain't have to do nothin' but look around," said Willis.

"Be a different kind of thing for you," said Jones. "A little bit somethin' more than talk."

Dennis shook his head. "I ain't robbin' no no-motherf.u.c.kin'-body."

"Ain't n.o.body asked you to," said Jones. "What I been tryin' to tell you this whole time."

"Go on, bro," said Willis. "We keep lippin' out here, they gonna close the place up."

Dennis laid his book down on the seat beside him. He put his hand on the door release and pulled up on it. He was tired of hearing their voices. His high was gone and so was the low, steady feeling from the down he'd taken earlier in the day. He wanted to get away from these two and clear his head.

"Get me a pack of double-Os while you in there, too," said Jones.

"You got money?" said Dennis.

Jones waved him away. "I'll get you at my girl's."

Dennis got out of the car and crossed the street, a slight limp in his walk. Jones and Willis watched him pa.s.s through the market's open door.

"d.a.m.n," said Willis, "you are good. All that s.h.i.t about exploitatin' our people, him bein' nothin' but talk . . . you lit a fire in his a.s.s."

"I can talk some s.h.i.t, can't I?"

"What if he has a change of mind?"

"He walked in there, didn't he?" said Jones. "Ain't no way he can change up now."

Upon entering the market, Dennis Strange found that it was as he had imagined it would be. Several rows of canned and dry goods, a cooler for sodas and dairy products, a limited selection of fresh vegetables and fruits, a freezer for ice cream tubs and bars, penny-candy bins, a whole mess of nickel candy, and paperbacks on a stand-up carousel rack. A white man, who would be the owner, and a black man, who would be the employee, sat behind the long counter that ran in front of one wall of the store. The white man sat on a stool in front of the register. The black man, also on a stool, sat tight against the counter, a newspaper open before him.

A twelve-inch Philco black-and-white TV, its rabbit ears wrapped in foil, sat on the far end of the counter, the tuxedoed image on its screen flickering amid the snow. Even through the poor reception, Dennis recognized the hunched shoulders, fishlike face, and the old-time-radio sound of the host's voice.

"We have a big show for you tonight. . . . Charleton Heston, Peter Genarro, popular singing group the Young Americans, Frankie Laine, Lana Cantrell, funnyman Myron Cohen, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, and a young comedian I think you're going to like, Richard Pryor!"

The white man nodded to Dennis. "How you doing this evening, friend?"

"I'm doin' all right," said Dennis.

The black man, who Dennis guessed was the stock shelver, hand trucker, general physical laborer, and muscle for the place if it was needed, looked him over but did not nod or greet him in any way. He was not being unfriendly, but simply doing his job. This was the kind of place where the employees recognized d.a.m.n near every person who came through the door. Dennis reasoned that he would check a young man like him out, too, if that were what he was being paid to do.

Dennis went to the paperbacks and casually spun the carousel, inspecting the imprints, t.i.tles, and authors of the books racked on it. There were several Coffin Ed-Gravedigger Jones novels by Chester Himes, a couple of Harold Robbinses, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and a copy of and a copy of n.i.g.g.e.r, n.i.g.g.e.r, by d.i.c.k Gregory. Also, books by John D. MacDonald, all with colors in their t.i.tles, Avon-edition Ian Flemings, a few Matt Helms, by d.i.c.k Gregory. Also, books by John D. MacDonald, all with colors in their t.i.tles, Avon-edition Ian Flemings, a few Matt Helms, Valley of the Dolls, Valley of the Dolls, and a ninety-five-cent Dell version of and a ninety-five-cent Dell version of Rosemary's Baby. Rosemary's Baby. The cover of this one claimed that it was "America's #1 Bestseller." Dennis's mother said that all her friends had read it, but she was going to pa.s.s, as she had already raised two devil children of her own. Her eyes had sparkled some when she said it, though. She had been in the kitchen, washing dishes and looking at her baby birds, while she was talking. Dennis smiled a little, thinking of her there. The cover of this one claimed that it was "America's #1 Bestseller." Dennis's mother said that all her friends had read it, but she was going to pa.s.s, as she had already raised two devil children of her own. Her eyes had sparkled some when she said it, though. She had been in the kitchen, washing dishes and looking at her baby birds, while she was talking. Dennis smiled a little, thinking of her there.

"We help you?" said the black man from behind the counter. "Gettin' about ready to close up."

"Just checking out these books," said Dennis, moving away from the rack and walking toward the register, where the white man sat. He saw the black man casually slip his hand beneath the counter. "I will will take a pack of menthols, though." take a pack of menthols, though."

"What flavor?" said the white man, getting up off his stool and putting his hand up to a slotted display over the register that held the cigarettes.

"Kools," said Dennis.

He noticed that the white man had them in his hand before the brand name had even come out of Dennis's mouth. Course this man would know what brand to pull. Every menthol-smoking brother walking in here was either going for Kool, Newport, or Salem. But if you had to bet on it, Kool was the cigarette of choice, especially for a young cat like him.

"You must have, what do you call that, intuition," said Dennis.

"You hear that, John?" said the white man to the black man, and the black man's eyes smiled. "I'm the Uri Geller of the grocery world."

"You in the wrong business, Mr. Ludvig."

"Here you go," said Dennis, pushing a one-dollar bill across the counter.

This Mr. Ludvig reminded Dennis of old man Meyer, from the corner DGS market where he lived. Same easy manner, same sense of humor, always making fun at his own expense. Prob'ly knew every kid's name who came into his shop. Prob'ly spotted them for penny candy, too, the way Mr. Meyer had spotted him for fireb.a.l.l.s, Bazookas, and such when he was a kid.

And the black man, John, wearing a b.u.t.ton-down sweater even though it wasn't all that cold, could've been Dennis's father. Same age, about, same kind of physical strength, same kind of resignation in his face as to what he was. A straight man, in a way, to his boss. The way Darius was to Mike Georgelakos, the Greek over on Kennedy. Chuckling at jokes that weren't all that funny, nodding at the same old cornball sayings he heard coming from the man's mouth ten times a day. Doing it because he was of that time. A time that was bound to pa.s.s, but still. What choice had they had, really, in the face of feeding their families? Take care of your people, hope that they made a better life for themselves and their own kids when the time came. Or be some shifty, low-a.s.s b.u.m, a nothing that no one, not even heirs, would remember. This man John and Dennis's father, Darius, they had chosen right. Two men who had chosen to be be men, and in the process had given up some of their pride long ago. Because that is what they had to work with men, and in the process had given up some of their pride long ago. Because that is what they had to work with in their time. in their time.

"You okay?" said Mr. Ludvig.

"Fine," said Dennis, who had been staring off to the side.

"Here you go, friend," said Ludvig, handing him his change.

"All right, then," said Dennis, looking from one man to the other. "Ya'll have a good evening, hear?"

"You do the same, young man," said John.

Dennis walked out the door. The black man, whose full name was John Thomas, came around the counter and went to the plate-gla.s.s window that fronted the market. He watched Dennis cross the street.

Dennis went to the Monterey and dropped into the backseat. He handed the Kools over the seat to Jones, who packed them against the back of his hand, removed all the cellophane, and tore a hole in the bottom of the pack. He shook one out, tobacco end first, turned it, and slipped it into his mouth.

"Well?" said Jones.

"You gonna have some problems," said Dennis.

"How so?"

"Place is mined, for one. They got snipers up in the trees, too."

Jones put fire to his cigarette. He blew the match out on the exhale and turned his head to look at Dennis. "You finished?"

"No, there's more. Let me lay it out for you, like you asked me to, so you know."

Jones's eyes were flat. "Go ahead."

"You know where the register always at in these places? It's in the same place here. Except they done went and dug a moat around it. Dropped some cobra snakes in the moat and put a few crocodiles in there to keep 'em company."

"That a fact."

"Uh-huh. And you were right on about the money. There's tons of it, man. Matter of fact, they got a big old safe in that market, exactly like the one they got down in Fort Knox, just so they can hold it all. Odd Job be guardin' it, too."

"Smart n.i.g.g.e.r," said Jones.

"I think of any details I forgot," said Dennis, "I'll let you know."

Jones's lip twitched. "This a game to you?"

"Told you from the start I wasn't gonna do it."

"You need to understand somethin', then. I hear you been talkin' about this to anybody, especially that po-lice brother of yours, I'm gonna be lookin' for you. And another thing: If I go down for this, for any any reason, your name's gonna be the first one I mention. 'Cause you was in there, boy; can't n.o.body dispute that. And whoever you spoke to, they gonna remember your face." reason, your name's gonna be the first one I mention. 'Cause you was in there, boy; can't n.o.body dispute that. And whoever you spoke to, they gonna remember your face."

"You scarin' me, brother," said Dennis. "I mean, I am tremblin'."

"You think I'm playin'," said Jones, "you try me out."

"We done?"