You hit a monkey, huh?

His hands shook when his blood was up.

TWENTY-THREE.

FIVE MINUTES INTO meeting Billy Dolittle, Strange marked him as lazy, incompetent, and "that way." The man wearing his seersucker suit, red-and-blue rep tie, and cheap brown shoes, writing things down in a notebook, one of those schoolkid tablets, black with white spots. Talking down to him, speaking slowly and repeating himself as if Strange were a child. Dolittle chewing on wintergreen Life Savers during the interview, Strange wondering if he had been drinking this early, 'cause he sure did look the type. Also wondering how much to tell him: what to give up and what to hold back. meeting Billy Dolittle, Strange marked him as lazy, incompetent, and "that way." The man wearing his seersucker suit, red-and-blue rep tie, and cheap brown shoes, writing things down in a notebook, one of those schoolkid tablets, black with white spots. Talking down to him, speaking slowly and repeating himself as if Strange were a child. Dolittle chewing on wintergreen Life Savers during the interview, Strange wondering if he had been drinking this early, 'cause he sure did look the type. Also wondering how much to tell him: what to give up and what to hold back.

It was Dolittle who suggested that Strange officially ID his brother, that, as a cop, he could "handle it" and in the process spare his parents the pain of seeing their son "like that." By then his father had arrived at the house and, as Strange knew he would, insisted on coming along. So together they went to the alley and stood over Dennis and saw him "like that," and neither of them got sick or turned his face away. Instead, Darius put his hand on his younger son's shoulder and said a low prayer, and Derek Strange closed his eyes, not thinking of G.o.d or his brother's spirit but instead thinking, I will kill the motherf.u.c.ker who did this to my brother, and, That man is going to die.

Back in the kitchen of his father's house, both of his parents seated at the table in the living room, his father holding his mother's hand, Strange talked to Dolittle and told him some of what he knew about his brother's life. He told him about Dennis's stint in the navy, his disability, and how he had no current job, and he mentioned his running boys, Alvin Jones and Kenneth Willis, and suggested that Dolittle definitely speak to them, because both of them were wrong. He did not tell Dolittle that Dennis moved small amounts of marijuana for the neighborhood dealer, James Hayes, because he had no desire to taint his brother further or to get Hayes, a nonviolent man who had hurt no one, in trouble with the law. Also, he wanted to talk to Hayes himself.

"Where can I find Jones and Willis?"

"Jones stays with this woman name of Lula Bacon, down in LeDroit Park. Far as I know, he has no job. Willis is a janitor in some elementary school up off Kansas; I don't know which one. He's got an apartment over on H, in Northeast, above a liquor store. Eighth, Ninth, around there. My mother might have Kenneth's number."

Dolittle scribbled in his notebook, his lips moving as he worked. "Anything else you can think of?"

Strange shook his head. "Not now."

Dolittle handed him a card. "You can get ahold of me here."

Strange saw that there was only the precinct house number on the card. When Dolittle was off the clock, he was off.

"I'm gonna call you this afternoon," said Strange, "see if there's been any progress."

"We haven't even finished canva.s.sing the neighbors yet. These investigations take time."

"They take too much time, they get cold."

"I can understand you being anxious," said Dolittle, scratching at a thick nose spiderwebbed with red veins. "But you need to let me do my job. I been at this a long time."

Too long, thought Strange.

"Don't worry," said Dolittle, touching Strange's arm gingerly. "We'll get this guy."

You'll get him if you get lucky, thought Strange.

"That it?" said Strange.

"I'll see myself out."

Strange listened to Dolittle talking to his parents out in the living room. He heard the phone ring and he heard his father tell his mother not to pick it up. As word had spread in the neighborhood, the calls had begun to increase. Soon folks would be dropping by with food and drink, and the apartment would be crowded with visitors. He hoped his mother could handle it. She was doing all right so far.

Strange went to the window over the sink, where his mother's square of cardboard had come free in two corners and was arcing back. Strange reaffixed the corners to the gla.s.s.

He heard the front door open and shut. He heard his mother sobbing. He heard his father say, "Come here, Alethea," and the rustle of their clothing as they embraced.

Strange wanted to be with them and hold on to them, too. But this was their moment, and he was no longer a boy. He sat down on the kitchen floor beside the sink, where he'd sat at his mother's feet many times as a child, leaned his head back against the cabinet, and, very quietly, allowed himself to let go.

BUZZ STEWART FLICKED ash off his Marlboro. "There it is, right there." ash off his Marlboro. "There it is, right there."

"It doesn't look like much," said Dominic Martini.

"That's right. It ain't no big deal."

They were parked in Stewart's Belvedere, the nose of the Plymouth pointed south, on the west side of Georgia Avenue, not too far over the District line in Shepherd Park. "Once Upon a Time" came from the radio, Buzz Stewart nodding his head to the busy Motown arrangement as he kept his eyes fixed on the strip of businesses cl.u.s.tered on the east side of the street.

Nearby was Morris Miller's liquor store, a landmark whose rear parking lot was a meeting spot for D.C. and Montgomery County teenagers, a starting place to buy beer and make plans on Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights. Years earlier, owner Morris Miller could not live in the neighborhood where he owned his business, as Shepherd Park had covenants restricting the sale of its houses to Jewish buyers. Since then, the neighborhood had become progressive. In '58, white and black homeowners, angered by the practices of blockbuster real estate agents, had formed Neighbors Inc. to support integrated streets. Now the area was heavy with Jewish residents, as well as blacks, with pioneering interracial couples in the mix. Its high school, Coolidge, was still called "Jewlidge" by Stewart and Hess, but its student body was now primarily black.

Across the street, an A&P grocery was the largest store of the bunch. Also on the strip sat a drugstore, a dry cleaner, and a speed shop, and, on the corner, a bank. Stewart and Martini were looking at the bank.

"What they call a savings and loan," said Stewart.

"You been inside?"

"Once. Shorty's been in there, too. We seen everything we needed to see. A single armed guard, guy's older than dirt. We ain't gonna f.u.c.k with no safe. Gotta be thousands behind that counter alone. It's a cakewalk, Dom. I s.h.i.t you not."

Martini stared at the bank, openmouthed. "What now?"

"We're meetin' Shorty for lunch up at the Shepherd. We'll talk about it then."

Stewart put the Belvedere in gear, pulled off the curb, and swung a U in the middle of Georgia. He turned up the Mary and Marvin; he'd seen Wells and Gaye sing this one together onstage at the Howard, back in '64, and the song made him smile, remembering how happy he'd felt that night. He goosed the gas. It wasn't but a short hop to the Shepherd Park Restaurant, but Stewart liked to hear his Plymouth run. They parked in the side lot, next to Hess's mother's car, a three-on-the-tree pea green '64 Rambler Amba.s.sador, which Walter Hess had been driving the past two days.

The familiarity of the Shepherd hit Martini as they came through the front doors. He'd come here with his family in the '50s, when Angelo was his shadow and his old man was still occasionally sober. Back then, the place was owned and run by brothers George and John Glekas. Its signature was its burgers and steaks, and a waitress with a shrieking laugh. Prominent Maryland politicians shared the dining room with families and local eccentrics. Mrs. Glekas, George's wife, could often be seen at one of the tables, typing menus with one finger while she gave emotional orders to her daughter Angie. The restaurant had since been sold to three other Greeks, but the pleasant smell of grilled beef and the sound of that waitress, laughing at something back in the kitchen, told Martini that little here had changed.

The tables and wall booths were half full. A bar separated by a load-bearing post ran along the back wall, its stools occupied by workingmen. It was a no-tablecloth, no-linen eat house, with basic service and good food, common in Greek ownership. Soon it would become one of the most notorious, raucous strip bars in the area. But for now it was frozen in time.

Hess was seated at one of the dining-room tables, wearing his blue uniform shirt with "Shorty" st.i.tched to a patch.

"That your hot rod out front?" said Stewart, pulling a wooden chair out from under the table and resting his huge frame upon it.

"Knock it off," said Hess.

"Rambler makes a real quality vehicle. Fast, too. That the Am-ba.s.s-a-dor or the A-mer-ican? I never can tell them race cars apart."

"I said knock it off. I'm gonna be drivin' my Ford any day now."

"I wouldn't count on it," said Stewart. "And we got another problem, too."

Stewart told them about his phone call from Pat Millikin, which he had taken at the Esso station just before he and Martini had gone on break. The Galaxie was going to be in the shop a few more days. Also, Millikin claimed that he had not been able to find them a rental. Stewart had pressed him on it, but Millikin had a.s.sured him there was nothing to be had.

"What's goin' on with him?" said Hess.

"I don't know. He says the market's dried up."

"Dried up, huh? He needs to remember that back in the joint, I shanked some c.o.o.n who was white-eyein' his brother. Man owes me big. You tell him that?"

"I did. And I got the same answer he gave me the first time." Stewart looked at Martini. "We're gonna have to use your car."

"What?"

"Well, we can't use mine. Way it looks, bright red, with the wedge and all, everyone around this part of town recognizes that car. h.e.l.l, you hardly even drive that Nova anymore."

"What about my plates?"

"Shorty's gonna provide us with some new ones."

"A car'll come up soon," said Martini. "Why can't we wait a few days?"

"'Cause we can't," said Stewart. "That little accident we had the other night kinda changed everything. Me and Shorty been talkin'. We ain't stickin' around to find out if that comes back on us, see? We're leaving town, soon as we score that money. Myrtle Beach. Daytona, maybe. Someplace down South."

"I'm out," said Martini with a small wave of his hands, as if he were trying to push them away.

"Pretty Boy don't get it, Buzz. Boy is thick."

"Shut up, Shorty."

"Nah, see, he just don't get it." Hess pushed his face close to Martini's. "You're in, Dominic. Dominic. You were with us the other night when we pegged that c.o.o.n, and you are in now. You better pray we do this job right and make enough jack to get out of this situation clean. You gonna help us do that. We ain't askin' you, dad." You were with us the other night when we pegged that c.o.o.n, and you are in now. You better pray we do this job right and make enough jack to get out of this situation clean. You gonna help us do that. We ain't askin' you, dad."

"Look at me, Dom," said Stewart. "Look at me." at me."

Martini met Stewart's eyes.

"All's we need is a driver. Me and Shorty'll do the rest. We get gone, you go on about your life. Hear?"

"When?" said Martini.

"I'm off tomorrow. You can just call in sick. We'll go before they close the bank, late in the afternoon."

A waitress, flame-red hair and wide of hip, arrived at their four-top, a small pad and pencil in her hand. The men, who had been grouped tightly around the table, leaned back in their seats.

"Three cheeseburger platters, all the way around," said Stewart. "Three c.o.kes."

"How you want those burgers cooked?"

"Medium," said Stewart.

"The same way," said Martini.

"I like mine warm and pink inside," said Hess, smiling at the waitress, winking one of his crossed eyes.

"That would be medium rare," said the waitress, writing on her pad, not looking once at Hess. She walked back to the kitchen, fatigue in her step.

"She thinks I'm the most," said Hess.

"The most repulsive," said Stewart.

Stewart and Hess laughed.

When the waitress brought the c.o.kes, Stewart tapped his gla.s.s against Martini's.

"All for one," said Stewart.

Martini looked away.

ALVIN JONES HAD thrown the gloves he'd worn down a sewer hole in Shaw, then driven to another street a few blocks away and lost the straight razor the same way. He'd boosted the gloves from the D. J. Kaufman's near 10th and Penn, so there wasn't any loss there, and you could always get your hands on a knife. Anyway, it wasn't like he was naked; he still had his gun. thrown the gloves he'd worn down a sewer hole in Shaw, then driven to another street a few blocks away and lost the straight razor the same way. He'd boosted the gloves from the D. J. Kaufman's near 10th and Penn, so there wasn't any loss there, and you could always get your hands on a knife. Anyway, it wasn't like he was naked; he still had his gun.

After getting rid of the evidence, Jones had driven over to Lula Bacon's place, woke her and her baby up, got his favorite hat and the few other things he owned out the closet, put them in a duffel bag, and left. b.i.t.c.h asked him where he was going as he headed out the door, but he felt no need to answer. Wasn't none of her business, anyway. He'd slept on the couch at his cousin's place, over off 7th. Had to wake him up, too, to get inside.

Now Jones was sitting in the cramped living room of Ronnie's apartment, watching television, wanting a drink. But Ronnie wasn't into liquid heat. Boy didn't even keep beer or wine in his crib, and he didn't like to burn the gage, either. Jones couldn't relate to a man wasn't looking to get his head up in some way.

Every man had something, though, made him get out of bed in the morning. For Ronnie it was a.s.s. Sure, it drove every-G.o.dd.a.m.n-one, but Ronnie was sick behind it. Even took those instant photographs of all the girls he had, kept the pictures in a book, had a label glued on the front of it with childlike handwriting scribbled across it, read, "My p.u.s.s.y Portraits." Matter of fact, Ronnie had recently bought a new Big Swinger, thirty dollars at the Peoples Drug, 'cause he'd worn out the Polaroid he had.

Ronnie had gone off to his job after lunch. He worked as a stock man down at George and Co., the big-and-tall-men's shop on 7th. Ronnie went six four or five and claimed he took the position there for the discount. He couldn't find clothes anywhere else that fit him right.

Soon as he was gone, Jones went and got the photo alb.u.m. All kinds of girls in that book: dark-skinned girls, white girls, redbones, skinny b.i.t.c.hes, and some fat-a.s.s heifers, too. All cupping their t.i.tties, pushing them together and out, smiling and lying across Ronnie's bed, some kind of stuffed bunny rabbit placed beside 'em, the same pose every time. Some of these girls were so ugly, G.o.d couldn't love 'em. At least no one could accuse Ronnie of discrimination. All kinds of females, and Ronnie didn't have any problem getting them over to his place or getting them to pose. Jones had seen him plenty of times, walking around the apartment in his altogether. Man should have been wearing a saddle on his back, with that pipe of his.

After Jones had looked at the pictures and jacked his rod, he had sat down to watch TV. Nothing on but the Match Game, Match Game, Mike Douglas, and Mike Douglas, and Pat Boone in Hollywood, Pat Boone in Hollywood, had Flip Wilson as a guest. Flip was wearing a dress and looking like he was digging it, giving white people their idea of black, talkin' about "Sock it to me," that same old tired s.h.i.t. Jones changed over to channel 20, the UHF station, where sometimes they showed the bullfights from Mexico. He often wondered what that would feel like, to push a sword down into the head of one of those motherf.u.c.kers, straight into its brain. You got to wear those tight pants, too, and hear those cheers from the stands. In that way it was different than killing a man. But only in that way. You got down to it, anything alive just suffered in the end. had Flip Wilson as a guest. Flip was wearing a dress and looking like he was digging it, giving white people their idea of black, talkin' about "Sock it to me," that same old tired s.h.i.t. Jones changed over to channel 20, the UHF station, where sometimes they showed the bullfights from Mexico. He often wondered what that would feel like, to push a sword down into the head of one of those motherf.u.c.kers, straight into its brain. You got to wear those tight pants, too, and hear those cheers from the stands. In that way it was different than killing a man. But only in that way. You got down to it, anything alive just suffered in the end.

The bullfighting show wasn't on. Just something called Wing Ding, Wing Ding, had to be for kids. He switched over to had to be for kids. He switched over to Movie 4. Movie 4. They were running some picture called They were running some picture called Francis of a.s.sisi. Francis of a.s.sisi. He wasn't gonna watch no sissy movie, that was for d.a.m.n sure. He wasn't gonna watch no sissy movie, that was for d.a.m.n sure.

Jones decided to go out, get a cheap bottle of something, and bring it back. If he was going to have to be bored, he might as well be bored with his head on fire. He was out of Kools, too.

STRANGE WENT UP to 9th and Upshur and made the funeral arrangements at a home his father had used for his own mother. He had always liked this short stretch of 9th, which was quiet, faced Georgia Avenue from the east, and held a few small businesses: a barbershop and a butcher and such. Inside the home, he met with an overly polite, fastidious man in a pinstriped suit. Strange arranged it so that the viewing would be closed-casket, with the schedule dependent upon the completion of the autopsy and lab work by the police. to 9th and Upshur and made the funeral arrangements at a home his father had used for his own mother. He had always liked this short stretch of 9th, which was quiet, faced Georgia Avenue from the east, and held a few small businesses: a barbershop and a butcher and such. Inside the home, he met with an overly polite, fastidious man in a pinstriped suit. Strange arranged it so that the viewing would be closed-casket, with the schedule dependent upon the completion of the autopsy and lab work by the police.

When he came out of the funeral home, Lydell Blue was waiting for him, standing on the sidewalk, in his uniform. They hugged roughly and patted each other's backs.

"Your father told me you'd be here," said Blue.

"Glad you got up with me, man."

"Us," said Blue, rapping his fist to his chest.

"Us," said Strange.

His parents' house was crowded with sympathizers upon his return. As it tended to do in the city, word had spread of Dennis's death. Relatives, neighbors, friends of Derek and his parents, and some of Dennis's friends from Park View Elementary, Bertie Backus Junior High, and Roosevelt High had gathered in the apartment. Dennis had lost touch with many of them since going off to the navy, but they had not forgotten him. Alvin Jones and Kenneth Willis had not dropped by or phoned.

Someone, maybe his father, had put an old Soul Stirrers record on the box, Sam Cooke singing pretty and rough, and it was playing low under the conversation in the room. People were having cigarettes and cigars, and the smoke lay thick in the air. A little bit of beer and wine drinking had commenced. Mike and Billy Georgelakos were standing in a corner together, still wearing their work clothes from the diner. Derek went to them, shook Mike's hand, hugged Billy, and thanked them for coming, knowing they were uncomfortable being here, knowing it was an effort, appreciating the effort, making a point of telling them that they were family. Derek had a conversation with Troy Peters, who had arrived in his uniform, his hat literally in his hand. He told Troy how much it meant to him that he had stopped by. He spoke to James Hayes and said he would get up with him later. He spoke to the German, now an old man, now contrite, who had once thrown hot water at him and Dennis when they were kids. He spoke to Mr. Meyer from the corner market. He took a condolence call from Darla Harris, who asked him to stop by that night. He told her that he might, and ended the call. And he went to Carmen Hill as soon as he saw her come through the door. As he brought her into his arms, it seemed they were alone in the room.

"I love you, Derek," she said, her mouth close to his ear.

"I love you. you."