George Pelecanos - Soul Circus

“Derek.”

“The night he got shot , Janine, he told me that all he wanted was to feel like he accomplished something.”

“Derek, don’t.”

“That’s what I want to feel now, too.”

“Maybe you haven’t felt that way lately. But you will.”

“I never should have let him go home alone like he did. I should have brought him back here that night to hang with all of us.”

“But that’s not what happened.”

“I know it.”

“Lie down,” said Janine. “Hold me and let’s go to sleep. Can’t remember the last time we had an afternoon to ourselves like this, just to do nothing but rest.”

“Okay,” said Strange. “I need to rest. That sounds good.”

But when he awoke, late in the afternoon, his feelings had not changed.

STRANGE drove down to 9th and Upshur. He had not yet read the paper, so he picked up that day’s Post at Hawk’s barbershop and told one of the cutters he would return it.

Going into his shop, he went through the reception area and into his office, where he had a seat behind his desk. The vinyl version of Round 2 , the Stylistics’ follow-up to their debut, was leaning up against the wall, facing out, directly behind his chair. Lewis, from the used-book store in downtown Silver Spring, had mailed it to Strange, and Strange had not yet taken it home. Like the gum wrappers still in the top drawer of Quinn’s desk, it was something he had not wanted to deal with just yet.

Strange went right to the Metro section. Between the roundup columns, “In Brief” and “Crime,” there had been five gun-related murders reported over the past weekend. Many of the victims had gone unnamed and all were in their late teens or early twenties. One had occurred in east-of-the-park Northwest and the others had occurred in Far Southeast. At the city’s annual Georgia Avenue Day celebration, a teenager had been shot by random gunfire, sending some families fleeing in panic and causing others to dive on their children, shielding them from further harm.

Strange went to the A section. Deep inside, a congressman from the Carolinas dismissed the need for further handgun laws and vowed to continue his fight to hold Hollywood and the record industry accountable for the sexual content and violent nature of their product. This same congressman had threatened to cut off federal funds to the District of Columbia, earmarked for education, if D.C. did not agree to change its Metro signs from “National Airport” to “ Reagan National Airport.”

Strange turned his head and looked at the Stylistics album, a birthday gift from Quinn, propped up against the wall.

Do something.

“I will,” said Strange, though there was no one but him in the room. His voice was clear and emphatic, and it sounded good to his ears.

STRANGE turned on the light-box of his storefront, returned the newspaper to Hawk’s, and drove north to his row house on Buchanan. From his basement he retrieved a couple of red two-gallon containers of gasoline, one of which was full, and carried them out to the trunk of his Caprice. He went to the Amoco station next, filled up his tank and filled the empty container with gas. He placed it next to the other in the trunk and used his heavy toolbox to wedge them tight against the well. Then he drove down Georgia to Iowa Avenue along Roosevelt High and parked in the lot between Lydell Blue’s Buick and Dennis Arrington’s import.

The boys were down in the Roosevelt “bowl,” doing their warm-ups in the center of the field. The quarterback, Dante Morris, and Prince, another veteran player, were in the middle of the circle, leading the team in their chant. Strange could hear them as he took the aluminum-over-concrete steps of the stadium to the break in the fence.

“How y’all feel?”

“Fired up!”

“How y’all feel?”

“Fired up!”

“Breakdown.”

“Whoo!”

“Breakdown.”

“Whoo!”

Strange shook hands with Blue and then with Arrington, a computer specialist and deacon who was a longtime member of the coaching staff. The boys were warming up together but would soon break into their Pee Wee and Midget teams, determined by weight, for the remainder of the practice.

“You’re a little late,” said Blue.

“Had to get some gas,” said Strange.

“We got a scrimmage set up for this weekend.”

“Kingman,” said Arrington.

“They’re always tough,” said Strange.

“I like the way that boy Robert Gray is playing,” said Blue. “Boy runs with authority. He’s not much of leader, but he can break it.”

“He’s just getting to know the other kids,” said Strange. “And he’s naturally on the quiet side. Plus he’s smart; he already learned the plays in just a week’s time. Be a change from Rico, anyway, the way that boy runs his mouth.”

Rico was the team’s halfback, a talented but cocky kid who had a complaint ready for every command.

“Gray’ll keep Rico on his toes,” said Blue. “Make him appreciate that position he’s got, and work harder to keep it.”

“I was thinkin’ the same thing,” said Strange. “And who knows? Maybe Robert’ll earn that position himself.”

“You gonna take the Pee Wee team alone, Derek?” said Blue, his eyes moving to Arrington’s. “ ’Cause me and Dennis here got our hands full with the Midgets.”

Strange nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

“You could use some help.”

“I know it,” said Strange, and ended the conversation at that.

After practice, the coaches had the boys take a knee and told them what they had seen them do right and wrong in the past two hours. The boys’ jerseys were dark with sweat and their faces were beaded with it. When Strange and Blue were done talking, Arrington asked them what time they should show up for the next practice.

“Six o’clock,” said a few of the boys.

“What time ?” said Arrington.

“Six o’clock, on the dot, be there, don’t miss it!” they shouted in unison.

“Put it in,” said Strange.

They all managed to touch hands in the center of the circle.

“Petworth Panthers!”

“All right,” said Strange. “Those of you got your bikes, get on home straightaway. If you got people waitin’ for you, we’ll see you get in the cars up in the lot. For you others, Coach Lydell and Coach Dennis and myself will drive you home. I don’t want to see none a y’all walking through these streets at night. Prince, Dante, and Robert, you come with me.”

Strange crossed the field in the gathering darkness, Robert Gray beside him, his helmet swinging by his side.

“You looked good out there,” said Strange.

Gray nodded but kept his face neutral and looked straight ahead.

“It’s okay to smile,” said Strange.

Gray tried. It didn’t come naturally for him, and he looked away.

“It’s a start,” said Strange. “Gonna take some work, is all it is.”

Strange dropped Dante Morris, Prince, and Gray at their places of residence. Pulling off the curb from his last stop, Strange got WOL, the all-talk station on 1450 AM, up on the dial. The local headline news had just begun. From the female reporter, Strange learned that Judge Potterfield had sentenced Granville Oliver to death.

DRIVING south on Georgia, Strange saw a boy standing in front of his shop on 9th. He swung the Caprice around, parked in front of the funeral home, and walked toward the boy. He wasn’t any older than seven. His dark skin held a yellow glow from the light-box overhead. The boy took a step back as Strange approached.

“It’s okay,” said Strange. “That’s my place you’re standing in front of, son. I was just coming by to turn off the light.”