“You got plans tonight?” said Peters.

“Gonna catch an early show down at the Tivoli. 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’.”

“No brag, just fact.”

Peters cut right on Ogelthorpe and slowed the cruiser. “They been playing the theme song from that movie all over the radio, you know?”

“Hugo Montenegro?” said Strange. “That’s the bullshit version right there.”

They pulled up along the curb, near the house number that had been radioed in to them. A man and a woman, both dressed in church clothes, were embracing on the front porch. The man kissed the woman on her cheek and then kissed her mouth.

“Now he gonna patch things up,” said Peters.

“He’s working on it,” said Strange.

“Why I wasn’t rushing,” said Peters. “Let’s just sit here for a minute, okay?”

“Give him a chance to tell her he learned.”

BUZZ STEWART WALKED out to the pumps. Dominic Martini had just finished pouring eight gallons into a gold Riviera. He keyed the reset meter as the Buick left the lot.

“What was up with that?” said Stewart.

“Nothin’.”

“Nothin’, hell. Who were the uniforms?”

“Just cops.”

“I mean, do you know ’em?”

“I seen ’em around.”

“Shit, you don’t get it, do you?” Stewart rubbed at his jaw. “You in or no?”

“In,” said Martini.

“Then act like it. You can’t be runnin’ your mouth to the police and be with me, too. Understand?”

“I wasn’t… I didn’t say shit.”

“Good. Shorty and me are gonna meet up tonight. You comin’?”

“Said I was in.”

“Be over at my place ’round eight.”

Martini watched Stewart cross the lot and disappear into the dark of the garage.

TEN

ALVIN JONES SAT in his favorite chair, a Kool burning between the fingers of his right hand, a bourbon over ice in his left. He had the sports page open in his lap and was squinting as he labored to read the type. His vision was fine, but the whiskey had got to his eyes.

Paper said the Senators had beat the Pirates, five to three, in an exhibition, which made ten straight wins over National League teams. But he wasn’t interested in who beat who. Jones was looking at the game’s box score so that he could choose the number he was going to play come Monday.

The way Jones had been doing it lately, he’d find his favorite player from the opposing team and make note of his position, then his stats from that particular game. Today he was studying on Willie Stargell. Stargell played first base, that was a 1. He had gone two for four, that was 2 and 4. Put it all together and you got 124. That was the number Jones would play.

But hadn’t he played that number last week? He had, and it had been cold. Shit, he wasn’t gonna make that mistake again. He went to the Nats box and tried the same thing. He didn’t really have any favorites from Washington, though. Del Unser, he was all right but nothing special. Epstein on bag one, okay, sounded like a Jewboy name, so he wasn’t gonna go with him, and then you had Ken McMullen at third. Nah, uh-uh, he didn’t like the way slim looked with that Adam’s apple bobbin’ around in his neck. Casanova, Valentine… Frank Howard. Might as well go with farm boy; motherfucker could blow the cover right off the ball while he was sending it into the D.C. Stadium bleachers. But Howard played left. How could you make a number out of left field?

Jones dragged down some menthol and had a sip of his bourbon whiskey. Cheap shit, 86 proof, had the Clark ’s label on it, the store’s own brand. He bought the five-year-old stuff instead of the six, unless he was drinking with a woman. Not Lula, a fresh woman. Cheap or no, it did the job and fucked with his head. Said it came from Kentucky, so how bad could it be? He drained the glass, sucked on some ice, and spit the cubes back.

“Lula!” he shouted over a Sam and Dave coming from the component stereo across the room. Unit had everything, even FM. But Jones kept the receiver on AM, where the soul stations were at. He had the dial set on WOOK.

She probably couldn’t hear him, back in her bedroom, fuckin’ with that kid. Between the music playing and that baby boy of hers, she was out of earshot for sure. Sometimes he wondered how he got himself into this situation right here. Thirty-one years old and he still hadn’t learned. He didn’t even like kids, and here he was, listening to one bawling day and night. Recently, he’d left another woman because of her child. Once she’d had it, she’d focused her attention on the boy and begun to ignore him. He couldn’t have that, but now he was stuck in the same kind of setup. At least this bitch here was getting a steady check. That alone was enough to make him stay.

Jones got up and turned the volume down on the box. He’d had Lula buy it, after a little convincing. Took her down to the Dalmo store on 12th and F, asked the salesman to write it up. The salesman chuckled when Jones called it an “Admirable.” How was he supposed to know the brand was Admiral? Way it was printed in the newspaper ad, it looked like Admirable to him.

“Lula!” he shouted.

“What?”

“Bring me a drink!”

That wasn’t all they bought that day. Picked out an RCA Victor twenty-inch diagonal color TV with Wireless Wizard remote control, too. Jones told Lula to fill out the credit forms for both items and sign her name to the whole thing.

Before she did, she took him aside. “ Alvin, you know I don’t have that kind of money.”

“All you got to do,” said Jones, “is put down the deposit. You ain’t have to make any more payments, you don’t want to.”

“They just gonna repossess it.”

“If they want it that bad, they will. Meantime, we got sounds and a color TV.”

“What about my credit?”

“You never can fuck up your credit all the way. Always gonna be somebody lookin’ to give you credit.”

“You sure, Alvin?”

“How I buy everything.”

The way he figured it, if he was gonna move into the bitch’s apartment and listen to her baby cry, then he deserved to have nice things.

This place wasn’t bad, not for what Lula paid. Two bedrooms, if you counted that little one in the back, had no closet, where the baby slept. Wasn’t his money paying for it, anyway, so he didn’t care how much it was. He didn’t work, not a sucker’s job, anyway. Neither did Lula, for that matter. Her government checks paid for everything. Which meant he had to hide or be out when the welfare man came around. Inconvenient is what it was, but the price was right, and it was better than being out on the street.

Jones sat back down, took the last drag off his smoke, and crushed it into the ashtray that rested on the cushioned arm of his chair.

He was gonna need some money soon, though. You couldn’t live off a woman all the time. Man had to look like something when was walking down the street. Have a roll in his pocket if he was gonna talk to a woman in a club and offer to buy her a drink. Cash for things like cigarettes, liquor, and gage. He had his eye on an El D he’d seen at this dealer’s lot, too.

So he was gonna have to get up off his ass and do some work. He’d done a bus robbery recently, one late night over on Kenilworth Avenue in Northeast. Stepped onto a D.C. Transit with one of Lula’s stockings over his face, showed the driver his.38, and took him for everything he had. Not much cash and too many tokens, but enough money to last him a few weeks. Those were the kinds of games he ran. One hustle, robbery, break-in, or purse snatch at a time. Once in a while something big to make the ride last. He’d been studying on some small hotels on the white side of town, over on 16th. All those places had cash on hand, and safes. That’s what this boy of his said, anyway, and this boy knew a lot. Punk motherfuckers worked those front desks, too, so it wasn’t like there was much risk. And there was this corner market near Lula’s crib, settled their debts with the neighborhood regulars the first of every month. He and his cousin Kenneth had been thinkin’ on that place for some time.