“I guess not.”

“You guess. Hmm.” Thomas took a drag off his cigarette, exhaled slowly, keeping his eyes on Dennis. “When?”

“This afternoon.”

“I been tellin’ Ludvig, everyone grew up in this city knows these markets got cash on hand the day credit comes due. Been tellin’ him for years he needs to change that up.”

“That was their plan. Hit y’all before you make your deposit.”

“And what was your part in it?”

“They had me come in to look the place over. But I didn’t tell ’em nothin’, man.”

“Not a thing, huh?”

“Didn’t even tell ’em about that gun you keep under the counter.”

“You got good eyes.”

“Some say I do. Some say I’m good at details.”

“So you smarter than your friends and you got talent. A conscience, too. Question is, why you runnin’ around with the likes of them?”

“I don’t know,” said Dennis. “I been on a wrong road, seems like forever. Hard to change direction, I guess.”

“You just did. Least you put your foot the right way.” Thomas took a last hit off his smoke and crushed the butt under his shoe. “What’s your name, son?”

“Dennis Strange.”

Thomas smiled a little. He was missing some teeth. “Uh-huh. Okay. I knew a Strange once, had a D name, too. Veteran. Used to see him at those banquets at the Republic Gardens, in the Blue Room, up on U? It’s been ten years since the last one I went to, though.”

“His American Legion meetings,” said Dennis, remembering his father in a jacket and tie, straight of posture, leaving the house.

“Post Number Five,” said Thomas. “He’s your kin, then.”

“My father. Goes by Darius.”

“Darius, right. Grill man. He still stayin’ up in Park View?”

“Princeton Place,” said Dennis. “Right off Georgia.”

“Good man,” said Thomas.

“Yes,” said Dennis. “My whole family’s good.” He glanced away, embarrassed at his show of pride. “Look here -”

“I know. We didn’t have this conversation.”

“It’s not just that. One of those boys, the driver you saw… I been knowin’ him from way back.”

“You made a choice,” said Thomas. “The right choice.”

“Just don’t want to see him get shot or nothin’ like that.”

“Whatever happens to that boy is gonna happen eventually, whether he pays today or a year from now. He’s just headed that way. But you don’t have to worry about him gettin’ hurt. What you think you saw me reaching for, under the counter? That wasn’t no gun. Wasn’t nothin’ but a lead-filled club. Shoot, I haven’t touched a gun since I was in the Quartermaster Corps, back in the war.”

“What you gonna do, then?”

“Gonna do my job,” said Thomas. “Don’t suppose you’d want to give me the names of those two you been runnin’ with.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Didn’t think you could. No matter. We’ll be all right. Like I said, you did good.”

“I ain’t been here. No matter what happens, I was not here.”

“We’re straight.” Thomas reached his hand out. Dennis shook it. “You keep on that road, hear?”

“I’m gonna do my best.”

Dennis turned and went down the alley the way he’d come. John Thomas watched him pass that boy who threw that ball at all hours against the brick wall. Then he pulled his bulk up off the milk crate and went inside the back door. He moved through the stockroom to the store, where Ira Ludvig had returned to his stool.

“Better make that bank deposit, Mr. L.”

“It’s too early.”

“Think you better do it now,” said Thomas in a strong way.

Ludvig looked up. Thomas rarely used that tone with him. When he did, Ludvig listened.

“Okay. You hold it down for a while?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Thomas.

After Ludvig left the store, a green deposit bag under his arm, John Thomas made a phone call and left a message for William Davis. He’d been knowing Davis all his life, since their days growing up in Foggy Bottom. Sergeant Davis, now a man of late middle age, had been one of the early black hires on the force. Ordinarily, Thomas wouldn’t expect much response after making a call like this. After all, police didn’t have the time to be deploying men on suspicion of a crime yet to be committed. But if John Thomas asked him to, Bill Davis would do something, for sure.

Ten minutes later, Thomas got a call back. He told William Davis everything he knew and some things that he suspected. Davis asked how he had come upon the information, and Thomas said it was mostly what he’d observed the night before, and part intuition. He didn’t mention the young man, Dennis Strange.

“John, are you sure?”

“I ever bother you before with somethin’ like this?”

“Well, you ain’t in the habit of sellin’ wolf tickets.”

“There it is.”

“But you understand, it’s tricky.”

“Boy gonna knock us over, he’s bound to have a gun, right? Chances are, he’s doin’ this today, he’s done somethin’ like it before. Man’s got prior convictions, you get him with a gun on his person, you got call to put him in a cell.”

“Now you gonna tell me how to do my job?”

“I never would.”

“Okay, then,” said Davis. “I’ll take care of it. And I’ll send a couple of uniforms to sit outside the market for the rest of the day, too. How about that?”

When Ludvig returned to the market, a squad car holding two patrolmen was already parked on the corner of the block. Ludvig replaced the empty deposit bag where he kept it, in a drawer under the register. He went over to the plate-glass window that fronted the store and looked out at the street.

“Those cops been out there long?” said Ludvig.

“Not too long.”

“I wonder what’s going on.”

“No idea. Doesn’t do any harm to have them out there, though.”

Ludvig stared at his longtime employee. They had never once socialized outside of work, but still, he considered Thomas a friend. Ludvig didn’t know how he would ever run the business without him. Sometimes he wondered who was truly running things, but he was not a man with a strong ego, so the question was irrelevant in the end.

“John?

“Sir.”

“Why’d you have me make that deposit so early in the day?”

“You know how I been tellin’ you to change up? Thought today would be a good day to start. I just had this feeling, you know?”

“This feeling wouldn’t have something to do with that guy came to see you, would it?”

“Nothing at all,” said Thomas. “We were just talking. Turns out I know his father.”

“He looked suspicious, is why I asked.”

“You know how it is when you get to be our age. Most young men walkin’ in here, unless we know ’em, they look like trouble, to us.”

“True,” said Ludvig.

“That boy’s good,” said Thomas.

Troubled, thought Thomas. But good.

SIXTEEN

PAT MILLIKIN’S GARAGE, a cinder-block structure on a stretch of gravel running behind a strip of parts and speed shops, was off Agar Road in West Hyattsville, in Maryland’s Prince George’s County. There was no sign to identify the place, but a certain kind of customer knew where to find it, and Millikin was never at a loss for business. He catered to the chop trade and specialized in rentals. For a hundred bucks, a man could get an inspection certificate for his rag. Services and products aside, what Millikin truly sold, and guaranteed, was silence.

Millikin’s brother, Sean, a three-time loser, had been incarcerated on a manslaughter charge with Walter Hess up in the Western Maryland prison. Hess was no particular fan of the Irish, but Sean was white, and in the joint that made them allies. Sean had told Hess about his brother, Pat, and what he could do for him if he ever got jammed up. Hess had given Pat some referrals, and he and Stewart had used him for a couple of minor things in the past. Hess needed Pat now.

Buzz Stewart drove his washed-off Belvedere down Agar Road, listening to “Jimmy Mack” on the radio, enjoying Martha and the Vandellas, one arm out the window, a Marlboro burning between his fingers. He was following Hess, who was behind the wheel of his Galaxie and doing the limit. Hess didn’t want to get pulled over for any reason now, especially not here. The PG County cops had a rep for taking no man’s shit. Hess figured he’d drive slowly, not blow off any reds, and get the Ford over to Pat’s. He accomplished that, he’d be fine.