“What was the condition?”

“He wanted to speak with you.”

“Now?”

Vaughn nodded. “See me when you’re done.”

Strange went to the block of cells located on the right side of the station. A uniform standing guard let him into the cell that held Dominic Martini. Martini sat on a spring cot covered by a thin mattress, his upswept black hair disheveled, his eyes hollow. One side of his face was purple and misshapen from the punches he’d taken to the jaw.

Strange leaned his back against the bars and folded his arms.

“I finally made it,” said Martini, softly, bitterly. “Just like my old man.”

Strange said nothing.

“I used to watch the cops go in and out this station,” said Martini. “I acted like I was against them, but really I admired ’em. I wanted to wear a uniform like them, but I never thought I could. Anyway, when I came back from the service, I got asshole tight with Buzz and Shorty again, so…”

Martini stared at the cell wall.

“I can tell you what’s out there,” said Martini, his eyes fixed on the cinder blocks. “I don’t need no window, ’cause I got it memorized in my head, see? The driveway, the goldfish pond. The fence. Past the fence, that big old oak tree we used to hide behind. Throw rocks at the police and run if we were in the mood to get chased. Officer Pappas, with his little mustache. We used to call him Jacques, you remember?”

Strange shook his head.

“You were with me once. You and that heavyset Greek kid. One day you stopped me from throwing a rock at that black cop, Officer Davis.’’

Strange couldn’t recall much about Martini except for that shoplifting episode they’d had together over at Ida’s. He remembered that Martini liked to fight. He remembered that he had a younger brother who was gentler than him. That was all.

“How about my kid brother, Angelo?” said Martini. “You remember him?”

“A little,” said Strange.

“I used to try and toughen him up, y’know? I made him fight other guys even though he didn’t want to. I tried to make him fight you once, over at Fort Stevens. But you wouldn’t do it.”

Strange shifted his weight against the bars.

“That’s right,” said Martini, looking at Strange, seeing the incomprehension on his face. “You wouldn’t fight him, even though you knew you could take him. You did somethin’ good for my brother that day. You weren’t much more than a kid, but you acted like a man. I didn’t forget that, see?”

Strange said nothing.

“I never told him that it was all right not to fight. I called him fairy and faggot and every other goddamn thing you can think of his whole life. I should’ve known he’d follow me into the service. Try to prove to his big brother that he was tough enough. But he wasn’t tough. Just good.” A tear broke free from Martini’s eye. “I wonder why they’d ever send a kid like him to war. Angie didn’t want to hurt no one.”

Strange dropped his arms to his sides and looked down at his shoes.

“Anyway,” said Martini. “He died. Angelo stepped on a mine. They had him out on point, on his very first recon patrol. For what I don’t know. He wouldn’t have killed no one.” Martini’s eyes had lost their focus. “He stepped on a mine.”

“I’m sorry,” said Strange.

“I knew you prob’ly wouldn’t remember none of it,” said Martini. “I just wanted to thank you, is all.”

Martini lay back on the cot and covered his eyes with his forearm. Strange called for the guard, who came and unlocked the cell door. As Strange walked down the hall of the block, he checked his wristwatch. It was 7:15.

Vaughn was waiting for him outside the cell block door.

“What was that all about?”

“He just wanted to get straight with me on somethin’,” said Strange. “Somethin’ going back to when we were kids.”

“You knew him?”

“Not really,” said Strange. “I wouldn’t say I knew him at all. What do you reckon’s gonna happen to him?”

“Murder One. Doesn’t matter that Martini didn’t pull the trigger in that bank. He’s lucky he was a hundred yards inside the District line, if you wanna call it luck. Anywhere else he’d fry. He’s gonna get life.”

“What about Stewart?”

“They put amputees in prison, too. If he lives.”

“Cripples don’t last long inside.”

“They buy the full ticket, just the same.”

Vaughn shook an L amp;M halfway out of his pack and offered it to Strange. Strange waved it away. Vaughn drew the cigarette the rest of the way out with his mouth and lit it with his Zippo.

“You ought to call your mother,” said Vaughn. “She might hear about a cop gettin’ shot in your precinct over the radio. She’ll be worried sick, especially living with your brother’s death right now.”

“I’ll call her.”

“She okay?”

“She’s strong.”

“Good woman.”

“Yes.”

“Been a rough couple of days for you, too,” said Vaughn, looking him over.

“Guess I’ll feel better when my brother’s killer is arrested.”

“You think so? You think you’re gonna feel better then?”

“What’re you gettin’ at?”

“Is that all you want? To see him put in jail?”

Strange stared into Vaughn’s eyes. “No.”

“Like I said, I want to help.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Anything new?”

Strange told him, in detail, about his afternoon. He described his last stop, at the apartment of Kenneth Willis, and how he’d shook Willis down. He told him about his lead on Jones, and the cousin he was staying with over off 7th.

“Where’s this Ronnie Moses live, exactly?” said Vaughn.

“I don’t know. I did get a phone number, though. I was planning on getting an address through the number.”

“You got the number on you?”

“It’s in my locker.”

“We’ll Criss-Cross it now,” said Vaughn. “You’re certain about Jones, right?”

“I don’t have any hard evidence. But I’m certain as I can be.”

“You carry an unregistered piece?” said Vaughn.

“No.”

“I do,” said Vaughn. “You’re gonna need to get one, too.”

Strange considered stopping Vaughn right then. But he held his tongue.

They walked together into the squad room. Some officers were grouped around a desk radio, listening to a news broadcast. One of the uniforms, a black rookie named Morris, broke away from the group. His partner, a white cop named Timmons, tried to grab Morris by the arm, but Morris pulled free and stalked out of the room. As he passed, Strange saw anguish on his face. Strange and Vaughn went to the radio and listened to the announcer repeat the bulletin.

At 6:05 p.m., central standard time, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot in the neck by a sniper while standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee.

For the next hour, the police officers stayed in the squad room, taking calls and calling loved ones, talking quietly among themselves. Vaughn went outside to the station steps to have a smoke in the night air. Strange phoned his mother, as Vaughn had told him to do. They spoke about the robbery and the awful thing that had happened in Memphis, and she told him she loved him and he told her the same thing. As he hung the phone up the announcer returned to the air.

Dr. King had been pronounced dead at St. Joseph’s Hospital at 8:05 p.m., eastern standard time. Officer Morris, who had returned to hear the news, punched his fist into the squad room wall. Strange went to the bathroom, where he could be alone.

On 14th Street, in Shaw, the news came first to a boy who was walking down the sidewalk, carrying a cheap transistor radio on a strap.

“They killed Dr. King!” he shouted to no one in particular. “They killed Dr. King!”

People stopped to look at him as he ran down the street.