Ludvig appeared in the doorway to the stockroom and cleared his throat. “Everything okay out here?”
“Yes, Mr. Ludvig,” said Thomas.
Ludvig looked from Thomas to Dennis, then disappeared back into the store.
Thomas set his eyes on Dennis. “Say what you came to say. It’s obvious you’re here to get somethin’ off your chest.”
“Does it show?”
“It did last night. Looked like you had something you wanted to tell me then.” Thomas hit his cigarette, tapped ash to the concrete. “Might as well do it now.”
Dennis nodded slowly. “Couple of dudes I know, they fixin’ to knock this place over.”
“The ones was sittin’ in that green Monterey, waitin’ on you to come out.”
Dennis cocked his head. “Yeah.”
“Don’t look so surprised. I knew you was wrong the minute you walked into the market. Y’all should’ve left out of there right away, ’stead of sittin’ on the street debating or whatever it was you was doin’. Parked under a street lamp, too. I watched you people from the plate-glass window. My eyes haven’t failed me yet. Got a good look at the driver, dark-skinned dude with funny teeth, and the other fella, with his hat. Even gave me time to take down the license plate number. Stupid. But then, anybody low enough to try something like that ain’t gonna be all that smart.”
“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.”