Keene came out in a vintage sport jacket and jeans, and launched into a set of propulsive, guitar-driven pop from his new album, Songs from the Film. L.A. and Geffen had him for the time being, but he would always be the mid-Atlantic Alex Chilton, and he would always be D.C.’s. After the bridge of “Baby Face,” when the break built and crested into the chorus, Keene closed-eyed and singing right up to the mike, the band driving and tight, the whole club had gone forward to the stage, and in the crush, Karras’s arm had gotten around Donna’s shoulders, and he was thinking, as the cocaine and alcohol married beautifully in his brain, This is One of Those Nights, and maybe I won’t die, just maybe I will live forever.
Karras leaned into Donna at the end of the first set, told her it was time to go. There was another band he wanted to see tonight across town. Donna shrugged, said all right. Karras tipped Mike, the front-of-the-house tender, on the way out the door. Out in the night, they felt the electric shock of cold air against their sweat. Karras put his arm around Donna to warm her as they walked west on F. Then he stopped, turned her toward him, kissed her at the head of the alley a few doors down from the club. Her tongue, rough as a cat’s, slid across his. He could feel the warmth of her groin as he pushed himself against her. She moved back a step, brushed damp hair away from her face, and smiled.
All right, he thought. I’m in.
Marcus Clay walked down Indiana Avenue from the courthouse and took the steps up to the second floor of the Dutch Treat, a nondescript neighborhood watering hole near the National Archives. He had a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, nursed it while he watched the end of the Alabama/Xavier game on the house set. This place was okay. He could keep to himself, have a slow glass of cold beer, watch a little ball, let the tension ease on out of his shoulders and back. Forget about how he had acted the fool, once again, with Elaine.
When the game ended, Clay took the Red Line back up to Dupont, picked up his ride, and drove over to U Street. A teenage boy was hanging out front of the store, standing next to the pay phone mounted on the brick wall. This time of night there was always some young drug boy leaning against his car at the curb, waiting for that phone to ring or looking to make a call.
“You got a reason to be out here?” said Clay, his hand on Real Right’s front door.
“Just goin’ on about my business,” said the young man, punctuating his response with a tough roll of his shoulders.
“This here is my business you’re leaning up against. Don’t need you out here scarin’ away my customers.”
The young man smiled. “I ain’t seen no kind of customers, scared or otherwise, in nary a day.”
“Go on, boy.” Clay took a step toward the young man, who was half his size. “Go.”
The young man took his time, but he went.
Clay entered the store. Cootch was behind the register, turning down the volume on the new Africa Bambaata.
“Hey, boss.”
“Cootch.”
“Anything?”
“Not one customer all night.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, though, Marcus. This whole street’s gonna turn around, soon as this Metro construction folds up. U Street’s gonna come back.”
“They been talkin’ about that shit for years. Question is, will I be able to hold on until it does.”
“I heard that.”
Marcus rubbed his face. “You got plans tonight?”
“Was gonna take my girl out to a show. Game of Death’s playin’ down at L’Enfant Plaza.”
“Your girl into Bruce Lee?”
“She’d be into Chuck Norris if it meant spendin’ the evening with me.”
“Go on, then, man, take the night off. I’ll count out the drawer.”
“Thanks,” said Cootch.
Clay said, “Ain’t no thing.”
After Cootch had locked the door behind him and gone, Clay put the Impressions: Sixteen Greatest Hits album on the platter and turned up the amp. He loved his Curtis Mayfield, loved all the positive music with the message of uplift and pride that had come up off the streets in the late sixties and early seventies. He knew that he should have kept up with the newer jams, owning four record stores like he did, but the truth was, he just couldn’t relate.
A kid knocked on the front door. Clay moved forward, recognizing the Raiders jacket. As he got closer he saw it was the half-pint who hung on the corner down the street. Clay made a cutting motion across his throat. The kid knocked again.
Clay used his key to open the door. “What’s up, Youngblood?”
“Can I come in?”
“We’re closed. I’m just countin’ out.”
“I ain’t lookin’ to buy nothin’. It’s just... I’m cold, man.”
“Name’s not ‘man.’ Name’s Mr. Clay.”
“I’m cold, Mr. Clay.”
Clay had a look around the dark block. The night air had numbed his hand, still wrapped around the door. “You down here alone?”
“Yessir.”
“Where your kin at, boy?”
“I live up on Fairmont with my Granmom. She’s havin’ company tonight.”
“You shouldn’t be runnin’ around out here alone.”
“Yessir.”
Clay opened the door. “Come on in and warm up. Mind, I’m just about done. You’re gonna have to take off then.”
The kid came in. Clay noticed he had on those new Michael Jordan Nikes all the kids were into. Clay went back behind the counter and turned down the music while the kid flipped through the records in the racks.
“Dag,” said the kid, “you got the new Run-D.M.C.?”
“Got it all,” said Clay.
“You wanted to, you could take home any of the records in this joint.”
“I’d be takin’ food out of my own mouth.”
“What you mean?”
“I own this place.”
The kid cocked his head. “How’d you get it?”
“Hard work.”
Clay continued to count the bills from the drawer. He let his eyes drift for a moment, saw the kid dribbling an imaginary basketball in one of the aisles, pull up and shoot.
Clay said, “You play ball?”
“A little,” said the kid. “Prob’ly ain’t gonna be too tall, though...”
“Yeah, well, hardly anyone gets to the NBA. Nothin’ wrong with playin’ just for fun, long as you do your schoolwork, too. Ball’s healthy, and it keeps you off the streets like these other knuckleheads out here.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You know, huh. You watch that Maryland game today?”
“Saw the highlights.”
“Lenny Bias had—”
“Twenty-six.”
Clay made some markings in his ledger. He closed the book, looked at the kid. “What’s your name, Youngblood?”
“T.”
“Your given name, not your street name.”
“Anthony Taylor.”
“How old are you, Anthony?”
“Thirteen.”
“Don’t be tellin’ stories. You look around eleven to me. Am I right?”