and climbed a set of concrete steps that led to the mall. On the wall that bordered the steps was painted the names of the members of a local gang called the Crew—Easy E, Duck Derrick, and Million $ Eric.
All of the activity that day was on the terrace at the crest of the park. Some kids were playing an informal soccer game onthe grassy mall, where several posted signs forbid such activities. Though the air was quite cold, the game’s participants wore light jackets, and a couple of them were in shirtsleeves. The curly-haired forward who was controlling the ball had his shirttail in his mouth as he dribbled upfield.
Everyone else in that part of the park was in the process of either buying or selling drugs. They were walking the perimeter of the mall—nobody was standing still—and there was the occasional brief hand contact as the deals went down. Some of the walkers were obviously cops, with their fatigue jackets and knit caps. Nobody, however, was being busted.
A Latino in a matching jean outfit with black shoes and white socks quickly glanced up as he approached in my path. He mumbled, “Sense! Sense!” as I shook my head and passed him on my way to the center of the terrace. At the front of the Joan of Arc statue, I stopped and leaned on the concrete wall that overlooked the fountains and the pool.
Some skateboarders with shaved heads were traversing the bowl of the last fountain in the grotto below. A boom box was set next to the bowl, out of which came a cut from local heroes Fugazi. A young man in a sweatsuit stood at the wall to my right, looked at me, and then yelled at the skateboarders, “I hope you break your muthafuckin’ heads.” Then he walked away.
I watched a thin figure emerge at the spot where I had entered the park minutes earlier. The man pointed a one-finger wave in my direction as he crossed the promenade. His hair had grown gray since I had seen him last, but there was still the quickness in his step. Winchester Luzon had kept our appointment.
I first met Winnie Luzon on my premier day as a stock boy at Nutty Nathan’s on Connecticut Avenue, in early summer of 1973. I had wandered into the employee lounge at the back of the store, with a dust rag in my hand and a look of stoned innocence across my face. I had just been given my first words of direction from Phil Omajian, a sweet-natured down freak whowas the store manager at the time: “Never walk
into
the stockroom without something in your hands, and never walk
out
of the stockroom without something in your hands.” So I had picked up a rag and, coming down from the joint I had blown on my way to work (I hitched down Connecticut in those days, and invariably my patron driver would produce some weed—even strangers got strangers high in the early seventies), I entered the lounge with every intention of doing nearly nothing until my shift was done.
Luzon was sitting at Omajian’s desk when I walked in, licking the seal of a manila envelope. His pink tongue continued to slide along the edge of it as his eyes shifted in my direction. I was wearing a Nutty Nathan’s T-shirt that day, the one with the old logo that made Nathan look like, in the words of one outraged customer, “a goddamned mongoloid.” (I could not have known then that years later, as advertising director for the company, I would design a new caricature of Nathan that was less offensive but equally ridiculous.)
Luzon squinted through the smoke of his filterless cigarette and said, with the accent and brown hairless skin of a Filipino Charles Boyer, “You work here, kid?”
“Yes,” I said, phrasing it as a question.
Luzon tossed me the envelope, rose from the chair, and produced a five from the pocket of his brocaded slacks, placing the bill in my hand. “Run the envelope down to the mechanic at the Amoco, a big cat named Spade. Black dude,” he added redundantly. “On the way back pick me up a Mighty Moe from the Hot Shoppes. Tell Mary at the counter
All of the activity that day was on the terrace at the crest of the park. Some kids were playing an informal soccer game onthe grassy mall, where several posted signs forbid such activities. Though the air was quite cold, the game’s participants wore light jackets, and a couple of them were in shirtsleeves. The curly-haired forward who was controlling the ball had his shirttail in his mouth as he dribbled upfield.
Everyone else in that part of the park was in the process of either buying or selling drugs. They were walking the perimeter of the mall—nobody was standing still—and there was the occasional brief hand contact as the deals went down. Some of the walkers were obviously cops, with their fatigue jackets and knit caps. Nobody, however, was being busted.
A Latino in a matching jean outfit with black shoes and white socks quickly glanced up as he approached in my path. He mumbled, “Sense! Sense!” as I shook my head and passed him on my way to the center of the terrace. At the front of the Joan of Arc statue, I stopped and leaned on the concrete wall that overlooked the fountains and the pool.
Some skateboarders with shaved heads were traversing the bowl of the last fountain in the grotto below. A boom box was set next to the bowl, out of which came a cut from local heroes Fugazi. A young man in a sweatsuit stood at the wall to my right, looked at me, and then yelled at the skateboarders, “I hope you break your muthafuckin’ heads.” Then he walked away.
I watched a thin figure emerge at the spot where I had entered the park minutes earlier. The man pointed a one-finger wave in my direction as he crossed the promenade. His hair had grown gray since I had seen him last, but there was still the quickness in his step. Winchester Luzon had kept our appointment.
I first met Winnie Luzon on my premier day as a stock boy at Nutty Nathan’s on Connecticut Avenue, in early summer of 1973. I had wandered into the employee lounge at the back of the store, with a dust rag in my hand and a look of stoned innocence across my face. I had just been given my first words of direction from Phil Omajian, a sweet-natured down freak whowas the store manager at the time: “Never walk
into
the stockroom without something in your hands, and never walk
out
of the stockroom without something in your hands.” So I had picked up a rag and, coming down from the joint I had blown on my way to work (I hitched down Connecticut in those days, and invariably my patron driver would produce some weed—even strangers got strangers high in the early seventies), I entered the lounge with every intention of doing nearly nothing until my shift was done.
Luzon was sitting at Omajian’s desk when I walked in, licking the seal of a manila envelope. His pink tongue continued to slide along the edge of it as his eyes shifted in my direction. I was wearing a Nutty Nathan’s T-shirt that day, the one with the old logo that made Nathan look like, in the words of one outraged customer, “a goddamned mongoloid.” (I could not have known then that years later, as advertising director for the company, I would design a new caricature of Nathan that was less offensive but equally ridiculous.)
Luzon squinted through the smoke of his filterless cigarette and said, with the accent and brown hairless skin of a Filipino Charles Boyer, “You work here, kid?”
“Yes,” I said, phrasing it as a question.
Luzon tossed me the envelope, rose from the chair, and produced a five from the pocket of his brocaded slacks, placing the bill in my hand. “Run the envelope down to the mechanic at the Amoco, a big cat named Spade. Black dude,” he added redundantly. “On the way back pick me up a Mighty Moe from the Hot Shoppes. Tell Mary at the counter
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