ranks. The boxer had taken himself out in the fifth round with an alleged broken hand. Even with that loss, the middleweight
had been talked about then as a fighter with a future.
“A murder in a hospital, where people be goin’ to get well,” said the announcer. “Look, I’ll say it again for y’all who haven’t
been listening. Black-on-black violence is wrong. We are killing our own people. This madness has got to stop. Don’t smoke
the brothers. Peace.”
Stefanos found the joint, fired it up. He took in what was left of it and dropped the roach out the window. He opened his
beer, took a swig, and placed the bottle between his legs. He pushed a Steve Wynn into the tape deck and pulled out of his
spot.
Stefanos drove east on U, cut up 15th to Irving, and took that east, passing the hospital where the boxer had been killed.
He liked to drive the city at night when he had a buzz, and he had one now. He found himself on North Capitol, and he took
it north for a couple of miles, cutting a left onto Kennedy Street before the New Hampshire Avenue turnoff.
He knew all along he’d come here tonight. He turned the volume down on the deck and cruised slowly down the dark street.
He passed boxy apartment buildings, barber shops, braid parlors, hair and nail salons, a variety store, a Laundromat, a CVS
chain pharmacy, two bars, a barbecue joint, and several houses of worship, including a storefront
iglesia
and the Faith Mission Temple, whose parking lot was fenced and topped by concertina wire. He passed the Brightwood Market,
which seemed to be the center of the neighborhood; several young and not-so-young men stood outside, their shoulders hunched,
their hands deep in their parkas and Starter coats. A couple of men were boxing playfully, feinting and dodging under a dim
street lamp.
One of the men outside the market yelled something at Stefanos as he drove by. Stefanos went along.
He pulled over past the 1st Street intersection, in front of the Hunan Delite, a place that advertised “Fried Chicken, Fried
Fish, Chinese, Steak and Cheese.” The carryout was the last of several businesses on that particular hundred-block of Kennedy.
A Lexus with custom wheels and spoiler sat parked in the six-space side lot.
Through the plate glass window Stefanos could see a kind of lobby and a wall-to-wall Plexiglas shield that separated, and
protected, the employees from the clientele. A revolving Plexiglas tray, like a commercial lazy Susan, had been screwed into
the middle of the shield. The tray took money in and was large enough to put food orders out. There was a printed menu posted
above the shield that was normally lit but had been turned off. A young Asian guy, clean-cut in a turtleneck and slacks, swept
the lobby behind a locked front door.
In his rearview, Stefanos saw a couple of the men from outside the Brightwood Market walking down the sidewalk toward his
car.
Stefanos no longer worked at night. He wouldn’t even think of getting out of his car here after dark. It wasn’t paranoia.
It was real.
He drove west.
Nick Stefanos parked on Colorado at 14th and walked around the corner to Slim’s, a small jazz club run by Ethiopians. Live
music hit him as he went through the door into the nearly packed house. He wove around tables of middle-class, middle-aged
blacks and one interracial couple. There was one empty deuce, and he took it, his back to the wall. He shook out a cigarette
from his deck of Camels and put fire to tobacco. He dragged deeply as the waitress set a shot of Beam Black and a cold bottle
of beer down in front of him.
“Thanks, Cissy.”
She was tall and lovely, with clear reddish-brown skin. “You want to run a tab tonight, Nick?”
“I better.”
Applause filled the room. The leader of the quartet, Marlon Jordon, took a small bow, his trumpet in both hands. The band
had a hot rhythm section, and Jordon could blow. They launched into “Two Bass
had been talked about then as a fighter with a future.
“A murder in a hospital, where people be goin’ to get well,” said the announcer. “Look, I’ll say it again for y’all who haven’t
been listening. Black-on-black violence is wrong. We are killing our own people. This madness has got to stop. Don’t smoke
the brothers. Peace.”
Stefanos found the joint, fired it up. He took in what was left of it and dropped the roach out the window. He opened his
beer, took a swig, and placed the bottle between his legs. He pushed a Steve Wynn into the tape deck and pulled out of his
spot.
Stefanos drove east on U, cut up 15th to Irving, and took that east, passing the hospital where the boxer had been killed.
He liked to drive the city at night when he had a buzz, and he had one now. He found himself on North Capitol, and he took
it north for a couple of miles, cutting a left onto Kennedy Street before the New Hampshire Avenue turnoff.
He knew all along he’d come here tonight. He turned the volume down on the deck and cruised slowly down the dark street.
He passed boxy apartment buildings, barber shops, braid parlors, hair and nail salons, a variety store, a Laundromat, a CVS
chain pharmacy, two bars, a barbecue joint, and several houses of worship, including a storefront
iglesia
and the Faith Mission Temple, whose parking lot was fenced and topped by concertina wire. He passed the Brightwood Market,
which seemed to be the center of the neighborhood; several young and not-so-young men stood outside, their shoulders hunched,
their hands deep in their parkas and Starter coats. A couple of men were boxing playfully, feinting and dodging under a dim
street lamp.
One of the men outside the market yelled something at Stefanos as he drove by. Stefanos went along.
He pulled over past the 1st Street intersection, in front of the Hunan Delite, a place that advertised “Fried Chicken, Fried
Fish, Chinese, Steak and Cheese.” The carryout was the last of several businesses on that particular hundred-block of Kennedy.
A Lexus with custom wheels and spoiler sat parked in the six-space side lot.
Through the plate glass window Stefanos could see a kind of lobby and a wall-to-wall Plexiglas shield that separated, and
protected, the employees from the clientele. A revolving Plexiglas tray, like a commercial lazy Susan, had been screwed into
the middle of the shield. The tray took money in and was large enough to put food orders out. There was a printed menu posted
above the shield that was normally lit but had been turned off. A young Asian guy, clean-cut in a turtleneck and slacks, swept
the lobby behind a locked front door.
In his rearview, Stefanos saw a couple of the men from outside the Brightwood Market walking down the sidewalk toward his
car.
Stefanos no longer worked at night. He wouldn’t even think of getting out of his car here after dark. It wasn’t paranoia.
It was real.
He drove west.
Nick Stefanos parked on Colorado at 14th and walked around the corner to Slim’s, a small jazz club run by Ethiopians. Live
music hit him as he went through the door into the nearly packed house. He wove around tables of middle-class, middle-aged
blacks and one interracial couple. There was one empty deuce, and he took it, his back to the wall. He shook out a cigarette
from his deck of Camels and put fire to tobacco. He dragged deeply as the waitress set a shot of Beam Black and a cold bottle
of beer down in front of him.
“Thanks, Cissy.”
She was tall and lovely, with clear reddish-brown skin. “You want to run a tab tonight, Nick?”
“I better.”
Applause filled the room. The leader of the quartet, Marlon Jordon, took a small bow, his trumpet in both hands. The band
had a hot rhythm section, and Jordon could blow. They launched into “Two Bass
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