though, the neighborhoods settled into a more regular pattern of decreasing affluence as the officers headed toward one of the most dangerous areas of Washington.
Train pulled the car up to the cracked sidewalk at the corner of First and P streets, Southwest. It was the neighborhood where he’d grown up; where he’d been a hero as a football star at Anacostia High, setting city records in nearly every defensive category—records that stood to this day. He could still remember the celebration on a long-ago Thanksgiving weekend when they’d won the city championship. The entire street was lit up, with people out on their front porches, sipping beers and homemade peach wine, and smiling. Smiling! He had never seen his neighborhood smile with pride the way it had that night, and for a brief moment they’d had reason to hope. In that awful fall of 1968, after the city had been torn apart by riots and protest and war, and just when it seemed to many black Americans that all hope had been stolen by assassins’ bullets, Darius Train had given this tiny, run-down, desolate neighborhood something to believe in again. It was still a moment that inspired great pride for Train—and great pain.
As he and Cassian got out of the car, Darius paused, looking up at the ramshackle little townhouse. A battered plastic pink flamingo stood in the tiny garden in front of the structure, giving the two detectives a wary eye, as though it had already seen too much.
“This isn’t gonna be pleasant,” Train said. He’d known Jerome Washington’s mother, Shantal, and her family growing up. Their mothers had been friends, and when Shantal was a little girl, more than ten years his junior, she, like everyone in the area, had worshipped D-Train—the local hero. Three years ago, when Cassian and Train had arrested her son for dealing drugs, it had devastated Shantal; not just because her son was going to jail, but also because her family had been disgraced in front of the great Darius Train.
Cassian nodded. “You want me to take care of it, and you can wait in the car?”
Train couldn’t tell whether his partner was kidding, and there was part of him that was tempted to take him up on his offer, but he knew he couldn’t. He shook his head. “Let’s get this over with.”
They ambled up the front walkway, only to be drawn up short by a high-pitched call from the front porch of the house next door. “Darius Train!” came the voice, startling them both.
Train looked over and smiled as he recognized the face. He made a motion for Cassian to relax for a moment, and he strode across the burnt-out grass to the little house, its yellow paint chipping away. “Is that Miss Thelma Thornton?” he called out in a deep, resonant voice.
“Oh, you know it is, child.” The woman on the porch laughed. Darius could barely see her over the solid wood railing. She was a frail slip of a woman, her hair thinning a bit on top, her shoulders bent forward with age. “Lord, it has been too long since we’ve seen you ’round here, son. A body might begin to think that you’d forgot where you came from.”
Train leaned his huge frame over the railing and took the woman’s tiny hand in his, kissing it as though meeting a queen. “No, no, Miss Thelma,” he said, letting a slight drawl slip into his voice. “You know there ain’t no chance of that. I live over closer to center of town since I transferred to the station on Capitol Hill.” He gave her a huge smile. “I don’t get down around here quite as often as I like, but you know I could never stay away from you for too long.”
Thelma Thornton chuckled lightly at that. “Oh, you always were the smooth child, but you shouldn’t be wastin’ it on an old hag like me.” She smiled brightly, revealing a gap where her two front teeth had once been. Then she noticed Cassian behind Train and her smile dimmed slightly. “Have you lost your manners, Darius?” she scolded Train. “Who’s your
Train pulled the car up to the cracked sidewalk at the corner of First and P streets, Southwest. It was the neighborhood where he’d grown up; where he’d been a hero as a football star at Anacostia High, setting city records in nearly every defensive category—records that stood to this day. He could still remember the celebration on a long-ago Thanksgiving weekend when they’d won the city championship. The entire street was lit up, with people out on their front porches, sipping beers and homemade peach wine, and smiling. Smiling! He had never seen his neighborhood smile with pride the way it had that night, and for a brief moment they’d had reason to hope. In that awful fall of 1968, after the city had been torn apart by riots and protest and war, and just when it seemed to many black Americans that all hope had been stolen by assassins’ bullets, Darius Train had given this tiny, run-down, desolate neighborhood something to believe in again. It was still a moment that inspired great pride for Train—and great pain.
As he and Cassian got out of the car, Darius paused, looking up at the ramshackle little townhouse. A battered plastic pink flamingo stood in the tiny garden in front of the structure, giving the two detectives a wary eye, as though it had already seen too much.
“This isn’t gonna be pleasant,” Train said. He’d known Jerome Washington’s mother, Shantal, and her family growing up. Their mothers had been friends, and when Shantal was a little girl, more than ten years his junior, she, like everyone in the area, had worshipped D-Train—the local hero. Three years ago, when Cassian and Train had arrested her son for dealing drugs, it had devastated Shantal; not just because her son was going to jail, but also because her family had been disgraced in front of the great Darius Train.
Cassian nodded. “You want me to take care of it, and you can wait in the car?”
Train couldn’t tell whether his partner was kidding, and there was part of him that was tempted to take him up on his offer, but he knew he couldn’t. He shook his head. “Let’s get this over with.”
They ambled up the front walkway, only to be drawn up short by a high-pitched call from the front porch of the house next door. “Darius Train!” came the voice, startling them both.
Train looked over and smiled as he recognized the face. He made a motion for Cassian to relax for a moment, and he strode across the burnt-out grass to the little house, its yellow paint chipping away. “Is that Miss Thelma Thornton?” he called out in a deep, resonant voice.
“Oh, you know it is, child.” The woman on the porch laughed. Darius could barely see her over the solid wood railing. She was a frail slip of a woman, her hair thinning a bit on top, her shoulders bent forward with age. “Lord, it has been too long since we’ve seen you ’round here, son. A body might begin to think that you’d forgot where you came from.”
Train leaned his huge frame over the railing and took the woman’s tiny hand in his, kissing it as though meeting a queen. “No, no, Miss Thelma,” he said, letting a slight drawl slip into his voice. “You know there ain’t no chance of that. I live over closer to center of town since I transferred to the station on Capitol Hill.” He gave her a huge smile. “I don’t get down around here quite as often as I like, but you know I could never stay away from you for too long.”
Thelma Thornton chuckled lightly at that. “Oh, you always were the smooth child, but you shouldn’t be wastin’ it on an old hag like me.” She smiled brightly, revealing a gap where her two front teeth had once been. Then she noticed Cassian behind Train and her smile dimmed slightly. “Have you lost your manners, Darius?” she scolded Train. “Who’s your
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