Preston said peevishly. “Jim can propose his political platform, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”
‘That’s where Landsmann comes in,” Jim said. “The cash we’ll get for our shares in the company will give us a shot at the biggest prize of all.”
“What do you mean?” Preston looked puzzled, but Berrington knew what was coming, and he smiled.
“The White House,” Jim said. “I’m going to run for president.”
4
A FEW MINUTES BEFORE MIDNIGHT, S TEVE L OGAN PARKED his rusty old Datsun on Lexington Street in the Hollins Market neighborhood of Baltimore, west of downtown. He was going to spend the night with his cousin Ricky Menzies, who was studying medicine at the University of Maryland in Baltimore. Ricky’s home was one room in a big old house tenanted by students.
Ricky was the greatest hell-raiser Steve knew. He loved to drink, dance, and party, and his friends were the same. Steve had been looking forward to spending the evening with Ricky. But the trouble with hell-raisers was that they were inherently unreliable. At the last minute Ricky got a hot date and canceled, and Steve had spent the evening alone.
He got out of the car, carrying a small sports bag with fresh clothes for tomorrow. The night was warm. He locked the car and walked to the corner. A bunch of youngsters, four or five boys and a girl, all black, were hanging out by a video store, smoking cigarettes. Steve was not nervous, although he was white: he looked as if he belonged here, with his old car and his faded blue jeans; and anyway he was a couple of inches taller than the biggest of them. As he passed, one of them said quietly but distinctly: “Wanna buy some blow, wanna buy some rock?” Steve shook his head without pausing in his stride.
A very tall black woman was walking toward him, dressed to kill in a short skirt and spike-heeled shoes, hair piled high, red lipstick and blue eye shadow. He could not help staring at her. As she came closer she said, “Hi, handsome,” in a deep masculine voice, and Steve realized it was a man. He grinned and walked on.
He heard the kids on the corner greet the transvestite with easy familiarity. “Hey, Dorothy!”
“Hello, boys.”
A moment later he heard tires squeal and glanced back. A white police car with a silver-and-blue stripe was pulling up at the corner. Some of the kids melted away into the dark streets; others stayed. Two black patrolmen got out, in no hurry. Steve turned around to watch. Seeing the man called Dorothy, one of the patrolmen spat, hitting the toe of a red high-heeled shoe.
Steve was shocked. The act was so gratuitous and unnecessary. However, Dorothy hardly paused in his stride. “Fuck you, asshole,” he muttered.
The remark was barely audible, but the patrolman had good ears. He grabbed Dorothy by the arm and slammed him against the window of the store. Dorothy tottered in the high heels. “Don’t ever speak to me that way, you piece a shit,” the cop said.
Steve felt indignant. What did the guy expect if he went around spitting at people, for Christ’s sake?
An alarm bell started ringing in the back of his mind. Don’t get in a fight, Steve.
The cop’s partner stood leaning on the car, watching, his face a blank.
“What’s the matter, brother?” Dorothy said seductively. “Do I disturb you?”
The patrolman punched him in the stomach. The cop was a beefy guy, and the punch had all his weight behind it. Dorothy doubled over, gasping.
“The hell with this,” Steve said to himself, and he strode to the corner.
What are you doing, Steve?
Dorothy was still bent over, gasping. Steve said: “Good evening, Officer.”
The cop looked at him. “Vanish, motherfucker,” he said. “No,” Steve said. “What did you say?”
“I said no, Officer. You leave that man alone.” Walk away, Steve, you damn fool, walk away.
His defiance made the kids cocky. “Yeah, thass right,” said a tall, thin boy with a shaved head.
‘That’s where Landsmann comes in,” Jim said. “The cash we’ll get for our shares in the company will give us a shot at the biggest prize of all.”
“What do you mean?” Preston looked puzzled, but Berrington knew what was coming, and he smiled.
“The White House,” Jim said. “I’m going to run for president.”
4
A FEW MINUTES BEFORE MIDNIGHT, S TEVE L OGAN PARKED his rusty old Datsun on Lexington Street in the Hollins Market neighborhood of Baltimore, west of downtown. He was going to spend the night with his cousin Ricky Menzies, who was studying medicine at the University of Maryland in Baltimore. Ricky’s home was one room in a big old house tenanted by students.
Ricky was the greatest hell-raiser Steve knew. He loved to drink, dance, and party, and his friends were the same. Steve had been looking forward to spending the evening with Ricky. But the trouble with hell-raisers was that they were inherently unreliable. At the last minute Ricky got a hot date and canceled, and Steve had spent the evening alone.
He got out of the car, carrying a small sports bag with fresh clothes for tomorrow. The night was warm. He locked the car and walked to the corner. A bunch of youngsters, four or five boys and a girl, all black, were hanging out by a video store, smoking cigarettes. Steve was not nervous, although he was white: he looked as if he belonged here, with his old car and his faded blue jeans; and anyway he was a couple of inches taller than the biggest of them. As he passed, one of them said quietly but distinctly: “Wanna buy some blow, wanna buy some rock?” Steve shook his head without pausing in his stride.
A very tall black woman was walking toward him, dressed to kill in a short skirt and spike-heeled shoes, hair piled high, red lipstick and blue eye shadow. He could not help staring at her. As she came closer she said, “Hi, handsome,” in a deep masculine voice, and Steve realized it was a man. He grinned and walked on.
He heard the kids on the corner greet the transvestite with easy familiarity. “Hey, Dorothy!”
“Hello, boys.”
A moment later he heard tires squeal and glanced back. A white police car with a silver-and-blue stripe was pulling up at the corner. Some of the kids melted away into the dark streets; others stayed. Two black patrolmen got out, in no hurry. Steve turned around to watch. Seeing the man called Dorothy, one of the patrolmen spat, hitting the toe of a red high-heeled shoe.
Steve was shocked. The act was so gratuitous and unnecessary. However, Dorothy hardly paused in his stride. “Fuck you, asshole,” he muttered.
The remark was barely audible, but the patrolman had good ears. He grabbed Dorothy by the arm and slammed him against the window of the store. Dorothy tottered in the high heels. “Don’t ever speak to me that way, you piece a shit,” the cop said.
Steve felt indignant. What did the guy expect if he went around spitting at people, for Christ’s sake?
An alarm bell started ringing in the back of his mind. Don’t get in a fight, Steve.
The cop’s partner stood leaning on the car, watching, his face a blank.
“What’s the matter, brother?” Dorothy said seductively. “Do I disturb you?”
The patrolman punched him in the stomach. The cop was a beefy guy, and the punch had all his weight behind it. Dorothy doubled over, gasping.
“The hell with this,” Steve said to himself, and he strode to the corner.
What are you doing, Steve?
Dorothy was still bent over, gasping. Steve said: “Good evening, Officer.”
The cop looked at him. “Vanish, motherfucker,” he said. “No,” Steve said. “What did you say?”
“I said no, Officer. You leave that man alone.” Walk away, Steve, you damn fool, walk away.
His defiance made the kids cocky. “Yeah, thass right,” said a tall, thin boy with a shaved head.
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