What It Was

INTRO

"Johnnie Walker,” said Derek Strange. “Rocks.”

“Red or Black?” said the bdthartender. His name was Leonides Vazoulis, but folks on Georgia Avenue called him Leo. The short version was arranged horizontally, in neon, on the sign outside the bar.

“Make it the Black.”

“How about you, patrioti?” said Leo, thick and bald, pointing to a fellow Greek who sat beside Strange. “Heineken?”

The Greek was middle-aged, thin, solidly built, with short hair salted gray. He wore 501s and a faded black T-shirt from the Harley store in Key West. On his feet were black high-top Chucks.

“Yeah,” said Nick Stefanos. “And put a Knob Creek next to it. Neat.”

Strange settled in, shifting his broad shoulders beneath his black leather blazer. His closely cropped hair was shaped up and correct. A Vandyke beard, straight silver against dark skin, framed his mouth. “Thought you were a Grand-Dad man.”

“You moved up the shelf. So can I.”

“I stopped with the Red when I turned sixty. If I’m gonna drink, I’m gonna enjoy every sip.”

Leo served them. They tapped glasses and drank without comment. The silence was pleasant in the way that it can be between men. Plus, Bettye LaVette was singing “Your Turn to Cry” from the juke. Strange and Stefanos were showing respect.

When the song was done, Stefanos crossed the empty room and stopped at the jukebox, which was stocked with soul rarities, funk, and R amp;B singles. Strange wondered what Stefanos, a rock and punk man, would choose. Stefanos punched in some buttons and moved toward the head as a song began to play. Through the plate glass fronting Leo’s, Strange watched a slanting downpour hit the street.

Boy went for theme music, thought Strange. And: It’s a good day to drink.

“ ‘I wanna go outside… in the rain,’ ” sang Strange, very softly.

It got him to thinking on the year that song had hit the charts. And, as thoughts of the past did more often of late, this drove his mind further into a cinematic recollection of that thrilling time.

“Nice choice,” said Strange, as Stefanos settled back onto his barstool.

“Call it.”

“The Dramatics. Nineteen seventy-two.”

“The summer Watergate broke.”

“You ask some people on this side of town to recollect that year, they wouldn’t think on Nixon. They’re gonna tell you that seventy-two was the summer that Red went off.”

“Red?”

“Some called him Red Fury.”

Stefanos hit his bourbon and waited for the rest.

“Robert Lee Jones was his given name,” swidn name,aid Strange. “He was known by Red from when he was a kid, on account of his light skin and the tint of his hair. Fury was the car his woman drove.”

“So?”

“You’re funny, man.”

Strange put up two fingers and made a swirling motion over the empties that were parked on the mahogany. Leo commenced to pouring their next round of drinks.

“You were, what, twenty-five in seventy-two?”

“That summer? I was twenty-six. But this ain’t about me.”

“We got all afternoon,” said Stefanos.

“Then let me tell it,” said Strange.