01 The Big Blowdown

by George Pelecanos

  “What kinda bad element you talkin’ about?” said Stefanos.

  Recevo shrugged. “We heard about some gangs been coming through this way, workin’ their way across Shaw. My source tells me they’re lookin’ to take a piece of every hash-house and beer garden on this block.”

  “Thanks, friend.” Stefanos forced a smile. “Thanks for the tip.”

  Recevo tipped his head back, emptied his glass. He wiped foam off his upper lip. He said, “We thought we might be able to help.”

  “We’ll take our chances,” said Stefanos, in a jovial kind of way. He pointed to Costa and waved his hand in the direction of Six. “This gang you talkin’ about, they come in here lookin’ for some trouble, they gonna get a big surprise. I got my own guys here, I don’t need to worry too much.”

  “They do look pretty ferocious,” said Reed, smiling at Costa. A nerve sent a twitch into Costa’s lip.

  “Ssh, ssh, ssh…” A hiss of laughter escaped from between Medium’s thin lips.

  Recevo took in some smoke, tapped the ash off in the tray. He looked around the room, his eyes stopping on the white-gray hair of Karras above the kitchen doors. Recevo closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them that Karras would not be there. Don’t come out here, Pete. Don’t come out here wearin no goddamn apron. You just stay hack there where you are.

  Costa slipped his hand back in his pocket. Stefanos stepped toward the bus tray.

  “You finished with this?” said Stefanos, putting his hand around Recevo’s glass.

  Recevo nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Reed, mocking Recevo’s tone. “We gonna sit around here all night sendin’, love letters, or we gonna do some business?”

  Recevo did not respond. Stefanos lifted the glass off the counter, dropped it into the bus tray. He pushed his stomach flat against the counter, let his left hand dangle so that it touched the smooth pearl handle of the revolver.

  “My rude friend here,” said Recevo, tilting his head toward Reed, “he doesn’t always know how to talk to people the right way. But he makes a good point. I mean, no disrespect intended, but if we can walk in here like this and take over the situation like we did tonight, what do you suppose those other guys are gonna do when they’re real good and serious about it. Huh?”

  “Keep talkin’.”

  “Like I say, we’re in a position to help you keep those guys off your backs.”

  “How much?” said Stefanos, getting the .38 fully in his hand and bringing it up so that the muzzle butted up against the counter board level to Recevo’s gut.

  Recevo said, “Hundred a week ought to cover my men.”

  Stefanos and Costa laughed. Reed began to laugh, too. They all had a good laugh about it, the laughter covering the click of the hammer locking back on the revolver.

  Karras watched Stefanos smile with the others as he snicked the hammer back on the .38. Stefanos had the only gun, and Costa had the cheap Italian knife. The two of them might get Reed and Recevo on a very lucky day. Six was covered by Medium, who would shoot him dead where he sat and then move on the others. And then there was the Welshman, standing surefooted and armed against the plate glass. The Welshman would finish anything left standing.

  Karras pushed through the swinging doors. He kept his eyes straight ahead, limped across the floor as the men in the room turned their heads.

  “Well, look at that,” said Reed.

  Recevo tightened his grip on the bottle of beer in front of him. Goddamn you, Pete. Why’d you have to go and come out here, lookin like that?

  Karras felt their eyes upon him as he bent forward, stepping in front of Stefanos.

  “Excuse me, Boss,” he said. “Let me get these dishes out of your way.”

  Underneath the counter, Karras put his hand over the revolver’s hammer, gently pulled the gun from Stefanos’s grasp. Keeping his palm over the hammer, Karras squeezed the trigger, released the hammer, eased it back down to the chamber. He slipped the .38 beneath his apron. Karras picked up the bus tray, walked back toward the kitchen.

  Stefanos stepped back, pale and shaken. He looked at Recevo and said, very quietly, “I don’t pay protection money. You hear?”

  Recevo said, “Sleep on it. I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll see what you think about it then.”

  Reed and Recevo got off their stools. Medium got off his, buttoned his topcoat.

  “You owe for the beers,” said Costa.

  “Pay the little man,” said Reed to the Welshman.

  The Welshman put a couple of ones on the counter, followed the group out the door. Six locked the door behind them as they left. Costa took the money off the counter, balled it up, threw it in the trash.

  Out on the sidewalk. Reed looked back through the window of the store. “We shoulda heated things up a little more,” he said.

  “Come on. Reed,” said Medium. “They got the message all right.”

  The four of them got into the Olds, Recevo in the driver’s seat and Reed beside him. Recevo turned the key on the ignition, pulled the car onto 14th, swung it around in the middle of the street and headed south.

  “How about your boy Karras?” said Reed, his face waxen in the dashboard light. “Big war hero, wearin’ an apron. He don’t look so damn tough anymore, does he?”

  Recevo thought of how Karras had come out from the kitchen, cut the fuse that was getting ready to burn right into the powder. The crazy little Greek, the one called Costa, you could see it in his eyes, he was ready to open Reed’s throat, right there in the grill. Yeah, Karras had stopped a lot of blood from flowing back there. But why?

  “Didn’t you hear me?” said Reed. He punched Recevo playfully in the shoulder. “Your pal used to think he was really something. Man, I sure did clip that Greek’s wings.”

  Recevo looked over at Reed. “Don’t ever touch me like that again, get it? Not even in fun.”

  “I was just say in’—”

  “I’m don’t care what you were saying.”

  “Now wait a minute,” said Reed.

  “Wait, nothin’,” said Recevo. “Just keep your mouth shut.”

  * * *

  Nick Stefanos poured ale into the three glasses that sat on the prep table in the kitchen. He opened another bottle of Ballantine, poured again so the levels were even in each glass. Costa took a glass off the table, waited for the others to do the same.

  Stefanos held a glass out to Karras. Karras reached out from his stool in the center of the kitchen, took the glass. Stefanos lifted the last glass for himself.

  “Siyiam,” said Stefanos, and the three of them drank.

  “Ah,” said Costa, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “That’s good.”

  Karras fished a pack of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket, passed it to Stefanos. Stefanos took a cigarette from the deck and passed it back. Karras lighted one for himself, lighted Nick’s.

  “I coulda killed the big one with the mean face,” said Costa. “I coulda killed him quick.”

  Stefanos let out some smoke. “And then the one by the window would’ve blown you down. Or the guy holding the gun on Six. Either one, it wouldn’t have mattered. Both of them had a clear shot. Right now, you’d be dead.”

  “Six,” said Costa. “That mavros. Lot of good he was to us tonight.”

  “He did fine,” said Karras. “He handled himself just right. Anyway, it wasn’t his affair.”

  “Costa’s right about one thing, Karras. We could’ve stopped all this tonight. Maybe someone might’ve got killed, but at least it would be over. If you hadn’t of stepped in the middle of everything—”

  “And saved your life.”

  “Maybe you saved your friend’s life, too. I’m talkin’ about the Italos, and don’t you think I don’t know. Maybe that’s what you had in mind the whole time.”

  “You’re wrong.” Karras looked down at his cigarette. “Me and Joe are through.”

  “Then why’d you stop me? Why’d you ta
ke away my gun?”

  “Cause you don’t start a gunfight in a storefront on 14th Street unless you’re ready to die or go to jail. You gotta think these things through. It’s like any fight—you gotta pick your spots, and you gotta take a couple to give one. Just cause you take a couple of good shots, it doesn’t mean you’re done. Katalavenis?”

  “Sure, Karras. I understand.”

  They all had some more to drink then, letting the alcohol relax the tension that had crept into their shoulders and backs. Karras dragged hard on his cigarette, tapped ash to the tiled floor.

  Karras said, “Now you have to think about what you’re gonna tell ‘em tomorrow when they call.”

  “I already know what I’m gonna tell those bastards. This is my place. That’s my name on the sign out front. I take care of my own problems, and I don’t pay no protection money to nobody, goddamn right.”

  Costa ran a hand through his wild black hair. “I could’ve killed that bastard quick.”

  “They come back,” said Stefanos, “you gonna get your chance.”

  Chapter 23

  Peter Karras finished with the glasses and silver, mopped the kitchen, and swept the place out front to back. He washed his face and splashed water under his arms in the warehouse sink, then changed back into his suit and tie. He went out to the front of the house, where Stefanos sat on a stool behind the counter, doing the day’s books, fingering a string of worry beads in his free hand.

  “All done,” said Karras.

  “Hold on, Karras, I’m gonna be finished here in a minute. I’ll give you a ride.”

  “It’s not so cold out,” said Karras. “I think I’ll walk.”

  Karras saw Stefanos glance unconsciously at his bum leg. “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m all right.” Karras shook himself into his topcoat, patted his breast pocket to check on his cigarettes. “You think real good about what happened tonight, Nick.”

  “I already thought about it, Panayoti. Go on, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Voices came from the second floor, a man and a woman screaming at each other unintelligibly, full on. Karras and Stefanos looked up at the pressed tin ceiling, then looked at each other and smiled.

  “Costa and Toula,” said Stefanos.

  “A couple of lovebirds, those two.”

  “Hey, he ain’t seen her all day. They got to get to know each other all over again.”

  “Adio, Nick.”

  “Yasou, re.”

  Karras walked up to U, headed east. He took his time, stopped to put fire to a smoke, watched the stylishly dressed Negroes arm-in-arm with their women on the street. The night was colder than he had anticipated, but the sky was clear, bright, with moonshine pearling the streets. Karras listened to the blues singers’ voices coming from the clubs, the strange jazz further along U, the occasional horn blast from taxis and cars, the hiss of tire on asphalt, the gentle. Southern rise and fall in the inflection of these people’s voices, their laughter, all of it comforting him somehow, this warming, familiar symphony.

  Karras loved to walk through his city, had always loved it. Of all the things that had been taken from him in the alley that night, the ability to walk across town without tiring, that had been the cruelest. The frustration hit him around 12th Street as the pain increased, and Karras stopped walking. He raised his hand to hail a passing cab.

  The cabbie dropped him at 6th and H; Karras gave the hack two bits, stepped out into a neighborhood just gathering its second wind. Round about now, as the bars around town were posting last call, it seemed as if all the city’s cabs moved east. Pimps, hookers, politicians, gamblers, off-shift cops—they all made their way into Chinatown late at night. Whatever it was that floated your boat—chow, opium, booze, pussy, dice, cards, or just plain conversation—you could get it, and get it late, in this part of town.

  “Hey, Karras!”

  “Su.”

  Su was leaning against his gleaming cab parked on H, speed-talking in Chinese to a friend. His eyes had disappeared behind a smile when he caught a look at Karras.

  “You take care of your business in Southeast today?” said Su.

  “Yeah, I did all right.” Karras thought of Vera, his hand roughly kneading her beautiful breast, the slack look on her face as he fucked her up one side and down the other in her own bed. He thought of Eleni, the two of them on the chair, getting with it right there in front of the boy. And then he thought: I have not seen my wife and kid since early this morning, have not even stopped to drop a coin in a phone and give them a call. What kind of a man—

  “On your way home?” said Su.

  Home. What the hell.

  “Maybe I’ll catch a drink first,” said Karras. “1 need to talk to you about something, anyway. Wanna join me?”

  “Sure thing.” Su turned to his friend, threw rapid-fire Chink lingo at the board-skinny young man. Su said to Karras, “Let’s go. My cousin’ll watch my sled.”

  Above 6th was restaurant row, On Leong Tong territory. Below 6th were laundromats, owned by the Hip Sings. Both the On Leongs and the Hip Sings had gambling and prostitution operations, and both trafficked in drugs. The Hip Sings took care of the needle and nose trade—heroin, morphine, and coke; the On Leongs added opium to the mix.

  Cathay, the restaurant at 624 H, took in white Washingtonians, tourists and conventioneers. Just next door sat a plain, unmarked eat-house, neutral to On Leongs and Hip Sings, that catered primarily to Chinese. Karras and Su went inside.

  The joint was smoky, crowded, loud with the clatter of china and the high-pitched yipyap of a foreign tongue. Several white women, cheaply dressed and obvious, were scattered among the yellows. A man with the face of a frog seated them; Su gave the frogman their order. Karras went to a phone, dialed up Boyle, asked him if he’d like to meet for a drink, told him why. Boyle sounded plenty awake, said he’d be right down.

  Back at the four-top, a stooped woman served a teapot and two cups. Karras got out of his topcoat, dropped his deck of Luckies and a book of matches on the table, had a seat. Su poured straight gin from the teapot into the cups. He winked at Karras, touched Karras’s teacup with his; the two of them drank. Karras struck a match, held it to a cigarette.

  “What’d you want to talk to me about, Pete?”

  Karras shook out the match, dropped it in the ashtray. “I’m lookin’ for a girl. A white whore. I was thinkin’ that maybe she’s workin’ for a Chinese pimp.”

  “You want me to get you a whore?”

  “Not for me, Su. I’m looking for one girl in particular. From out of town, new in D.C.”

  “Hey, Pete, I’m just a cabbie.”

  “The Hip Sings are deep into the roundheel action, Su. Everybody knows it.”

  “Hip Sings? What the heck is that?”

  “Knock it off. I’m not lookin’ to learn your secret handshake. I’m just lookin’ for a girl.”

  Su looked around the room. His eyes stopped on a thin man in a three-piece suit seated in the corner of the house next to a bottle blonde. He looked back at Karras.

  “Who’s this girl?” said Su.

  “A friend of mine had a sister went down the primrose path.”

  “Primrose Path? I saw that picture. Ginger Rogers was pretty good in it.”

  “I saw it, too. Only this isn’t a picture. This pimp glommed onto her and got her fixed up with some high-grade dope. Something you take with a needle.”

  Su’s face darkened. “You’re talkin’ about heroin, Karras. Morphine, maybe. Either way it’s plenty bad.”

  “Whatever. To me it’s like colored jazz—I just don’t get it. All I know is, she’s a hopfiend who spreads her legs for her next dream. And I don’t know where to begin to look for her.”

  “I don’t think I can help you.”

  “Like I say, she’s the sister of a friend.”

  Su finished his gin, looked into the empty teacup. He set the cup down. “There’s this guy. But this guy might not want to talk to y
ou.”

  “Tell him I live here. Tell him you and I go back. You can tell him I opened the doors on the Enola Gay for all I care. I don’t give a good goddamn what you tell him—”

  “Okay, Karras. I get it.” Su’s eyes darted around the dining room. “Wait here.”

  Su got up from his chair, went to the corner table where the thin man sat with the blonde. Karras retrieved the photograph of Lola Florek from the pocket of his topcoat as he watched Su chin-dance with the man in the three-piece and the matching tie. The counterfeit blonde yawned as the two Chinese spoke. Karras dragged on his cigarette, tapped ash into the tray.

  Su came back a few minutes later. “Go ahead. The man’s name is Wong.”

  “Anything I ought to know?”

  “He hates the Japanese. So do you.”

  “Right.”

  Su had a seat, poured more gin. Karras picked up the photograph, walked across the room. He stood over the table where the thin man and the blonde sat, waited for the man to speak. Wong was in his middle years, emaciated, with facial lines parenthesizing a small tight mouth housing a riot of crooked beige teeth. The woman appraised Karras, shook a headful of hair like straw off her shoulder, a siren’s move she had seen in a Rita Hayworth picture and had been practicing all night. Karras found her sexy as a corpse.

  “Kawwas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Please, sit down.”

  Karras dropped into a chair, shook Wong’s clammy hand, checked out his threads. The suit cost more than a few bucks, but it looked to have been tailored by a butcher, the tie knotted with arthritic hands. The counterfeit blonde wore a rayon dress cut low, with a booze stain splashed between her breasts, a soiled reminder of another sloppy night and a future full of them.

  “Join me in a drink?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t want to leave my buddy Su too long. He gets lonely like that.”