01 The Big Blowdown

by George Pelecanos

  “And what’re you gonna do?” said Karras.

  “I’m gonna call Lou DiGeordano,” said Stefanos.

  “Now you’re talkin, boss.” Costa laughed sharply, clapped his hands together one time.

  “Karras,” said Stefanos. “What’d you use on those Japs over there in the Philippines?”

  “I had an M-one.”

  “I’m not talkin’ about your rifle, re. I’m talkin’ about your pistola.”

  “A forty-five.”

  Stefanos turned toward Costa. “How about you, Costaki? You need anything, before I call Lou?”

  “I don’t need no goddamn pistol,” said Costa.

  “What, you gonna face ‘em with your bare hands?”

  Costa shook his head. He spat on the kitchen floor.

  Chapter 29

  Lou DiGeordano walked into Nick’s around closing time carrying a paper grocery bag in his arms. He nodded to Six as he passed him and went straight back around the counter and into the kitchen where Stefanos and Karras were standing around drinking beer and smoking cigarettes.

  “Lou,” said Stefanos.

  “Nick,” said DiGeordano. “Karras Jr.”

  “Mr. DiGeordano,” said Karras.

  “How’s your boy, Lou?” said Stefanos.

  “Little Joey’s good.” DiGeordano stepped forward, tousled Karras’s gray hair. “Good boy, like you.”

  Karras ran a hand through his hair, straightened it back out. He looked at DiGeordano, natty in his sharply tailored suit, a pearl-gray goose feather in the band of his hat. DiGeordano had dabbed a touch of wax in his moustache tonight; the smooth black hairs gleamed in the kitchen light. Karras smiled.

  “Who’s watching the front?” said DiGeordano. “The titsune?”

  “All the customers are gone,” said Stefanos. “He’s all right.”

  “Where’s Costa?”

  “He’s gettin’ himself ready in the back.”

  DiGeordano looked back over the swinging doors one time, then walked across the kitchen and placed the grocery bag on the table. Karras and Stefanos formed a half-circle around him. DiGeordano reached into the bag.

  “Here ya go, Karras Jr.”

  Karras ground his cigarette under his shoe. He took the .45 from DiGeordano. He hefted the steel automatic in his hand. He pulled back on the receiver, straightened his gun arm, sighted down the barrel. He thumbed back the lanyard-style hammer, locked it, dry-fired the Colt into the wall.

  “That okay by you?”

  “Bullets,” said Karras.

  DiGeordano handed Karras a magazine. Karras checked the load, then palmed the magazine into the .45. He safetied the gun, measured the weight of it in his palm, bolstered it behind the waistband of his trousers.

  “Okay,” said Karras.

  DiGeordano pulled a small, blue-steeled automatic with walnut grips from the bag.

  “What the hell’s that?” said Stefanos.

  “Double-action Beretta. Three-eighty.”

  “An Italian gun,” said Stefanos. “I shoulda known.”

  “Don’t worry,” said DiGeordano, a light in his eyes. “Me, I keep my pistols clean. This one here, it’s not gonna blow up in my face.”

  “Uh.”

  “How about you? You all set, Nick?”

  Stefanos patted the front of his apron. “Yeah. I’m set real good.”

  Costa walked slowly into the kitchen from the warehouse. He wore a white button-down shirt pulled out over his trousers. He stood with his back against the wall, did not move his head.

  “You ready?” said Stefanos.

  “Sure, Niko, I’m ready. What’s the plan?”

  “I’m gonna get to that,” said Stefanos. “But you look kinda stiff. You ain’t worried or nothin’, are you?”

  “Me?” said Costa. “I don’t give a damn nothing.”

  Six’s head appeared over the doors to the kitchen. “Excuse me, boss. ‘Bout time we locked up.”

  “You go ahead, Six. Take off.”

  Six looked the men over, grinned. “What you all fixin’ to do, overthrow the gov’ment or somethin’?”

  “Why?” said Stefanos. ‘You gonna stick around and watch?”

  “Thought I might,” said Six, “if this is about those lovers that was in here holdin’ that gun on me the other day.”

  “It is,” said Stefanos.

  “Then I’ll stay, if you don’t mind. Only—”

  “What?”

  “It’s gonna run you a little overtime.”

  Karras tipped his glass back to his lips and drank. The beer felt cool going down his throat.

  * * *

  Bender, the redhaired man, the big dark one, and Sanderson walked into Nick’s shortly after eleven that night. The bell tinkled above the door as they moved in. Bender gave Six the eyeball as he entered, smiled a little to himself. The four of them fanned out. Standing next to Six in his tall white hat, Sanderson looked like a child.

  Stefanos sat behind the counter, making entries in a ledger book covered in marbled green leather. He raised his head.

  “Mr. Bender,” said Stefanos.

  “Mr. Nick,” said Bender, rolling his R just slightly in faint mimicry. “Are we too late?”

  “No. I got book work to do, anyhow.”

  Bender looked back at Six, chuckled under his breath.

  “Your colored man. He looks like he ought to be standing under a tent somewhere. Did he escape from the circus?”

  Stefanos did not answer.

  “Because I was thinking,” said Bender. “Between your giant shine and my little man Sanderson over here, the two of us have the makings of a freak show.”

  Bender laughed. The redhaired man with the bent nose laughed. Even Sanderson’s shoulders jiggled once or twice. The big dark one in the tight suit showed no expression at all.

  “Anyway,” said Bender. He pulled a pint bottle from his breast pocket, unscrewed the top, had a drink. “Shall we do a little business?”

  “In the back,” said Stefanos.

  Bender made a precise wave of his hand in the direction of the kitchen. “After you.”

  The four of them followed Stefanos back behind the counter and through the swinging doors. Six listened to the doors crying on their hinges. When the hinges stopped complaining he locked the front door and turned out the lights in the front of the house and extinguished the lighted sign out front. He sat back on the stool, folded his arms across his chest, and stared impassively into the darkness of the grill.

  “Just a little bit more,” said Stefanos.

  “Hey, get of fa me, mate,” said one of the men. Stefanos guessed it was the big one.

  “Christ,” said the redhaired man. “I can’t see nothin’, same as you.”

  “I’ll get it in a second,” said Stefanos. “Jus’ gotta find the light, that’s all.”

  “Ain’t you got a switch?” said Red Hair.

  “I don’t need a switch,” said Stefanos. “…Here we go, I got it. Lemme just turn it a coupla times here.”

  Stefanos’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. In outline he saw the figures of the four men converge toward the rear of the warehouse, where a sliver of light came through the doorframe from the lamp in the alley.

  Stefanos rotated the bulb clockwise. The connection was made, and a harsh wave of yellow light flooded the room.

  Bender was the first to see the men standing before him. Costa stepped off the pallet where he had been standing and onto the concrete floor. Karras and DiGeordano had walked from the bathroom as Stefanos turned the bulb. They stood to the right of him.

  Karras kept his eyes locked on Sanderson’s. Sanderson spread his short legs, let his jacket fall open. He blinked spastically, tried to hook a finger in his belt, jumbled the action.

  Bender’s thin upper lip twitched. He smiled.

  “A surprise. I love surprises, don’t you. Moon?”

  He was talking to the big one in the small suit. Moon did not reply. He too
k a deep breath, puffed out his chest. Red Hair turned his head quickly, saw the padlock on the back door.

  “It’s locked, Mr. Bender.”

  “Then I guess we’re trapped. Is that it, Mr. Nick? Are we trapped?”

  Stefanos untied his apron, let it drop to the floor. He kicked the apron aside. He pulled the pearl-handled Smith & Wesson from the front of his pleated trousers, let his gun hand rest at his side. He snicked back the hammer on the thirty-eight.

  Moon reached into his jacket. DiGeordano pulled the three-eighty, put one in the chamber in one fluid motion. He pointed the blue automatic at Moon.

  “Hold it, Moon,” said Bender. “We don’t need to get ahead of ourselves here.”

  Karras drew the .45 from where he had wedged it in the waistband of his trousers. He flicked off the safety, pulled back on the receiver.

  “Now,” said Bender, “this isn’t too sporting, is it? You’ve all pulled your firearms before we’ve had a chance to talk. Except you, of course.” He smiled at Costa. “My, you’re a little fellow, too, aren’t you?”

  Costa made a step toward Bender.

  “Costaki,” said Stefanos, and Costa stayed put.

  The naked bulb stopped swinging on its cord; the light settled evenly in the room.

  Bender reached into his jacket. Stefanos raised the .38.

  “Don’t get excited,” said Bender. “I’m only getting myself a drink.” He pulled the pint of bourbon. He unscrewed the cap, tilted the bottle back. Air bubbles flowed up the neck.

  “Mr. Bender,” said Red Hair.

  “Relax,” said Bender. “You’ve got to learn how to relax.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Aaah. So, Mr. Nick. Maybe now you’d like for the two of us to sit down, have a little talk.”

  “I’m gonna talk,” said Stefanos. “You’re gonna listen.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Hokay,” said Stefanos. “Here it is. You gonna put any guns you carryin’ on the floor, right now. Then you gonna walk out of here, go back to your Mr. Burke. You’re gonna tell him that Nick Stefanos, he don’t pay no protection money to nobody. You’re gonna tell him to leave me alone. If you come back, or if he comes back, or if anyone that looks like one of your boys or one of his boys—if any of ‘em even walks out front of my store—that man, he’s gonna die. You understand?”

  Bender looked behind him, smiled at Moon. Moon smiled back. Bender turned back to Stefanos.

  “Your American,” said Bender, “it’s not so good. Nevertheless, I do understand. The thing is, Mr. Nick, me and my boys here, we don’t lay our guns down and walk away for anyone. Not for any white men I know. And especially not for a bunch of immigrant dogs like you.”

  No one said a word for a while after that.

  And then Stefanos said, “Now you’re gonna meet my men. This is Karras. This here is Lou DiGeordano. Over here is Costa.”

  Bender said, “I don’t care to be introduced to your men. Why on earth are you telling me—”

  “I thought you might wanna know.”

  “I might want to know what?”

  “The names of the men who killed you tonight.”

  Bender threw his head back and laughed. The laughter was high-pitched and dramatic. Costa spat on the floor.

  “Poosti,” said Costa.

  Bender’s smile faded as he narrowed his eyes. “What did he call me?”

  “Cocksucker,” said Karras.

  “Uh,” said Stefanos.

  Bender killed the bourbon in his pint. He tossed the bottle back over his shoulder; the neck of it caught air and made a whistling sound in the room. The bottle shattered against the brick wall.

  “Uh,” said Bender. “You hear that, Moon? All these Greeks and Italians, grunting, making noises like a bunch of animals. And these are the men that are going to kill us.” He jabbed a finger roughly to his own chest. “Kill me.”

  “A buncha wogs,” said Moon.

  “Yes,” said Bender. “Wogs. What did I tell you about these Greeks, Moon? They’re one step off of niggers.”

  Costa moved forward. He reached behind his neck, gripped the handle of the machete, pulled it free from where it was sheathed beneath the back of his shirt. He raised it above his head; the blade flashed in the light.

  Bender gasped. Costa brought the machete down violently, screamed as he did. The blade splayed the flesh at the base of Bender’s neck, severed the carotid artery, cut diagonally into Bender’s spine. Blood geysered, splashed across the naked bulb. Bender crumpled, his arms dancing wildly at his side.

  Karras was the first to fire. His shot blew Sanderson’s white hat and the top of his scalp clean off. Karras kept firing, pinned Sanderson to the warehouse wall with the bullets of his .45. He could feel the power of Stefanos’s and DiGeordano’s guns exploding around him then, could see the red-haired pug and the one called Moon blown off their feet, twisting horribly from the force of the lead. He could see the rounds sparking off the bricks, the ejecting shells, the men going down even as they reached for their undrawn weapons, their figures gray now, floating in the cloud of gun-smoke that had fallen in the room.

  Then there was the click of a hammer falling on an empty chamber; the heavy exhalation of a man’s last breath; and the thin sound of a copper casing rolling across the concrete floor.

  “Karras,” said Stefanos.

  But Karras was already limping toward Sanderson. He stepped over the body of the pug, dead as Roosevelt, his red hair wet and matted with the burgundy of his own blood. Karras kicked Sanderson in the face. He kicked him again, loosing something thick and chunked from the pulpy area at the top of his head. Karras brought his foot back once again, was stopped by a meaty hand gripping his arm.

  “Karras,” said Stefanos, in a quiet way. “You can only kill him one time.”

  Karras stepped back.

  Costa put his foot on Bender’s face, pulled the machete free.

  Lou DiGeordano went to Moon. The big man arched his back, struggled to take in air. DiGeordano touched the muzzle of the .380 to the center of Moon’s chest, pulled the trigger. A spray of blood caught DiGeordano as he turned his head.

  “Sonofabitch,” said DiGeordano.

  “Here,” said Stefanos, tossing his apron, which he had picked up off the floor. DiGeordano caught it, wiped his face.

  The color had drained from Costa’s complexion. “I’m gonna get that butcher’s paper from the kitchen,” he said.

  He returned a few minutes later. Six walking behind him. Six stopped cold when he saw the bodies. He took in the blood and flesh showered on the brick wall.

  “Anybody come by out front?” said Stefanos.

  “Uh-uh,” said Six.

  DiGeordano went through Bender’s pockets, found an envelope and some keys. Costa stripped the others of their effects while DiGeordano threw the keys to Six.

  “Here ya go, Six. You see what they drove in with?”

  Six nodded. “Late model Ford.”

  “Get it. Bring it around to the alley and park it by the back door.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “And then I’m gonna need your help,” said Costa. “I’m gonna need a strong man like you to help me cut these bastards up.”

  “That ain’t exactly in my contract,” said Six.

  “Go on,” said Stefanos. “You did enough. Bring the car to the alley and get on home.”

  Six went back to the front of the house. DiGeordano opened the envelope, examined the contents.

  “I got some tickets to a show here. Some kinda play or somethin’. Some-thin’ called Hamlet.”

  “I’ll take those,” said Karras, and he slipped the bloody envelope inside his shirt.

  Stefanos took his own set of keys out and removed the padlock from the back door. He opened the door a bit to let out the smell of cordite and death. A couple of cats slipped in through the opening and went to the bodies. One of the cats jumped up on Bender’s chest, touched its nose to the crimson
canyon between Bender’s shoulder and neck. Costa pushed the cat away.

  “Lousy gatas,” said Costa.

  “What’re you gonna do with em?” said Stefanos.

  “I’m gonna make the fish happy tonight, Niko, that’s what I’m gonna do. Don’t worry about nothin’, hear? I’m gonna take care of these guys, and the caw, too. Don’t you worry about nothin’.”

  “I’m not worried,” said Stefanos. But he was already thinking of what God did to men who took other men’s lives.

  Karras released the empty magazine from the Colt. He slid the magazine into the pocket of his trousers.“Mr. DiGeordano,” he said.

  “Yeah, boy.”

  “You got any more ammo for this forty-five?”

  “It’s in the bag.”

  “How about its holster?”

  “The same bag.”

  “You don’t mind if I hang onto this gun for a while, do you?”

  “Sure, Karras Jr. You go ahead.”

  Karras hefted the Colt in his palm, wrapped his fingers tightly around the grip. It felt good there, fitted in his hand.

  Chapter 30

  The next morning was a Sunday, and Peter Karras went to church. He accompanied Eleni, little Dimitri, and his mother, who wore a black dress with stocking anklets and black orthopedic shoes. Karras had not been inside the church since the baptism of his son, over one year ago.

  Stepping into the narthex, Karras saw several of the parents and some of the children he had grown up with, now with children of their own, and he nodded cordially to those who nodded at him but did not engage them in conversation. A few of the old grias stared unashamedly at his twisted knee and whispered among themselves. Karras paid them no mind. He lighted an orange candle for his father, crossed himself, then kissed the icona and had a seat with his family in a pew to the right of the altar toward the back of the church.

  In the thirties, when Karras was still a child, the men took their seats on the right side of the church and the woman took theirs on the left. Karras had always sat on the left with his mother, as his father had rarely attended service. He was reminded of this watching Dimitri sitting comfortably between his mother and grandmother in the pew.

  Father Laloussis performed the liturgy, the glass in his wire-rimmed spectacles occasionally flashing in the light. Laloussis had an unremarkable singing voice and was not particularly dynamic, but he had been attentive to Georgia Karras after her husband’s death, and Karras had thought him to be a pretty fair priest as far as priests went. Karras listened to the liturgy, closed his eyes occasionally to enjoy the choir, and took in the pleasant smell of the incense smoke that hovered heavily in the church. He did not care to tax his mind over the meaning in the spoken verse or in those words being sung. But when Laloussis brought out the communion cup, Karras went dutifully forward to take what he had been told to be the body and blood of Christ, and he drank the wine and ate the bread, and crossed himself as he backed away, because he thought that a man who had killed another man the night before should at least hedge his bets. He sat back down in the pew and tasted the antithoron that he held in his hand. Laloussis went into his sermon, spoken in Greek; Karras looked around the room.