01 The Big Blowdown

by George Pelecanos

  “Sure I’m right.”

  Karras stared into the bar mirror, smiled sadly at his reflection.

  And Karras said, “I’m gonna need your car.”

  “My car? For what?”

  “So I can deliver the girl.”

  Recevo grinned. “You know you can’t drive for shit.”

  “I’m gonna need it all the same. I can’t very well walk her across town, can I?”

  “So she’s across town, is she?”

  “Never mind where she is. I’ll bring her to you and Burke. But I’m gonna need the car.”

  Recevo reached into his pocket, put his keys in Karras’s hand. Karras downed his rye, finished his beer in one swig. He stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. Recevo did the same. He put on his topcoat, put on his fedora, left a heap of ones on the bar.

  “All right,” said Karras. “Let’s go.”

  They went to the side door. Jerry Tsondilis gave Recevo a cool eye-sweep, patted Karras on his shoulder.

  “Yasou, Pete.”

  “So long, Kiriako.”

  Then they were out on the sidewalk, moving along together smoothly, Karras keeping pace despite the limp, not out of synch, but in rhythm, like two halves of the same man.

  They passed a cab idling at the curb. The cabbie leaned out the window. “You fellas lookin’ for a lift?”

  “Keep it runnin’,” said Recevo.

  They stopped at the Olds. Recevo leaned his back against the car.

  “You sure you know how to drive it?”

  “I’ll figure it out. This thing got any juice?”

  Recevo nodded. “Overhead V-eight.”

  “‘Cause I wouldn’t wanna make you wait.”

  “When should we be expecting you?”

  “An hour, hour and a half.”

  “Greek time or American time?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Karras reached out, took Recevo’s fedora off his head. He flicked a finger into the crown, dented it right. Recevo took the hat, placed it back just so on his head.

  “You and your crazy hats, Joey.”

  “What about it?”

  “Nothin’.”

  Karras opened the door, dropped into the driver’s seat. He turned the ignition, put his foot to the gas, revved the engine. He revved it again until it screamed, sideglanced Recevo.

  “Hey, what’re you doin’?”

  “Just warmin’ it up.”

  “Warm, hell. You’re gonna make it catch fire.”

  Karras fitted a Lucky to his mouth, lighted it. He tossed the spent match at Recevo’s feet.

  “Take care of my car, Greek.”

  “Don’t worry, Joey. I won’t screw up.”

  Karras pulled away from the curb. Recevo whistled for the cab.

  Chapter 39

  Karras shifted the Olds into third. It went in smoothly, without a grind, the three-on-the-tree transmission easing into gear like a hot knife through butter. Karras ran a hand along the gray broadcloth upholstery, checked out the dash layout, the clock laid into the nacelle at its center. Recevo had gone for all the options, hadn’t missed a trick.

  “You did good, Joey,” said Karras aloud.

  And then he thought: You know, this car is swell and all that, but who needs it? You’re cooped up in one of these things, and you miss it all—the smells, the sounds, all of it. In the city, you’re cutting yourself off from everything like that, and with cabs and busses and streetcars going everywhere you’d want to go, you really don’t need a fancy sled like this to get around. You just don’t need it.

  Karras rolled down the window a notch so the air would take the smoke from his cigarette.

  He drove into Chinatown.

  Karras parked at 6th and H, crossed the street to a pay phone situated on the corner there. He dialed Costa’s number, was relieved to hear Toula’s voice on the other end of the line.

  Karras told Toula to get over to Florek’s room without tipping Costa, and to tell Florek and his sister to get ready to travel. He told her that he’d be there in fifteen minutes.

  “Hokay, Panayoti. Tha kano tora.”

  “Efcharisto, Toula. Kali nichta.”

  Karras cut the line. He glanced down the block at the unmarked chow palace next to Cathay. Su was out on the street, leaning against his cab, his face close to another Chinaman’s, the both of them animated and rapid-firing words into the night. Karras lighted a cigarette, watched Su go at it. Su still seemed trim and energetic, and he probably would be for a long while. Su was a good Joe. A damn good little athlete, too.

  Karras looked up at the building in which he had grown up. He looked at the window to his old apartment, the light inside yellow through the heavy curtains. He dragged on his cigarette.

  Karras sunk a nickel in the slot, listened to the ring on the other end of the line. He looked up through the window, watched the stooped, heavy shadow of his mother as she crossed the room slowly to get to the ringing phone. He could see the bun, even in silhouette, done up on the back of her head. He thought of her hair when she had worn it long, when she had let it out at night, when she had run through it so many times with her silver-backed brush. He could picture himself as a boy, sitting on the edge of her bed, watching her pull the brush down through her long and beautiful hair.

  “Hallo.”

  “Ma, it’s Pete.”

  “Panayoti, pou eise?”

  “Sto magazi.”

  “Thoolevis?”

  “Yeah, I’m workin’.”

  “Thelis na fas?”

  “I already ate, Ma.”

  “Ella na fas. Tha fiaxo ligo fayito, tha copso-sou ena microoli salata…”

  “Ma, I already ate.”

  Karras looked through the window at the still black figure of his mother.

  “Ma.”

  “Ti eine, pethi mou? Eise arosti?”

  “No, Ma, I’m not sick. Got a tickle in my throat, is all. Listen, Ma, I gotta go—”

  “Panayoti…”

  “Ma. I just wanted…I only called to say hello.”

  “Hokay, boy. Pas sto kalo.”

  Karras hung the phone. He dragged on his smoke, dragged on it again until it was hot, flicked it out into the street. He limped to the Olds, got inside of it, fired the ignition. He drove west.

  Karras went down U, rolled the window all the way open so that he could hear the life on the street. He passed the theatres and the bars, saw the young Negroes dressed carefully and with style, walking arm-in-arm and talking and laughing together against the live and recorded music coming from the open doors of the clubs. He saw a bartender he knew, standing outside the door to the Yamasee; he waved to the big man, and the man waved back.

  Karras turned left on 14th, drove past S, swung a U in the middle of the street, parked the Olds on the east side facing north. From there, he could see across the street through the plate glass to the lighted counter of Nick’s. Out front, the blue sign encircled with the white bulbs had been extinguished. Karras checked the Hamilton on his wrist, saw that the evening had somehow fallen away.

  Nick Stefanos and Costa were behind the counter, gesturing wildly with their hands, speaking to each other excitedly, two glasses half-filled before them and between the glasses a bottle of Ballantine Ale. They could have been arguing or they could have been making a friendship pact sealed in blood. From the expressions on their faces, it was awfully hard to tell.

  Karras smiled.

  So you’ll burn it down. Like hell you will.

  He got out of the Olds and crossed the street.

  Karras entered Florek’s building, took the stairs up to the landing, stopping once to rest and to rub ineffectually at the knee. Then he was on the landing and at Florek’s door and he was knocking on the door.

  Mike Florek opened the door. He was wearing his mackinaw jacket and his duffel bag was at his feet.

  “Come on.”

  “I gotta get Lola.”

  “Get her,” s
aid Karras, reaching down and picking up the bag. “I’ll start the car.”

  “You got a car?”

  “More than just a car. A nice Olds fastback with an overhead eight.”

  Karras went back down the stairs and out to the Olds. He stashed the duffel behind the front seat, turned the key on the ignition. By then Florek had begun to cross the street. He had his arm around his sister, and he was moving her slowly toward the car. An army blanket lay draped around her narrow shoulders.

  “Lay her down in the back,” said Karras.

  Florek did it with care and got himself into the passenger seat. He chin-nodded in the direction of Nick’s as Karras pushed the trans into first.

  “I should say something,” said Florek. “He’s been mighty good to me, Pete.”

  “No time for that. I’ll explain everything to him myself. And then maybe you ought to write a letter or somethin’ tellin’ him how it really was. You know I’m not too, whad’ya call it, articulate.”

  “Why tonight, Pete? Why like this?”

  “On account of I got this nice car. I mean, you gotta go, right? Why not go with a little style?”

  “Where we headed?”

  “You and your sister are goin’ home.”

  Karras pulled off the curb. He swung another U, went south on 14th. He took 14th to New York Avenue, made a wide left turn.

  “How is she?” said Karras.

  “It’s been rough.”

  “Well, the worst is over, right?”

  Florek did not respond. He opened his window, let the air hit his face, breathed in the city smell that he had come to know. The light from a streetlamp passed across his face.

  “Pete?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had this girl down here.”

  “That little redhead.”

  “Kay was her name. I know I ought to be thinking about Lola and all that—”

  “It’s all right.”

  “But I sure do wish I could see her one more time or something.”

  Karras downshifted smoothly. “You’ll be seein’ that girl the rest of your life, kid. And you’ll see her the way she was. Even when you’re old, and she’s old, you’ll see her the way she was. Consider yourself privileged for that.”

  “I guess.”

  “Anyway, there’s gonna be plenty of girls. Plenty of girls for an operator like you.”

  Florek blushed slightly, settled in his seat.

  Karras parked the car across from the Greyhound Terminal on the 1100 block of New York Avenue. Men and women, some in uniform, moved quickly in and out of the terminal doors. A soldier sat nearby on a low concrete wall, smoking a cigarette in the shadows.

  “Why are we stopping?” said Florek.

  “Get out.”

  Karras went around the hood, met Florek on the passenger side of the car. Karras reached for his wallet, pulled the fifty-dollar bill from the fold, handed it to Florek.

  “A fifty,” said Florek. “What the heck is this?”

  “A guy owed it to me. The same guy who owns this car.”

  “What—”

  “Take it. Get your sister in there and buy a couple of tickets to Pittsburgh or someplace close to wherever the hell you’re from. If you can’t get a quick bus there, then get on one that’s goin’ anywhere north. Just get on one quick, hear?”

  “Sure, Pete. But why?”

  “It’s like I told you once before. You don’t belong here, chum.”

  “But fifty bucks. I can’t use all this on a couple of bus tickets. I’ll mail you back the change.”

  Karras smiled, patted Florek on the sleeve of his mackinaw. “I thought you might use the rest to buy yourself a new jacket. Something with a little more style. Might come in handy, with all those girls you’re gonna get to know.”

  Florek looked down at his feet. The wind caught his straight hair, blew it back. “Why you doin’ all this for us, Pete?”

  “Hell, Mike, I don’t know. I never planned anything my whole life. Now, get on out of here. Go.”

  Karras and Florek shook hands. Karras turned and began to walk away.

  “Hey, Pete, you on foot?”

  “I told the guy he could pick his car up here.”

  “I could drive you somewhere, bring the car back myself.”

  “It’s a nice night,” said Karras, glancing up at the sky. “I think I’ll walk.”

  Florek went around the car, retrieved the duffel bag, got Lola up from the backseat. He pulled her out gently, got her on her feet. They walked together to the terminal doors, the overhead lights coloring Lola’s pale, drawn face.

  “Mike,” said Lola.

  “All right,” said Florek. “We’re almost there.”

  Mike Florek turned his head, looked back through the traffic on New York Avenue. Karras limped slowly past the soldier sitting in shadow on the concrete wall. A crowd of couples came down the sidewalk, seemed to envelop Karras, then went on, laughing and talking loudly among themselves. And then it was just the soldier there, looking down at his boots, smoking his cigarette. The soldier and the night and nothing else. And Peter Karras was gone.

  Chapter 40

  Peter Karras stopped to put fire to a cigarette. He cupped his hands around the match until it took. He drew in smoke and sulfur, kept it in his lungs, savored the pleasure of it, let it out slowly and watched it fade in the icy, biting wind. He walked on.

  He cut southeast onto Mass Avenue. Massachusetts, he felt, was a good Washington street. It was wide and it was orderly and the houses were kept with care. Karras had always liked the width of D.C.‘s streets, the quad-grid layout, the circles and the lines. The buildings were not so high, restricted so by law, and on clear nights and standing on certain spots you could see much of the city just by looking straight out. Tonight was such a night: The moon shone bright and cast a pale and immaculate light through the cloudless, starred sky. Karras thought the city looked especially fine tonight.

  He pitched his cigarette and went down Massachusetts and angled off onto New Jersey Avenue, passing into a mostly Negro neighborhood of darkened row houses whose residents had long ago gone to sleep. He was a block away from North Capitol now, around 1st, between E and F. The lighted Capitol dome loomed up ahead. Karras looked at the dome, unmoved by its majesty. He looked around the street. He saw some familiar cars parked along the curb, two or three coupes and a luxury sedan. Then he was on the corner in front of the turreted row house crowned with the crenellated battlement. And then he was going along the walk there, and up the steps, and he was standing at the front door. It occurred to him then that he had walked a dozen city blocks; oddly, he had not given his leg a passing thought.

  Karras knocked on the door. The slot on the door opened, and a blood-rimmed set of eyes appeared in the space. Then the door itself swung open.

  “Face.”

  “Karras.”

  “How’s the family?”

  Face issued a gassy grin. “They’re good, Karras. Thanks for askin’.”

  “I’m expected.”

  Cmon m.

  Karras stepped into the grand foyer. He looked through the open French doors to the right, where several suited men were sitting on the sofa and in chairs sipping highballs and shooting the breeze. The Welshman and Medium were among the men. A blue steel pistol lay on the kidney-shaped marble table in front of the sofa. Karras caught Medium’s eye; Medium looked away.

  “I oughta frisk you, Karras,” said Face.

  “Yeah. And right after that why don’t you just sock me on the jaw and hang me on a meat hook.”

  “Christ, Karras, you don’t have to get so cute about it. I was just sayin’ what I oughta do. I didn’t say I was gonna do it.”

  “Face, you don’t have to do anything but stand around and be big.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Well, go on up.”

  Karras went up the stairs, running his hand along the veneered oak banister. Then he was on the landing, cutting right
, and standing in front of Burke’s closed door. He raised his hand to knock on the door but did not. Instead he stood there for a good two minutes without moving, listening to the muted voices behind the door. He went back down the stairs.

  Face sat in the foyer chair, his thick fingers intertwined, his forearms coming out of his suit jacket like hairy beams of pine. He stared through the French doors into the living room, smiling at something wise someone had said from in there, his eyes heavy and dull. He looked to his left at the sound of Karras’s feet hitting the bottom of the stairs.

  “What,” said Face, “you all done already?”

  “Uh-uh. Burke sent me back down here to have you run an errand for him.”

  “Normally he sends Reed.”

  “He sent me.”

  “Yeah? What’s Mr. Burke want me to do?”

  “He wants you to run out and buy a box of cigars.”

  “Mr. Burke don’t smoke no ceegars.”

  “He’s gonna smoke one tonight. We all are. You know, Face, like a celebration. On account of I’m coming back in.”

  Face’s jaw opened, stayed slack while he tried to think. “Any particular brand?”

  “People’s has those Dutch Masters Belvederes on special this week. A box of fifty for five and change.”

  “1 gotta go all the way to People’s?”

  “That’s what Mr. Burke said. Anyway, what else you doin’?”

  “All right, I’m on my way.”

  “And Face—there ain’t nothin’ serious goin’ on here tonight. So don’t break your neck gettin’ back.”

  Face dragged his weight out of his chair, went to the front door. His hand enveloped the knob.

  “Hey, Face.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just in case I’m gone when you get back—give my best to your lovely wife.”

  “Okay, Karras, I will.” Face grinned sheepishly. “Take it easy, hear?”

  “You too, chum.”

  Karras watched him leave. He gave Face a minute or so to get to his car, and then he went back up the stairs. Then he was in front of Burke’s office door. He rapped his knuckles against the wood.

  A pillowed voice came through the door. “Yeah.”

  “Pete Karras.”

  “Come on in.”

  Karras turned the knob, stepped into the room.