01 The Big Blowdown

by George Pelecanos

  Burke sat slumped behind his desk, one hand on a tumbler of whiskey, his eyes waxed and unfocused. Recevo was at the big table, a lighted Raleigh between his fingers, his fedora situated casually atop his head. Reed stopped pacing, shifted his shoulders beneath the sharkskin fabric of his suit, leaned against the gun case as Karras came in.

  “Pete!” said Burke with a shaky smile.

  “Mr. Burke.”

  “You’re looking well.”

  Karras ran a hand along the lapel of his topcoat. “I’m doin’ all right.”

  “Last time I saw you,” said Reed, “you was in an apron.” Reed laughed at his own joke.

  Burke kept his eyes on Karras. “He’s not in any apron now, are you, Pete?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, no hard feelings, and all that.” Burke raised his tumbler. “To better days ahead.”

  Karras watched Burke drink his bourbon dry. A drop or two spilled out of the glass and fell to the desk. Burke reached for the fifth, poured another couple of ounces into the tumbler. He turned his wrist, squinted so he could read his watch.

  “You’re right on time,” said Burke.

  “That’s me,” said Karras. “Johnny-on-the-Spot.”

  “Funny,” said Recevo. “1 didn’t hear no car pull up to the house, Pete.”

  “The truth is,” said Karras, “I walked over.”

  “I don’t care if you fell out of the Hindenburg and crashed through the roof. I’m askin’ about my car.”

  “Never mind the car,” said Burke, making a limp and awkward wave of his hand. “Where’s the girl, down in the foyer?”

  Karras looked over at Recevo. He gave Recevo a small smile.

  Reed took his hands from his pockets. “Mr. Burke asked you a question, Karras.”

  Karras stood still and expressionless in the center of the room.

  “Frisk him,” said Burke.

  Reed smiled, made a step toward Karras. Karras put his palm out in a halting gesture.

  “I’m not gonna let him touch me,” said Karras, speaking to Burke. “He gets near me, I walk right now.”

  Burke sighed heavily, pointed his chin toward Recevo. “You brought him back in, Joe. He’s your responsibility. You frisk him.”

  Recevo got up from his seat, went to Karras, patted him down. His eyes made contact with Karras’s as he ran his hands over the front of the topcoat.

  “Where’s my car?” muttered Recevo.

  “Sorry, Joe,” said Karras.

  Recevo abruptly stopped what he was doing. He stepped back and stood straight. “He’s okay, Mr. Burke.”

  Recevo went back to his seat, picked his cigarette up from the ashtray, dragged on it, exhaled slowly. He shook his head, staring off somewhere past Burke through the office window. His jacket opened as he reached over to flick off some ash. As it opened, Karras caught the curve of the checkered grip on Recevo’s .38.

  “Now,” said Burke, “about the girl.”

  “The girl,” said Karras. “Well, the girl is gone. She’s heading south, gone back home with her brother. Down to some shitkicker’s town in Tennessee, or wherever the hell they’re from.” Karras glanced at his Hamilton for effect. “I’d say they’re on the interstate right about now. I imagine that overhead V-eight is purrin’ pretty good.”

  “Goddamn you, Pete,” said Recevo. He stabbed his cigarette savagely into the ashtray.

  “You’re a dead man,” said Burke.

  Karras smiled grimly. “Whatever made you think that I would’ve turned that girl over to a broken-down lush like you?”

  “Joe made me think it,” said Burke, his voice growing very quiet. He stood slowly from his chair. “Isn’t that right, Joe?”

  Recevo jumped up, brushed by Reed, went to Karras, stood before him. His eyes were hollow and enraged as he raised his right fist.

  Karras stared into Recevo’s eyes. Recevo slowly lowered his fist.

  “You scared, Joe?”

  “No.”

  “Our day,” said Karras.

  Recevo placed his hand on Karras’s shoulder. Karras brushed the hand off. They looked at each other for a moment, and then they laughed.

  “Hey,” said Reed. “What the hell is this?”

  Karras put his hand inside his topcoat. He reached beneath his suit jacket, drew Lou DiGeordano’s .45 from its holster. He pulled back on the slide, put a round in the chamber.

  Reed wheezed, took in breath.

  “So long. Reed.”

  Karras straightened his gun arm, squeezed off two rounds. Gunshots thundered from the jerking .45. A piece of meat that had been Reed’s face jumped off to the left. The rest of Reed was blown back straight; his body dropped heavily to the floor, bounced one time, did not move further.

  “Joe,” said Burke dreamily. His hands went up, palms facing out in surrender. “Joe.”

  “Yes, Mr. Burke.”

  Recevo drew his .38, pulled the trigger. The whiskey bottle exploded on the desk, shards of it slicing into Burke’s grimacing face, the bullet entering his groin, the hole there ejaculating blood. Burke cried out, raised his hands to shield his face. Recevo shot him in the stomach two times. Burke began to pitch forward, his tongue thick and darting comically from his mouth. Recevo blew him back with two quick shots to the chest. Burke spun and fell.

  Recevo pointed the revolver down, squeezed the trigger; the hammer fell on an empty chamber. He dropped the .38 to the floor.

  “You,” said Karras, tossing the Colt to Recevo.

  Recevo released the magazine, checked it, slapped it back into the butt.

  Karras picked up a chair, heaved the chair across the room. The glass of the gun case imploded, the sound of it loud as a bomb. Karras walked to the case, reached inside, pulled free the racked Thompson gun.

  “This loaded?” said Karras.

  “All the way,” said Recevo.

  Karras hefted the Thompson, pulled back the bolt. “How many?”

  “Thirty-shot mag.”

  “Now,” said Karras, “we’re gonna see.”

  The men were organizing down in the foyer; their voices were shrill and bursting with nerve and anticipation and fear, and Karras and Recevo could hear them well. Then there were footsteps on the stairs, heavier as they ascended and without hesitation, because now they were charging up the stairs and the charge itself had conquered the fear.

  “Here we go,” said Karras.

  Recevo spat to the side as the first man rushed through the door.

  Karras saw the muzzle flash from the blue steel pistol even as Recevo blew the man off his feet. Karras was driven back from the lead that slammed flat into his shoulder, shattering his clavicle on impact.

  “Ah!” said Karras.

  Recevo kicked the big table over on its side, crouched behind it, came up firing as the next man entered the room. This one screamed as he fired, moving diagonally across the room, firing wildly, his legs twisting up from the shots spitting from the Thompson gun, the bullets stitching him thigh to chest as Karras blew him down.

  “I’m hit!” said Recevo.

  Then Medium was in the room, running straight in through the gun-smoke that was heavy now and nearly impenetrable, firing straight at Karras, Karras firing back, the hardwood floor splintering at his feet as he lowered the gun, thinking how it felt to be shot, thinking how it was like being punched, body blows landing over and over again. Medium lay dead in front of him, a large purple rip steaming in the middle of his throat.

  Karras gripped the leg of the overturned table. He bit down on his lip, feeling the warmth of his own blood flowing down his leg.“Joey,” said Karras.

  “I’m here, Greek,” said Recevo. And he was there, just to the right of Karras, holding the bloody .45 tight to his gut where a slug had opened him up.

  A look passed between Recevo and Karras. They could hear the rest of them crowded outside the door.

  Karras cradled the Thompson gun, pressed the butt tight against his ribs
.

  “Well,” he whispered. “Come on if you’re gonna come.”

  They charged into the room.

  Karras saw white fire as he heard the reports, heard Joey’s gun explode, saw one man fall, heard Joey scream, watched Joey’s fedora tumble by as if it had been, blown by a strong wind. Karras squeezed the trigger, saw men diving through the gunsmoke, the doorframe disintegrating in spark and dust. He fell back to the floor from a blunt shock that felt like a hammer blow to his chest.

  Karras winced, got himself up onto the balls of his feet. He leaned his face against the table, rested it there, caught his breath. He listened to the others move about the room.

  Swim, you Greek bastard.

  And he was over the table, landing on his feet as softly as if he had landed in water. And they were there, the Welshman and the others, moving toward him, emptying their guns at once, the sound deafening now and riding over their caterwauling screams and the bottomless scream coming from his own mouth.

  Karras went forward, humming as his finger locked down on the trigger, the Tommy gun dancing crazily in his arms, the gunmen falling before him through the smoke and ejecting shells and the white gulls gliding against the perfect blue sky.

  Red flowers bloomed on the chests of the men who had come to take Peter Karras to the place where he was always meant to be.

  SIX

  * * *

  Washington, D.C

  1959

  Chapter 41

  Nick Stefanos downshifted, gave the car gas. The Chevy kicked smoothly into gear, cruised south on Beach Drive through Rock Creek Park. Through the emerging leaves, the sun brightened the wild white dogwoods and planted daffodils, adding color to the muted brown and flat green of the woods. Stefanos patted the knee of the toddler at his side, hummed along to the song coming from the dash radio. Next to the boy sat Costa, reading the morning Post, one arm out the open passenger window, the wind blowing back his unruly, uncombed hair.

  Stefanos chuckled. “The pethi, he likes the music.”

  “Aaaah,” said Costa, not looking up from the paper.

  The boy moved his head arrhythmically to the stuttering guitar, smiling as the smooth vocal came back into the mix.

  “Whatsa matter, re, you don’t like Elvis Presley?”

  “I take him or leave him,” said Costa.

  “The girls like him all right. They’re goin’ nuts over that choriati.”

  “What do they know, huh? He sings like a nigger, that guy.”

  Stefanos changed the subject as he changed lanes. “Sou aresi to caro mou?”

  “Yeah, it’s all right. You know me, boss, I don’t know one model from the other.”

  Stefanos had recently purchased the Belair, a used ‘57, from Star Pontiac at 4th and Florida in Northeast. It was a sporty V-8 with a beautiful turquoise-and-white finish, whitewall tires, and continental kit complete with Power Glide. Stefanos went for the turquoise color, and he really liked the classic lines.

  “It’s all paid for,” said Stefanos, “that’s what I like. Seventeen hundred and seventy-seven dollars, cash money, and I don’t have to worry about makin’ payments. No interest, nothin’ like that.”

  “Good, Niko. That’s good.”

  “Sure, you don’t care. You’re too busy with your newspaper.”

  “Just readin’ about Ike. He really gave it to the Reds in this speech he made. He said that the Reds ‘promote world revolution, destroy freedom, and commun…communize the world.’ He’s tellin’ ‘em, goddamn.”

  Stefanos turned his head to the left, brought up some phlegm, spat out the window. “Anything in the sports page?”

  “Mia stigmi.” Costa found the section. “Here we go. Bob Addie’s talkin’ about some Cuban ballplayer here. Says the kid is the fastest thing to come out of Cuba since the Batista sympathizers. That’s supposed to be funny, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty good.”

  “And here’s an article on the Nats. They lost six straight in preseason ball.”

  “They gonna do anything this year?”

  “They’ll end up in the cellar, like last year. It’s a race for second place in the American League, anyhow. The Yankees have it sewed up. I’m tellin’ you, it’s the Yankees and everybody else.”

  “Okay, Costa. All right.”

  Costa screwed up his face. “Niko, turn that goddamn music down, will ya?”

  “The kid likes it.”

  “The pethi. Everything for the pethi. I saw you this mornin’, watchin’ that show with him on channel nine, what the hell’s that bufo’s name, wears the uniform like he’s in the Navy?”

  “Captain Kangaroo. And right after that we watched Ranger Hal.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! The next thing, you’re gonna be canceling our card game so you and the boy can watch cartoons!”

  “Well, I might.”

  “Everything for the pethi.”

  “That’s right.”

  Costa shook his head, shuffled the pages, turned to a large display ad. The sun came through the open window, highlighting the gray hair crowding the black of his moustache.

  “Here we go!” said Costa excitedly. “Jumbo’s got chicken fryers for twenty-seven cents a pound. I’m gonna pick up a few later on for the magazi.”

  “What, you’re gonna take a bus all the way out to Benning Road because the chickens are a penny cheaper than our regular food vendor?”

  “A penny’s a penny, Niko, goddamn right!”

  Stefanos glanced down at the boy sitting at his side. The boy wore his first pair of blue jeans, bulged in the middle from the diaper underneath, and a set of red suspenders over a green striped shirt. Stefanos smiled.

  “You gotta learn to relax,” he said. “Enjoy things a little bit, re.”

  They came out of Rock Creek and rode along the Potomac and around the Tidal Basin and drove on into the park at Hains Point. Stefanos parked beside a black ‘56 Coupe de Ville and cut the engine. Costa blinked hard, stared at the Negro man waxing the Caddy carefully in the shade.

  “A mavros, hangin’ out at Hains Point like he owns a piece of it. Time was you could sleep in this park on summer nights, not worry about nothin’. I remember—”

  “Sure, you remember. And I remember when the movies were a nickel. So what? Come on, Costa, let’s get out and walk a little, enjoy the day.”

  Costa tossed the newspaper over his shoulder, into the Belair’s backseat.

  “Careful, re, you’re gonna crush the flowers!”

  “All right!”

  Stefanos pulled the boy out of the car.

  “Opa!” said Stefanos. The boy smiled.

  They walked beneath a blooming cherry tree to the concrete walk that ran around the edge of the park. Stefanos set the boy down carefully, steadied him on his feet. The boy went to the rail and Stefanos followed close behind.

  “Watch him,” said Costa. “You don’t keep an eye on him, he’s gonna go right in the drink.”

  “I am watchin’ him, what do ya think? He just started walkin’ a few months ago! Anyway, I’m not worried. If he went in, you’d go in after him.”

  “I wouldn’t go in that water even if I fell in it.”

  “You’d go in all right. ‘Cause you know how much I love this boy.”

  “I know, Niko.” Costa looked at his friend. “You think your son and daughter-in-law’s ever gonna come over to this country and help raise their boy?”

  “They said they’d be right behind him when they sent him to me. But, you know what, Costa? I don’t even care anymore if they do.”

  They stood at the rail there, keeping track of the child and looking across the Washington Channel, brilliantly reflecting the afternoon sun.

  Across the channel, the fish markets were open for business and thriving along Maine Avenue.

  “I remember when Lou DiGeordano had a stand over there.”

  “Me, too. How’s Lou doin’?”

  “He’s all right.�
��

  Costa spat over the rail. “You read the Star last night? The New York Boxing Commission’s gonna make Sugar Ray Robinson defend his title against Carmen Basilio.”

  “Ray’s a good fighter. Maybe the best who ever stepped into a ring. But he’s what, thirty-seven?”

  “Thirty-eight.” Costa reached down, pulled on the boy’s suspenders, brought him back from the rail. “Speakin’ of old fighters, I saw Steve Mamakos, walkin’ down M Street.”

  “I heard Mamakos was all punch drunk.”

  “Punch drunk, hell. That was just some crazy rumor went around. He looked all right to me.”

  Stefanos said, “Pete Karras loved that guy.”

  “Yeah, Karras. That who those flowers are for in the back of the car?”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna run out to Glenwood after this. I’m gonna do my stavro, leave the flowers on his grave.”

  “Between you and that fat detective friend of his, he’s got flowers every month.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s Eleni?”

  “Okay. I see her at church, her and the boy. Dimitri’s twelve, thirteen now, somethin’ like that. Karras took care of them with that insurance policy he took out. Bought it from this guy, always used to come around the grill, bug him all the time about this veteran’s deal he had. Yeah, Karras, he did something right there. He did one thing right, at least.”

  Costa followed the glide of a gull against the perfect blue sky. “Those were some times, Niko.”

  “Yes.”

  “You ever hear from that Polish kid, worked for us back then?”

  “Not for a while. I got a couple letters in the beginning. He opened a tavern up there in Pennsylvania, found a girl, got married, like that.”

  “Toula told me somethin’ about a sister.”

  “He never mentioned no sister in the letters. I don’t know what happened to her.”

  Costa looked over at Stefanos. His friend had gotten heavy, and his features had begun to sag, and what remained of his hair was thin and gray. But the laugh lines and character were deeply etched into his face.

  “Hey, Niko.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You ever know what it was that happened in that house? Karras and his buddy, they didn’t leave one thing alive. I mean, what happened?”