“Nick, how’s it goin’?”
“Going good.”
“Gimme the combo.”
Boyle dropped his deck of Marlboro reds onto the mahogany bar while Stefanos poured three inches of Jack Daniel’s into a beveled shot glass. He served Boyle the shot and uncapped a bottle of Bud that he had buried in ice. He pulled another bottle from the same place and put one foot up on the edge of the chest.
Boyle put down half his shot. His fingers were like white fish sticks, and they covered the glass. He picked up his beer bottle and tapped Stefanos’s. Both of them drank. It was Stefanos’s first sip of the day, and the beer was good.
Boyle made a head motion in the direction of the house speakers. “What’re we listening to?”
“Gaunt.”
“Cunt?”
“Gaunt.”
“Y’know something? When Melvin takes off at two, the musical selection goes to shit around here. Does Phil know you play this stuff?”
“Phil doesn’t care as long as the reading on the register tape matches what’s in the cash box.”
“I should complain.”
“You are complaining. Anyway, Boyle, I don’t see you running screaming toward the exit.”
“You know I’d never do that.” Boyle winked clumsily over the lip of his glass. “ ’Cause this here is my oasis in the asphalt desert.”
Stefanos wiped his hands dry on his bar rag. “I read in the Post how you got a new boss.”
“Yeah. The acting chief of police promoted a guy who’s never worked Homicide.”
“Nice picture of him in the paper.”
“He’s got a sweet smile, doesn’t he? Like I’m gonna march into hell behind that guy.”
“It won’t make a difference. Guys like you don’t really have bosses, Boyle. You’re one of those rogue cops you hear about. Like the ones you see on TV shows. The guys who are always quitting, tossing their gun and shield on their lieutenant’s desk before storming out of the office.”
“Except I don’t quit.” Boyle waved his index finger around the top of the glass. “Hit me.”
Stefanos took the Jack off the middle shelf and poured. “What do you hear about a kid named Randy Weston? He’s up on murder charges for doing a dealer named Donnel Lawton. Up around First and Kennedy?”
“I’m not familiar with the case.” Boyle lit a smoke. “Elaine Clay got you running on that one?”
“She mentioned something about it, that’s all.”
“You watch yourself if you’re going to be hanging around Kennedy. People think, it’s just off North Capitol and New Hampshire, it’s residential, nothing’s going to happen, right? I’ve seen some really bad shit go down on that strip. Remember the First and Kennedy Crew? The kid who shot up the police station a few years back, he was a member. Our guys were investigating a multiple homicide in that neighborhood the first time they brought him in. Things happen down there, brother. So you just watch yourself, hear?”
“Thanks, Dad.” Stefanos put fire to a Camel. “So how’re the kids?”
“Great. I walked into my daughter’s room last night – she’s all of thirteen – and I see this poster of a rapper hung on her wall. Wearing one of those slingshot swimsuits, too; the guy’s got a crank on him that would scare a mule. He’s one of those former drug dealers who make records now, raps about busting a cap in someone’s head, fucking women in the ass, all that. The same kind of boofer I see on the street every day, lookin’ at me like he wants to cut my throat. A dude bragging about being a cop killer and getting paid for it – that’s my daughter’s hero. And then, the same night, some guy calls for her on the phone; I can tell by the sound of his voice he’s a common little street -”
“Boofer?”
“I was gonna say ‘punk.’ ”
“I should have waited to read your lips instead of your mind.”
“So I give the phone to my daughter, and I gotta watch her face light up for him. I tell my wife we ought to move, but where are we gonna go, huh? We already live in the suburbs.”
“You could try Utah.”
“Ah, I hear they got ’em out there, too.”
“What do you want, Boyle? You think she ought to have a poster of you up on her wall?”
“Look, I don’t expect you to relate.”
“You’re right; I can’t relate. But I do understand you, Boyle. I got you pegged for just about the most enlightened guy I know.”
Boyle smiled. “Good thing you and me have got an understanding, Nick. Nothing like spilled blood to hold a couple of guys like us together, right?”
Stefanos dragged on his cigarette, watched Boyle crush his dead in the ashtray. Boyle got up, drained his shot, upended his bottle, finished his beer. He dropped a five and some ones on the mahogany and walked out of the bar.
Mai, the Spot’s second-string tender, came in around four and ate her dinner at the bar. Mai was wide of hip, with round shoulders and a plain, kind face featuring rosy Raggedy Ann cheeks. At work she wore her blond hair pinned back in pretzels. She was a German with a green card and a weakness for marines. Conveniently, the barracks were right down the block.
“Where you off to tonight, Nicky?” said Mai. “Gonna see your girl?”
“What?” said Stefanos. “Do I ask you personal questions about Sergeant Slaughter?”
“His name’s Sergeant DeLaughter.”
“Go ahead and answer her,” said Anna Wang, sitting beside Mai with one of Stefanos’s Camels hanging from her pouty mouth. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. We’re practically like your sisters.”
“Does that mean we can take showers together?”
Mai laughed as Anna blew a smoke ring in his direction.
“How is she, Nick?” said Anna. “C’mon.”
“Alicia’s fine.”
“That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“She’s fine.”
Roberto Juarez, Maria’s husband, entered the Spot and stayed up on the landing. He was a humorless man with a thin mustache, hard forearms, and thick, heavily veined hands. It made Stefanos angry to look at Juarez’s hands.
Stefanos put his head in the reach-through. “Maria! Your husband’s out here!”
“I’ll be right there!”
“So long, senorita, ” said James Posten in a musical way.
James came out of the kitchen, fully dressed for the weather, swinging his walking stick by his side. James cooked round-trip on the D.C.-to-New York Metroliner three nights a week, and he was off to work.
“What’s this?” he said, making a gesture toward one of the house speakers.
“Beastie Boys,” said Stefanos. “ The In Sound from Way Out. ”
“That’s some beautiful shit,” said James. “I thought they only shouted.”
“They play on this one,” said Stefanos. “Say hello to the Big Apple for all us provincial types down here.”
“Closest I’ll get to that apple is beneath Penn Station. But I’ll make sure and soak up some of the vibe.”
He waved good-bye to Mai and Anna, and walked toward the front door. Juarez did not step aside to let him pass. As James went around him, Juarez smiled thinly and gave James a small air-kiss. James ignored him and left the Spot.
Maria emerged from the kitchen, a cheap nylon coat over her uniform. Her smile faded as she reached her husband. The two of them went quietly out the door.
“Phil said he wanted to talk to me,” said Darnell, stepping off the rubber mats and coming out into the bar area, his full apron wet from the sink. “You know what it’s about?”
“He’s gonna get you some help for lunch, I think,” said Stefanos.
“I told him I didn’t need no dishwasher.”
“It’s for the expediter’s position.”
“Oh. Y’all don’t think I can handle it, is that it?”
“We can all use help from time to time, Darnell.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’ll listen to what the man has to say,” said Darn
ell. “He is the boss.”
Stefanos looked at Mai. “You about ready to jump in here?”
“Let me just finish the rest of this chicken. It’s really tender.”
“Nick’s gonna take some home with him tonight, on account of it’s so tender.” Anna grinned as she stubbed out her smoke. “Just in case he doesn’t hook up with Alicia.”
Stefanos left a little rubber on the street as he gave the Coronet 500 gas on the green.
From the shotgun bucket, Anna Wang side-glanced Stefanos. “Nick, don’t you think this car is a little noisy?”
“I put custom pipes on it. You know, dual exhaust. It runs more efficiently now, and it’s faster.”
“And noisier.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Everybody at that stoplight did.”
“They were just checking out the boss lines on the car. You know what they used to call the shape of this model? ‘Coke bottle,’ on account of the way the metal cuts in on the rear quarter panels.”
“You remind me of why I never dated Chinese guys. Those dudes, all they want to talk about is their cars and the next car they’re going to buy. They’re all gearheads, like you.”
“I’m no gearhead.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You know, good thing you’re cute. You remind me of this really pretty four-barrel carb I saw the other day.”
“You think I’m cute?”
“Sure. If I wasn’t -”
“Fifteen years older than me?”
“I was gonna say ‘attached.’ ”
“You’re attached, all right. But thanks for the compliment, Nick.”
Stefanos pulled over on 7th Street, just south of the Mount Vernon Square Metro stop. Anna’s apartment building, a beat-to-shit white building with white columns and forest green doors, was across the street. A guy wearing an army jacket and socks without shoes stood outside the door, insulting people who were walking by. A young man a half block south was leaning into an open car window, selling crack in the middle of the day.
“Now, go straight inside,” said Stefanos.
“I thought I’d ask that guy up for a drink first.”
“There’s an idea. And then he could, I don’t know, hack you up into little pieces while he cries for his mommy?”
“Thanks for the ride, Nick.”
“My pleasure.”
Stefanos watched Anna cross the street, one hand gripping the strap of her backpack. She lived on the subway line, but he drove her home whenever he was able. Anna was his friend, and he couldn’t stand to think of anyone hurting her. It wasn’t just Anna; lately, he couldn’t stand to think of anyone getting hurt at all.
Lou Reed was singing “Perfect Day” from the juke as Nick Stefanos navigated the crowd at Rio Loco’s on U at 16th. He found Alicia Weisman at the bar and kissed her on her mouth.
“How’s it goin’, sweetheart?”
“It’s going good. How about for you?”
“Great, now.”
Stefanos smiled. She had small, light brown eyes, great blossoming laugh lines, and a crooked nose. Her lipstick always overshot her lips. Her hair was in some kind of irregular-length cut, and the color of it changed every few weeks. No one would ever mistake her for double-take pretty on the street, but she was pretty to Stefanos, and looking at her made him smile.
“Mind if I sit down?” said Stefanos.
“I was saving the stool for you.”
“I bet it wasn’t easy.”
“You don’t know the half of it. I’ve been beating them off.”
“That must have made them happy.”
“Not like that, silly.”
Stefanos had a seat, lit a cigarette for himself, lit Alicia’s. The bartender placed a bottle of Bud in front of him. Stefanos chin-motioned the call rack, and the bartender returned with a shot of Old Grand-Dad.
“Ah,” said Stefanos, sipping the bourbon and lifting his bottle. He tapped Alicia’s and drank.
She said, “Hey.”
He rubbed her back and gave her another kiss.
“What’s up tonight?” he said.
“I was gonna go over to Arlington. Kevin Johnson’s at Iota, and Dana Cerick’s new band is the opening act. Plus, we just put out the seven-inch on this band that’s playing a couple of sets at Galaxy Hut. I should drop by and see how they’re doing. Wanna go?”
“Johnson’s cool. But I think I’ll pass on the Wilson Boulevard crawl.”
“Afraid to go into Virginia?”
“Yes.”
Stefanos had another round while Alicia nursed her beer. The booze was working, and he liked the feel of her next to him. He didn’t want her to go. But Alicia and a partner ran a small record label in town, and much of her work was done at night.
“I gotta run,” she said.
“Meet me at my place later?”
“Want me to?”
“Damn straight.”
She kissed him and said, “Bye.”
He watched her go toward the door. She had a spring in her step, and strangers were smiling at her as she passed. Stefanos felt lucky as hell.
Stefanos downed his third shot and took his beer bottle with him to the pay phone in the back of the house. Robert Plant was coming back in after the glorious Page solo on “Ten Years Gone,” and Stefanos sang along. Some college guys playing a drinking game at a table smirked at him – an old-school guy with a load on, singing a seventies number – as he passed. He found the note Elaine Clay had handed him, dropped thirty cents in the slot, and punched some numbers into the grid.
He got an answering machine that simply said, “Leave a message.”
After the tone Stefanos said, “Hey, Dimitri. Dimitri Karras. I hope I’ve got the right number. This is Nick Stefanos. I don’t know if you remember me. Your father used to work for my papou down on Fourteenth Street back in the forties. You and me met a couple of times. My papou had you talk to me once when he thought I was getting off the track. Back in, like, seventy-six. Like I said, you might not remember. Anyway, I was talking to Elaine Clay today, and she said you might be interested in some part-time work. Well, it happens we’ve got an opening down at this little bar I work in, down in Southeast? Place called the Spot. On Eighth Street, about a block from the marine barracks. I was thinkin’, I’m working a shift tomorrow, why don’t you stop by after lunch and we could talk. I’ll show you around, introduce you to the crew, like that… If you’re interested, I mean. If not, no sweat. I mean, it’s up to you. Well, here’s my phone number, too, if you want to talk…”
Stefanos left his number and hung up the phone.
“Shit,” he said, realizing then that he was half lit, wondering what kind of cockeyed message he had just left on the machine.
He went back to the stick and settled his tab. He bought a go-beer from the tender, slipped the bottle in the inside pocket of his leather, and left the bar.
Stefanos ignitioned his car and turned on the radio while he looked in the ashtray for the tail end of a joint he had placed there a few nights back. There was a news brief on the radio: A local middleweight contender who had been in and out of trouble with the law over the years had been gunned down in the lobby of the cancer institute of the Washington Hospital Center, where he had been receiving treatment for a malignant tumor. The assassin had stood over him and emptied his gun into him after he had fallen. Five bystanders were injured by wild shots. The boxer was dead.
Stefanos had seen Simon Brown fight the boxer at the Pikesville Armory in Baltimore County when the boxer was coming up through the ranks. The boxer had taken himself out in the fifth round with an alleged broken hand. Even with that loss, the middleweight had been talked about then as a fighter with a future.
“A murder in a hospital, where people be goin’ to get well,” said the announcer. “Look, I’ll say it again for y’all who haven’t been listening. Black-on-black violence is wrong. We are killing our own people. This madness has got to stop. Do
n’t smoke the brothers. Peace.”
Stefanos found the joint, fired it up. He took in what was left of it and dropped the roach out the window. He opened his beer, took a swig, and placed the bottle between his legs. He pushed a Steve Wynn into the tape deck and pulled out of his spot.
Stefanos drove east on U, cut up 15th to Irving, and took that east, passing the hospital where the boxer had been killed. He liked to drive the city at night when he had a buzz, and he had one now. He found himself on North Capitol, and he took it north for a couple of miles, cutting a left onto Kennedy Street before the New Hampshire Avenue turnoff.
He knew all along he’d come here tonight. He turned the volume down on the deck and cruised slowly down the dark street.
He passed boxy apartment buildings, barber shops, braid parlors, hair and nail salons, a variety store, a Laundromat, a CVS chain pharmacy, two bars, a barbecue joint, and several houses of worship, including a storefront iglesia and the Faith Mission Temple, whose parking lot was fenced and topped by concertina wire. He passed the Brightwood Market, which seemed to be the center of the neighborhood; several young and not-so-young men stood outside, their shoulders hunched, their hands deep in their parkas and Starter coats. A couple of men were boxing playfully, feinting and dodging under a dim street lamp.
One of the men outside the market yelled something at Stefanos as he drove by. Stefanos went along.
He pulled over past the 1st Street intersection, in front of the Hunan Delite, a place that advertised “Fried Chicken, Fried Fish, Chinese, Steak and Cheese.” The carryout was the last of several businesses on that particular hundred-block of Kennedy. A Lexus with custom wheels and spoiler sat parked in the six-space side lot.
Through the plate glass window Stefanos could see a kind of lobby and a wall-to-wall Plexiglas shield that separated, and protected, the employees from the clientele. A revolving Plexiglas tray, like a commercial lazy Susan, had been screwed into the middle of the shield. The tray took money in and was large enough to put food orders out. There was a printed menu posted above the shield that was normally lit but had been turned off. A young Asian guy, clean-cut in a turtleneck and slacks, swept the lobby behind a locked front door.
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