Randolph said, “Yeah, well, you older than a motherfucker now. So you might as well forget all about your first nut, hear?”
Constantine thought of Katherine, what he had done the night before. He thought of Delia, in the barn. He took a drag, stubbed out his smoke in the ashtray.
“I guess you’re right,” he said.
Weiner had been looking around the bar, moving his head to the music. He signaled the waitress, ordered a Brandy Alexander. Randolph asked for a cognac. The rest of them held.
“How about you, Weiner?” Randolph said mockingly. “This tune remind you of anything?”
Weiner pursed his lips, shook his head broadly. “If it’s after Phil Ochs, I can’t identify it The Beatles ended it for me, gentlemen.”
“Who the fuck is Phil Ochs?” Randolph said.
Weiner waved his hand. “Never mind. Suffice it to say that there was a scene in this town that you two can’t even imagine—Constantine, you in particular were kicking the slats out of your crib in the era I’m talking about.”
The waitress returned with the drinks, served them clumsily. Constantine ordered another vodka.
The waitress said, “Why didn’t you order your drink when I was here before?”
“Because I didn’t,” Constantine said.
The waitress rolled her eyes and slouch-walked away.
“Anyway,” Weiner said, raising his Brandy Alexander. “Ladies and gentlemen? To success.” The five of them tapped glasses in the middle of the table. Polk and Charlotte returned to their private conversation.
“Like I was saying,” Weiner said. “There was this scene in D.C. A real Beat scene, an underground. I used to go to this one club, Coffee and Confusion was the name of it, over on Tenth and K.”
“That was your bar?” Randolph said.
“Oh, there were other joints. The Java Jungle, the Ontario Place—but Coffee and Confusion, that was it for me. Guys playing guitars, bongos, wearing shades inside the club. A real scene. And the chicks there”—Weiner’s eyes, already glazed, deepened at the memory—“my God, you should have seen them. Long, straight hair, parted in the middle. Heavy makeup, black around the eyes. Their breasts, their young breasts—the whole package, I’ve got to tell you, was terrifically sexy. Totally and terrifically sexy.”
“Sounds like a winner,” Randolph said.
Weiner smiled wryly. “Well, of course, you’re patronizing me. But you’ve got to agree, Randolph, everyone has their time. And everyone knows that their time was the best. Do you agree?”
Randolph thought of the Zanzibar, in the Seventies. “Yes,” he said.
The waitress returned, served Constantine. He nodded to her, hit the drink. “After this round,” he said to Randolph, “let’s get out of here.”
“I’m down with it.”
Polk broke away from Charlotte. “We’ll head downtown,” he said. “Charlotte’s got a friend, wants to hook up with us. That okay by you guys?”
Constantine nodded. Randolph watched the feet of a woman who walked past their table.
“Hey, Weiner,” Randolph said, nudging him with his elbow, nodding towards the woman’s feet. “What you figure her shoe size is?”
“I have no idea,” Weiner said.
“I’ll bet you ten bucks she’s a nine.”
“You make your living selling shoes.” Weiner shook his head. “That’s a sucker’s bet.”
“Anyway,” Randolph said, “she would have told you she’s an eight and a half. But believe me—the freak is a nine.”
AFTER a while they got their tab and left eight on thirty-three for the waitress with the bandy legs and the scarred chin. Despite her attitude, Constantine had argued for the heavy tip. He had known many waitresses in his life, and he liked even the bad ones.
Out on Georgia Avenue, the five of them walked to Polk’s Super Bee. Polk limped alongside Charlotte, Randolph at their side. Constantine stayed with Weiner, smiling fondly at the little man’s march. Something had loosened in Constantine; he could not tell now if it was the marijuana or the alcohol that had unscrewed his head. But he’d forgotten about the things that were behind him. He’d forgotten, just then, about the thing that he’d agreed to do.
Chapter
12
POLK drove the Dodge downtown, Charlotte at his side, her thigh touching his. Randolph and Constantine flanked Weiner in the backseat. A cool April mist cut the air, came through the open windows.
Constantine let the mist and wind bite his face as he stared out the window at the neon life of Georgia Avenue. Small bars, Caribbean nightspots, athleticshoe stores, funeral parlors, independent insurers, Korean beer markets, and liquor stores blurred by. On every block there seemed to be an easel set on the sidewalk, advertising beepers and answering services. Constantine noticed the cursive, neon sign for Posin’s, the Hebrew grocery store where his mother had taken him weekly as a child, to shop for meat. It was the only business on Georgia that Constantine could recognize.
Constantine said, “What’s with the beepers?”
“Man, you have been away,” Randolph said. “The beepers are for all these young entrepreneurs and shit.”
A young man in a hooded jacket and baggy jeans stood on the corner of Georgia and Buchanan, watching the Dodge and its occupants pass. He formed his hand into the shape of a pistol, pulled the trigger on Constantine. Constantine looked away.
“The thing I noticed,” Constantine said, “since I been back in D.C. The young people—none of them smile. It’s like they don’t know how to smile.” He rubbed at his beard. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“Simple, man,” Randolph said. “It’s the end of the motherfuckin’ world.”
Weiner squirmed between the two men. “Polk, put on some music, will you?”
Polk clicked the radio on to an easy-listening station. A string version of “When Doves Cry” came through the trebly dash speaker.
Randolph groaned. “Come on, man, turn this Geritol bullshit off.”
Polk notched the volume down. “Hey, Connie, how about passing me up a smoke.”
Constantine put the pack on Polk’s shoulder. Charlotte turned, took the pack, smiled at Constantine. She put a cigarette to her lips, pushed in the dashboard lighter, and handed the pack back over the seat. Constantine slipped the deck into the pocket of his denim shirt.
“Where we headed?” Constantine asked.
“Place in southeast,” Polk said. “A joint where cops hang out, believe it or not. Charlotte’s friend wants to meet us there.”
“That’s that joint on Eighth and G,” Randolph said. “Right?”
“Yeah,” Polk said, taking the lit cigarette from Charlotte’s hand, wedging it between his teeth. “Place called The Spot.”
THE Spot was a windowless, cinder-block establishment set on a dark corner of the city, east of the Hill. Its transom, a dirty piece of rectangular glass framed above the door, functioned as the only source of natural light. As the group walked to the front door, Constantine noticed the rag-swathed feet of a man protruding from a nearby alley.
The six of them stepped inside, stood on a two-step landing. To the left, a mahogany bar ran along the wall, lit by hanging conical lamps. A handful of men, some alone and some in groups, sat on barstools, their drinks and ashtrays set in front of them. One of the men who sat alone, a bearish man with short, dirty blond hair, talked quietly to the bartender. A bulge in the shape of a gun butt protruded from the back of the man’s tweed jacket. Three other men sat grouped at the end of the bar under a large Redskins poster, arguing loudly over the results of a fifteen-year-old playoff game. Bluesy slide guitar played loudly through the house stereo, but none of the patrons seemed to notice.
Polk and Charlotte stepped down into the bar area, went straight to the tender to say hello. Constantine looked to the room at his right, an unpopulated green room with scattered tables and dart boards.
“Let’s sit in there,” Constantine said, pointing to t
he empty room. “There’s cops in the bar.”
“Cops and liquored-up rednecks,” Randolph added.
“That’s okay by me,” Weiner said, “but hold on just one minute.” Weiner pointed to the bartender, a dark-haired man with a blue bar rag hanging off the side of his jeans. “The bartender—now keep in mind that I’ve never been here, and I’m assuming that neither have you—he looks to me to be a person of Mediterranean descent. If I were to bet on it, I’d say Italian. In fact, a twenty says the man is an Italian.” Weiner paused for effect. “What would you gentlemen say?”
Constantine felt himself check the bartender out, though he was not a betting man. He shrugged. “If you say Italian, Weiner, then he is.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Randolph said. The man could have been Italian. But from where they stood, the man could have been damn near anything. It seemed like a good bet.
“Come on,” Constantine said. “Let’s sit down.”
The men pushed two four-tops together and took seats. Polk entered the room with his arm around Charlotte, the two of them laughing.
“I ordered us a round,” Polk said loudly, limping to the table. “Connie, how about one of them smokes?”
Constantine tossed the deck of Marlboros to the center of the table.
“Hey, Polk,” Randolph said. “You know the man behind the bar?”
“Yeah,” Polk said, lighting a cigarette off the table’s candle. “I’ve seen him around.”
“He’s an Italian,” Weiner said, nervously touching his beret. “Am I right?”
Polk shook his head, let smoke stream from his nose. “He’s a Greek.”
Randolph said, “I’ll take that twenty, Weiner.”
“God-damn it, though,” Weiner said, reaching for his wallet. “I was close.”
A short, young Latino walked into the room carrying a round of drinks balanced on a bar tray. He sorted them out, served them, and left with a careless bow and a gold-toothed smile. The party lifted their drinks to Weiner’s toast. Charlotte and Polk returned to their private conversation.
“Well, anyway,” Weiner said, holding the bill out in his hand, “I can afford the twenty tonight. I hit at the track today. I hit pretty good.”
Randolph took the twenty, folded it neatly, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his sport jacket. “So I guess that means you’re buyin’, too.”
Weiner shook his head. “Actually, I spent half of my winnings already.”
“Spent it on what?” Randolph said.
“A gift for my lady friend,” Weiner said, his eyes reflecting wet from the flame of the candle. “Well, not exactly my lady friend yet. A young lady I met in the record store.” Weiner hit his drink.
Randolph nudged Constantine. “I do believe our man here’s in love.”
Constantine pulled on his vodka, ignoring Randolph. He said to Weiner, “What’s she like?”
Weiner smiled. “Like the girls I used to know, the ones I told you about. The ones who used to hang at Coffee and Confusion. She’s real hip, this one. Not beautiful, exactly, I know that. But she has it.” He looked into his drink, spoke quietly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve known someone this … clean. I’ll give you odds, she barely has a smell to her. I swear to God, if I could just touch that pussy, just touch it one time”—Weiner put his palms together, as if in prayer—“I’d die a happy man.”
The bar’s front door swung in, and a small bell sounded above it. A woman with pale complexion entered, looked around, and bounded down the two steps into the room. She wore a short black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline; her stockings were black, and her black hair had been teased and brought forward like the curl of a wave, frozen in the last quiet seconds before it hits the shore. She moved forward quickly, winking once at Charlotte, her purplish lips twisted into a warm, crooked grin, her arms outstretched.
Randolph looked first at the woman’s eyes, then he checked out her shape. His appraisal stopped at the black pumps on the woman’s feet: seven, maybe seven and a half.
The woman fell into Polk’s arms as he stood to greet her.
“Hello, Polky!” she said.
“Hey, Phil,” he said, kissing her roughly on the edge of her mouth. “How the hell’s it goin’, sweetheart?”
“It’s goin’,” she said, punctuating her two-pack-a-day laugh with a slap on her hip. “I looked in the mirror this morning and saw that it was going fast. So someone better take advantage of it, real quick.” She smiled, her dark eyes lighting on Randolph.
“The name’s Randolph,” he said, extending his hand. Constantine noted the velvet in Randolph’s voice, the same velvet from the sales floor, earlier in the day.
“Phil,” she said. “Short for Phyllis.”
Randolph ran a long finger along his black mustache. “Don’t look like you’re short on a damn thing,” he said.
Phyllis said to Polk, “I like your friends.”
“That’s Constantine,” Polk said. “The man in the cap is Weiner.”
Constantine and Weiner nodded at Phyllis. She tilted her head pleasantly and returned her gaze to Randolph.
“Come on, honey,” Charlotte said, rising to her feet and grabbing Phyllis by the arm. “You’re way behind. Let’s go into the bar, have a coupla shooters. We’ll come back in, join the party.”
“I’m ready,” Phyllis said, thrusting out both fists and doing a brief cha-cha, two steps forward, two steps back. She pointed at Randolph and smiled. “Don’t go anywhere, boys.”
Polk got up, followed Charlotte and Phyllis back into the bar. Weiner stood and said, “I think I’ll join them.” Constantine and Randolph watched him walk away.
“Looks like you got a date tonight,” Constantine said, “if you want it.”
“I might,” Randolph said.
“You like them like that?”
Randolph shrugged. “I just like ’em.”
The busboy came back into the room with a round of drinks balanced on his tray. He put a double vodka rocks in front of Constantine and a cognac with a side of ice water in front of Randolph.
“Hey, amigo,” Randolph said. “We didn’t order these.”
“You fren,” the busboy said, grinning.
Randolph shrugged, sipped his cognac as the busboy walked away. “I’m way past my limit,” he said. “You could stand to slow down too.”
“I’m drunk,” Constantine admitted. “But I don’t want to slow down.” Constantine lighted a cigarette off the table’s candle. “If you slow down, you get hit. Can’t hit a moving target.”
“Yeah, you the king of the drifters,” Randolph said softly, looking Constantine up and down. “And if you had a brain in your head, you’d drift the fuck on out of this town—tonight.”
“You’re in this thing. Polk’s in it.” Constantine blew smoke at the table. “I’m in it too.”
“We have to be in it,” Randolph said. “You don’t. Not yet.”
Constantine drank deeply of his vodka, swallowed, felt the cool sting of the alcohol in his chest. “Earlier today—you said Grimes had something on everybody.”
“That’s right” Randolph said. “Valdez and Gorman are losers. They stay around ’cause they got nowhere else to go. Jackson, he’s a loser too. Owes Grimes on a card debt. Weiner, he’s locked in on an old gambling beef as well.”
“And with Polk it’s the money.”
Randolph shook his head. “I don’t think so. I used to think, you know, it was that thing with his foot.”
“What do you mean?”
“Polk and Grimes,” Randolph said. “They were in the same outfit, C Company, in Korea. Got into some serious shit during the Korean offensive, east of the Chosin Reservoir. It was colder than a motherfucker there—Siberian cold. Subzero. The company got stopped at a blown bridge, at the base of Hill Twelve Twenty-One, on the way to Hudong. That’s when the Koreans attacked. C Company, Chosin—all that shit is legendary, man, the old-timers were talkin’ about how fi
erce that shit was when I was in the service. Well, Grimes and Polk made it over that hill, made it to the other side, and kept right on going, crossed that frozen reservoir to a place called Hagaru. By then Polk had the frostbite bad. The way I heard, Grimes carried him most of the way across the ice.” Randolph swallowed water, put the glass back down on the table. “They air-lifted Polk, took off damn near half his foot. But if Grimes hadn’t looked after him…”
“That doesn’t sound like the Grimes I know.”
“Friendship and loyalty. It means something, when you’re young.” Randolph sat back in his chair. “But Polk paid his debt a long time ago—he’s been in on these jobs, going back near twenty years. It doesn’t explain why he’s still here today.”
Constantine swirled the ice around in his glass. “What about you?” he said.
Randolph looked into Constantine’s eyes, then looked away. “When I first came up here, in the early seventies, I got a job as a stockboy, at this shoe store on Connecticut Avenue. My cousin was a salesman there at the time, and he hooked me up. Over the years, you know, I got to be a salesman myself, and a damn good one. My cousin, though, he just got further into that street bullshit, till finally he was into the heroin thing and out of a job. At the time the company was really doin’ it—we had ten stores, and we were moving some inventory. The owner, he wasn’t declarin’ most of the cash money that was coming in, and the way he turned it was to do cash deals with the New York vendors, for a discount on his purchases. He did this every second Thursday of the month. My cousin knew about it—he knew when the owner brought in the cash, and where he stashed it the night before.”
“Your cousin knocked the place over,” Constantine said.
Randolph nodded. “Grimes bankrolled the job. My cousin’s dealer—he owed Grimes a favor—hooked the two of them up.”
“What happened?”
“It was a night job. They came in through the skylight, at the office above the Connecticut Avenue store. They got away with it, too. The owner couldn’t even report the theft—all that cash.” Randolph closed his eyes, tilted his tumbler back, and sipped cognac. “Anyway, I knew about it, and I didn’t do a damn thing to stop it. The man was my cousin, understand? The thing is, he died two months later, anyway. Overdose.”
Shoedog Page 10