Shoedog

by George Pelecanos

  “You’ve got a hot itch,” Nita said.

  “Like I said,” said Weiner.

  Nita pulled hair off her face, grinned, pushed her chin out at Weiner. “What else have you got?”

  “Well,” Weiner said, “by coincidence, I have these two tickets, happen to be to the Sonny Rollins show. Down at One Step—”

  “That it?” said Nita.

  Weiner shifted his feet, began to withdraw the ring from his pocket. “There is something else—”

  “We don’t need anything else, Weiner.” Nita smiled, laughed a little with the smile. He could see in her eyes that the boys in the back of the store were only boys, and that all of this was real.

  “The show’s really going to cook, sweetheart. I mean, it’s really going to cook.”

  “I’m sure the show will be fine,” Nita said. “But what I’m really looking forward to is the company.”

  Weiner loosened his fingers. He let go of the ring, let it drop back into his pocket. The first thing he thought: had he kept the receipt?

  Weiner concentrated, tipped his beret back on his head. “You’ll go with me, then?”

  “Yes,” Nita said. “I’d love to go with you, Weiner.”

  He smiled, getting a picture now, seeing the receipt in the wooden box on the top of his dresser. He’d return the ring, get the three C notes back, maybe take the money to the track. He’d take the money, and he’d parlay it.

  “I’ll swing by, pick you up at closing time.”

  “I’ll be here,” Nita said.

  Weiner looked at Nita and said, “Beautiful.”

  Chapter

  23

  CONSTANTINE turned off Indian Head Highway, found the decaying commercial strip at the end of the short road, went behind the strip. The T-Bird and the Fury were gone. Constantine parked the Road Runner between the Super Bee and the Caddy. He cut the engine. In the backseat, Gorman picked chips of glass from his hair.

  “Leave the keys in the ignition,” Valdez said. “Gorman, you drop the shotgun back there on the floor. Constantine, lay the .45 under your seat.”

  “It’s clean,” Constantine said. “I never touched it.”

  “Leave it anyway,” said Valdez.

  “What about your guns?” Constantine asked.

  “These guns are mine,” Valdez said.

  Constantine slid the .45 beneath his seat. He looked out across the weedy field. A thin man in a blue zip-up jacket got out of a late-model sedan parked near the row of Cape Cods, and walked toward them, across the field.

  “That’s Rego’s man,” said Valdez. “Come on.”

  “Polk and Randolph,” Constantine said. “I guess—”

  “They’ve come and gone,” Valdez said. “The Fury’s on the way to the chop. You take the Dodge and meet us at the house. Let’s go, Gorman. Grab the bags and let’s go.”

  Valdez and Gorman took the money to the Cadillac, drove out of the lot. Constantine got into the Super Bee. He found the key in the ignition, where the old man had left it.

  THE black iron gate was open at the Grimes estate. Constantine drove between the squat brick pillars, headed down the asphalt drive, parked the Super Bee next to the Caddy. To the right of the Caddy was the Olds 98. Parked next to that, Delia’s Mercedes.

  Constantine climbed out of the Dodge, walked toward the house. He looked across the property at the black cage set in the middle of the lawn. The Doberman’s head came up, then dropped back down to rest on its paws. The dog’s eyes were serene, still, like deep, black water.

  Constantine took the steps up, stood beneath the portico, rang the bell. He looked up at the wall of brick, noticed the floodlights hung on both corners of the house. He saw the curtains drawn in Grimes’s office, the curtains drawn in the bedroom as well.

  The door opened. “Come on,” Gorman said.

  Constantine stepped into the marble foyer. Valdez was sitting at the bottom of the staircase, rubbing a wet towel across his face. Gorman leaned against the door frame of the library, lighting a smoke. He squinted through the smoke at Constantine, dropped the spent match into an ashtray set on an end table. Constantine looked at Gorman, then at Valdez.

  “Where’s Polk?” said Constantine.

  “He didn’t make it,” said Valdez. “Neither did Jackson.”

  Constantine put his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looked at the checkerboard marble floor. He ran the toe of his boot along the line between the black and white of the floor. He listened to Gorman’s exhale, listened to the seconds tick off the clock in the library.

  Constantine raised his head. “What about Randolph?” he said.

  “He did good,” Valdez said.

  Gorman pushed away from the doorframe. “I’m gonna take a fuckin’ shower,” he said. He walked past Constantine, through a door beneath the bowed staircase. His footsteps echoed in the foyer.

  Valdez stood up, folded the towel, and sighed. “Go on up,” he said. “Go on up and get your money.”

  CONSTANTINE knocked twice on the office door, turned the knob, and entered. He closed the door behind him.

  Grimes sat behind the cherry-wood desk, his blazer hung over the back of his chair. He took his hand away from the mound of magnetic chips on the plastic base, and motioned Constantine into the room. Constantine walked past the chairs upholstered in green leather, went to the window, stood in the sunlight that spilled through the window. He looked out onto the grounds.

  “Cigar?” Grimes said.

  “No,” said Constantine.

  Grimes took one from a wooden box on his desk, lighted it slowly. Constantine smelled it, saw the smoke of it creep into the light where he stood.

  “You did fine today, Constantine. I knew you would. Valdez said—”

  “What happened?” Constantine said. He heard wood creak as Grimes leaned back in his chair.

  “The stockman surprised them. Polk never made it out of the store. Jackson got the money to the car. He died on the sidewalk.”

  Constantine ran his hand through his long black hair. “Gorman. He blew that liquor store up. Him and Valdez, they killed a couple of cops.”

  “I know it,” Grimes said.

  “We left a lot of bullets, man. People, they saw me. They saw the car.”

  “I know it.” Grimes rolled the end of his cigar on the edge of the tray, dropped a piece of ash. “The cars are being broken down. The guns can’t be traced. Nobody on Rego’s end will ever talk. Everybody knows not to talk.” Grimes pointed his cigar at Constantine’s back. “You might want to shave, cut off some of that hair.”

  Constantine rubbed his face. “You know, Grimes,” he said, “you don’t seem too shook.” His voice was dull, flat. “Those cops, those men in the store. Polk.”

  “They did their jobs,” Grimes said. “All of them.”

  Constantine closed his eyes slowly. He kept them closed as he spoke. “I know about Korea, Grimes. I know what you did for him. Polk was your friend.”

  “Yes,” Grimes said. “But that was Korea. This is something else.” Grimes looked towards the window. “It happens, Constantine. And when it happens, you can’t change it. So forget it.”

  Constantine turned away from the window, walked to the front of the desk, faced Grimes. Constantine’s hands gripped the corners of the desk, his jaw set tight. “I’ll take mine,” he said.

  Grimes nodded, reached beneath the desk. He put an imitation leather briefcase on top of the desk, slid it toward Constantine.

  “Thirty thousand,” Grimes said. “Count it out if you’d like.”

  Constantine looked at the case, did not touch it. “What about the rest of it?”

  “You—”

  “The rest of the money, Grimes. Polk’s thirty, and the extra twenty, from the old job. That was the deal.”

  Grimes attempted a smile, made an awkward wave of his hand. “There’ll be other jobs, Constantine, and more money. Twice what’s in that case.”

  “No more jobs, Grim
es. I’m gone, today.” Constantine leaned over the desk. “The money.”

  They stared at each other for what seemed to be a long time. Grimes looked for something in Constantine’s eyes, saw only emptiness. Grimes looked away.

  “I don’t have the rest of it here,” Grimes said.

  “Then get it.”

  “All right,” Grimes said quietly. “It’s … somewhere else. Go downstairs and meet Valdez in the foyer. I’ll have him take you to it.”

  Constantine nodded, took the briefcase off the desk, walked from the room. When the door shut, Grimes picked the receiver up from the desk phone. He buzzed Valdez, and gave him his instructions.

  Grimes hung up the phone, sat back in his chair, and drew on his cigar. He looked at his hand and saw that it was shaking.

  Chapter

  24

  CONSTANTINE descended the stairs and met Valdez in the center of the marble foyer. Valdez looked Constantine over slowly, lowered his head, stared blankly at the floor. He shook his head one time, rubbed his finger along the bridge of his nose.

  “All right, Constantine,” Valdez said. “Let’s go ahead and get this done.”

  Constantine followed Valdez out the front door, down the steps onto the asphalt drive. The sun still came down on the lawn, but the wind had kicked up now, and a slate wall of clouds approached from the northeast. Valdez walked quickly toward the Cadillac. “Where we goin’?” Constantine said to the wide back of Valdez.

  “The stable,” Valdez said, still walking. “Take the Dodge, meet me there.” Valdez stopped at the door of the Caddy, smiled thickly at Constantine. “You know where the stable is, don’t you, Constantine?”

  “I know where it is.”

  “I’ll see you there,” said Valdez.

  Constantine got into the Dodge, dropped the briefcase on the passenger seat. He opened the briefcase, ran his fingers through the contents, closed the lid. He put his hand on the ignition key, turned it over, felt the rumble of the 383. He leaned forward, over the wheel. He looked through the windshield, up to the second-story windows. In Grimes’s office, the swivel chair moved slowly, back and forth. In the bedroom, he saw the movement of curtains, Delia’s slim figure stepping back from the light, nothing else.

  Constantine swung the Dodge around, took it down the asphalt drive, passed through the gate, turned left onto the two-lane. He switched on the radio, heard a newscaster’s voice, quickly moved the thumb wheel of the dial away from the voice and onto a station playing music. He heard a pedal steel guitar, and a man singing mournfully about a woman, and the solace of drink. He kept the tuner there, gave die Dodge gas.

  He drove along the split-rail fence, the woods thick behind it. Up ahead, where the forest broke again to an open field, he saw Valdez turn the Caddy onto the gravel road. For a moment Constantine considered driving on—thirty grand could take him someplace far away, and keep him there—but he flashed on Polk, his blue windbreaker hung loosely on his slight frame, a cigarette locked in his jaw, his flattop, his wrinkled brow. Constantine downshifted into second, followed the Caddy down the gravel road.

  Valdez cut the engine by the entrance to the paddock that surrounded the stable. Constantine pulled up beside him. Valdez got out of the car, walked into the paddock. Constantine climbed from the Super Bee, shut the door.

  Constantine looked at the suitcase lying on the seat, turned his head, looked at the two-lane a hundred yards back across the field. He could not hear the approach of other vehicles from either direction. The wind blew through the trees, the undersides of leaves flashing white in the last of the sun.

  Valdez turned the corner of the stable. Constantine glanced back at the road one more time, then followed Valdez.

  He walked across the worn grass of the paddock, walked beside the weathered gray wood of the stable. He heard a snort, a toss of the head, and the clomp of the stallion’s hooves behind the wood. Beyond the paddock, at the tree line, he saw the beginnings of a path cut into the woods. Constantine turned the corner, saw Valdez standing alone behind the stable.

  Valdez walked to a post in the split-rail fence, removed his jacket, hung it on the post.

  “Where’s the money?” Constantine said.

  “The money,” Valdez muttered, removing his ring and watch, dropping them in his pocket.

  “That’s right. Me and Grimes, we had a deal.” Constantine looked behind him, knew before he looked that the stable blocked a view from the road.

  Valdez took both shoulder holsters off, hung the .45s over his jacket. He stepped away from the fence.

  “You shoulda kept driving, Constantine. You were a lucky man. That shit today, that was as close as it gets. You shoulda kept driving with that thirty grand, right down the road. You were stone fuckin’ free, man.” Valdez shook his head. “Stupid,” he said. “Stupid.”

  Valdez walked toward Constantine, moved across the paddock with strong, even strides. Constantine could see that Valdez was not going to stop.

  “We can talk,” Constantine said.

  “Sure,” Valdez said, as he reached Constantine. “We’ll talk. But first, this.”

  Constantine saw the blurred flesh of the right almost as he felt it. Valdez connected high in the cheek, knocked Constantine off his feet, sent him down into the dirt.

  Constantine got to his knees, looked up, saw the fence and Valdez shooting up at an angle and meeting somewhere in the darkening sky. Constantine leaned back on his elbow, closed his eyes.

  “Just sit there,” Valdez said.

  Constantine swallowed, worked his jaw, tried to focus. After a while, the paddock stopped moving. When it stopped moving, he looked at Valdez and nodded.

  “Get up,” Valdez said. “You been wantin’ to try me. So get up.”

  Constantine stood. He balled and unballed his fists, sized up the Mexican. He kept his eyes on Valdez, touched his right thumb to his chin, then his left. He knew where his hands were then. He put his weight on the balls of his feet.

  “All right,” Constantine said, leaving his right hand under his chin. “Come on.”

  They circled each other in the paddock. The sun fell behind the clouds, and a blanket of shadow settled on the grass. Valdez bobbed, came in.

  Valdez threw a roundhouse right and then a left. Constantine covered up, tucked his chin to his chest, breathed evenly, took the blows on his shoulders.

  Valdez pulled back for another right. Constantine saw the opening close-in, concentrated on the meaty triangle of the fat man’s chin. Constantine aimed straight through for the Mexican’s skull, exploded an uppercut, connected on his jaw. Valdez’s eyes rolled up with the punch.

  Constantine combined with a left jab and a right cross, both to the head. Someone’s bones cracked in the wind, and Constantine felt a stab of pain in his hand as the Mexican stumbled back, his arms spread wide. Constantine went in.

  He put one in the Mexican’s gut, buried it there, heard the Mexican grunt. Valdez came back with a head shot that threw Constantine back four steps. Valdez charged, screamed as he charged, pushed Constantine into the back of the stable. Constantine felt his head hit the wood, heard the wood splinter, heard the stallion rear up and come back to the ground behind the wall.

  Valdez wrapped his arms tightly around Constantine, squeezed, closed his eyes, made a low moaning sound. Constantine threw his head back, violently butted his forehead down into the Mexican’s broad nose, felt the nose give. Constantine butted the nose again, harder this time, felt Valdez’s arms loosen, saw the blood shoot from his nose down to his white shirt, saw the fresh blood mix with the blood dried on the shirt.

  Constantine saw the black eyes of Valdez, heard the deep howl of his rage. He did not feel the blow that rushed toward him. He did not remember the brown fist hitting him at all.

  THE rain woke Constantine. He felt it cool and sting his broken face. He knew that he was lying on his side in the worn grass and dirt. He looked straight ahead at the blades of grass, watched the rain f
all on the blades. Then he felt the hard barrel of a gun touch his temple.

  Constantine stared at the grass. Valdez’s face was very close to his. He could hear the Mexican’s wheeze, could smell his foul breath. Constantine stared at the grass, feeling neither fear nor anticipation. Feeling nothing, he knew that it was not the end.

  “I’ve done too much killin’ today,” Valdez said quietly with a sigh, pulling the .45 away from Constantine’s head. “Get in the Dodge, driver.”

  Constantine stayed still, listened to the heavy, slow footsteps of Valdez fade. He heard a car door open and shut, heard the start of the Cadillac engine, heard the wheels spit gravel.

  Constantine felt the cool rain, smelled the green of the grass, smelled the lime and urine of the stable. He blinked slowly, breathed evenly. He listened to the Mexican drive away.

  Chapter

  25

  CONSTANTINE slept, had a hot shower in his room on Georgia Avenue, then ran a bath. He washed four ibuprofens down with beer, finished the beer while lying in the bath. He stared at the alternating black and beige tiles in the wall of the bathroom, the mildew layered on the grout that ran between them. He thought of Delia, Grimes, and Polk. He thought of them, and the tiles bled white.

  The water cooled. Constantine sat up in the bath, reached between his feet, and pulled the rubber plug.

  He dried himself with a worn white towel, wiped the steam off the mirror above the sink, and looked into the mirror. Both shoulders carried bruises, the right more painful than the left. There was a deep scrape on his cheek, and the area around his left eye was both purple and black, the lids swollen nearly shut, the eye itself gorged with blood. His forehead was discolored, swollen as well. He looked down at his left hand, thicker now than his right. The forefinger on that hand was twisted oddly at the first joint. Constantine tried to bend it, saw a glimpse of his own ugly wince in the mirror.

  Constantine got his shaving kit, taped the broken finger to his middle one, ate two more ibuprofens. He dressed in his denim shirt and jeans, put on a zip-up jacket over the shirt. He laced up his Timberland boots, tied them tightly. He took a hundred in twenties from the briefcase, put the briefcase under the bed, and walked out of the room.