01 The Big Blowdown

by George Pelecanos

  “Don’t worry, Joe.” Karras dropped his cigarette out the window. “I won’t screw up.”

  * * *

  They were turning them away on W Street, outside Turner’s Arena.

  Recevo found a spot to park the Mercury, and he and Karras went inside.

  Recevo’s tickets were close to prime, eighteen rows up from the ring.

  Most of the crowd sported shirts and ties, guys going solo mainly, with only a smattering of dates. A haze of cigar and cigarette smoke hovered like a fog down below. They bought a couple of beers on the way to their seats.

  Karras lighted a smoke. He lighted one for Recevo off the same match. They had come in on the middle of the prelims, a five-round match between two local boys, Artie Brown and Flattop Cummings.

  In the fifth, the boxing got furious close in, and Cummings’s trunks began to fall below his waist. The referee tried to step in and pull the trunks back up, took a good one on the chin from Brown for his troubles.

  “Would you look at that!” said Recevo, elbowing Karras in the ribs. “Brown clocked the ref right in the kisser!”

  “I’ll be goddamned,” said Karras.

  Brown won on points, and in the dead time before the next bout Karras looked around the plant. Chief Barrett was seated down at ringside with a couple of his lieutenants. Nearby was Emmit Warring, one of the better-known professional gamblers around town. In the row behind them, Karras could see Steve Mamakos, seated with his manager.

  “Hey, Joe, there’s Mamakos!”

  “Where?”

  “Second row back from the ring.”

  Recevo looked over at Karras. He was smiling, leaning forward, his eyes wide as a kid’s. Recevo hadn’t seen that look on Karras since way before the war.

  “Maybe your boy Mamakos is thinking of steppin’ into the ring someday with Archie Moore. He’s studyin’ him, like.”

  “Stop kiddin’. Mamakos is a middleweight all the way. Pound for pound, though, if all things were equal, I bet he could give Moore a fight.”

  “Like he gave Tony Zale?”

  “Knock it off. Zale decisioned him in thirteen in that first fight. Then it took Zale another thirteen in the second fight to drop Steve. In that one, Mamakos had both of Zale’s eyes shut at the end. I don’t think any fighter gave Zale a tougher time than Mamakos. Billy Conn didn’t. Not even Graziano.”

  “All right, I get it. You don’t have to keep yappin’ about it.”

  “It’s not over yet for Mamakos.”

  “I said, ‘all right.’” Recevo stood from his seat. “I’m gonna go get a couple Nationals. You want?”

  “Yeah, I want.”

  The featherweight semiwindup, Chico Morales against Danny Russel, got under way as Recevo returned to the seats. Morales went inside quick, punctuating each combination with the snap of a short right. He kept at it, and Russel began to tire by the third.

  “The Cuban’s fast,” said Karras. “You got money on him?”

  “A little.”

  “The Cuban’s gonna take him out.”

  Morales chilled Russel in the fourth. Recevo and Karras drank their beers and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Jimmy La Fontaine and his lawyer, Charlie Ford, arrived at their ringside seats with a flourish just as the announcer was pulling down the mike to bark out the stats for the main event.

  “La Fontaine looks old,” said Recevo.

  “He’s what, close to eighty?”

  “Around there, yeah. I hear Jimmy Boyle is workin’ the door for La Fontaine at night, over at Eastern Avenue.”

  “It’s no secret.”

  “A D.C. beat cop, workin’ the biggest gambling joint in the county. A little dangerous, playing both sides of the street like that, don’t you think?”

  “Boyle knows what he’s doing. He’s not dirty, if that’s what you mean. La Fontaine likes to have a few cops on the payroll, makes him feel secure. Anyway, this isn’t Chicago. The payoff money funnels up here, not down to the cops in uniform. Boyle’s just ambitious. And you hear things, work-in’ in a place like that.”

  “If Boyle really wants to get off the street, get his detective’s badge, maybe he oughta look into solving those hooker murders. The suits they got on the case, they haven’t turned up a thing. That one last night was the second this year.”

  “Boyle’s wanted to be a cop since he was a kid. If there’s any way for him to advance, he’ll find it.”

  The ring announcer introduced the fighters. Archie Moore looked slim in the hips, solid up top, his face smooth and unmarked. A loud applause went up for hometown boy George Parks.

  “My God, Parks is some kind of big.”

  “Moore’s giving away fifteen pounds,” said Karras. “But just you watch.”

  At the bell, Archie Moore came out with a series of left jabs. Then a left hook connecting to Parks’s jaw, and a straight right after that to the same spot. Moore followed with the exact combination and sent Parks into the ropes.

  Recevo pointed at the referee. “Gallagher’s gonna stop it.”

  But Moore beat the ref to it and put Parks down to the canvas with a hard right. Parks took a nine count, stood up. He was bleeding freely from his nose and couldn’t find his feet.

  “Parks is on Queer Street,” said Karras.

  “Yeah,” said Recevo. “Parks is done.”

  Moore gave Parks another flurry and Marty Gallagher stopped the fight. There were boos heard in the auditorium as Karras and Recevo filed out.

  “Two minutes and change into the first round,” said Recevo. “Can you believe it?”

  “What did you think was gonna happen? Anyway, we saw a couple of good fights. You win anything on Morales?”

  “A couple of bucks.”

  They walked out of Turner’s, hit the night air. Karras reached into his topcoat, withdrew an empty pack of Luckies, crumpled the pack.

  “Gimme one of those Raleighs, will you?”

  “Here.”

  Karras struck a match, drew in smoke. He made a sour face, tossed the match into the street. “How the hell do you stand these things?”

  “What, they’re good enough for Babe Ruth and Ed Sullivan, aren’t they?”

  “Ed Sullivan,” said Karras, and shook his head. “Where we off to, Joe?”

  “To see Georgakos, I guess. Get that out of the way.”

  “Georgakos hangs out at the Hellenic Club most nights. He won’t be in till late.”

  “All right then, we’ll wait.”

  “What are we gonna do in the meantime?”

  “Find ourselves a drink, I guess.”

  “Make it Kavakos’s,” said Karras.

  Recevo grinned, put the Mercury in gear.

  Chapter 12

  They drove into Northeast, parked on H, approached the club on the 8th Street side. The sound of the place was spilling out onto the sidewalk, people laughing and shouting over the amplified voice of Frankie Donato, the house emcee. Karras removed his wedding band, dropped it in his trouser pocket. The doorman, a guy named Jerry Tsondilis, let Karras and Recevo in on sight.

  It was jumping for a weeknight, the bar near full, all the tables of the nightclub occupied. Karras stepped up to the stick. Recevo elbowed his way to a spot on Karras’s right.

  Karras signalled Bill Kavakos, who stood drawing a draft beneath the tap. His brother Johnny leaned on the other end, wiping down a puddle where some booze had spilled.

  Bill Kavakos stepped up, nodded at the two of them. His eyes lingered on Karras without emotion. “Pete. What’s it going to be?”

  “A bottle of Senate for me,” said Karras. “And a shot of rye.”

  “What flavor on the whiskey?”

  “Pete Hagen’s. The hundred proof if you’ve got it.”

  “How bout you, friend?”

  “The same way,” said Recevo.

  Bill Kavakos went and put together the order while Recevo lighted a smoke. He blew into the pack, sent another one out, pushed the pack in the direction
of Karras. Kavakos returned with the drinks, set them down. Karras floated a couple of ones onto the bar.

  Recevo lifted his glass. “Success, buddy.”

  “I’m for it, chum.”

  They knocked back their shots at once, chased the rye with a swig from their bottles. Karras took in a lungful of smoke, let it out slowly. He looked around the bar.

  Kavakos’s bar didn’t seem much different from years ago, when it had been a low-ceilinged, straight saloon, with a film of sawdust on the floor and the smell of stale beer locked in every split of wood. Peter Karras had often walked here from across town as a child, sent by his mother to find his father, to bring him home for dinner. More often than not he did find his father here, watery-eyed and belligerent, his arms folded on the bar. Fifteen years later, here was Karras, doing the same damn thing. He wasn’t his old man, though. Not by a long shot.

  “There’s Steve Nicodemus,” said Recevo. Nicodemus was down near the end of the bar, visibly drunk, trying to get Johnny Kavakos’s attention.

  “I see him.” But Karras was already looking past Nicodemus to a blonde who sat beyond him, reading a paperback novel, a cocktail glass in front of her.

  “Want to go talk to him?”

  “Maybe later,” said Karras, finishing his beer. “Let’s have another round.”

  “We got work to do tonight. And you ain’t much of a drinker.”

  “I need more practice at it, that’s all.”

  “Whatever you say.” Recevo caught Bill Kavakos’s eye. “One more time over here!” he said, swirling his finger above their empty glasses.

  They had their shots and dented the beers. Recevo saw a girl he knew, Lois Roman, walk into the nightclub with an older guy wearing a herringbone topcoat. Lois wore a muskrat topper, which Recevo figured went for a couple of hundred bucks. He wondered if the guy with the gray temples had sprung for the coat.

  “I’m gonna head into the nightclub,” said Recevo. “You coming?”

  “Nah. That Donato guy gives me a headache. Your grandmother was laughing at those jokes when she was in diapers.”

  “Not unless she heard ‘em in Sicilian, she wasn’t.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll be along.”

  Karras took his beer down the bar to where the blonde sat. He stood next to her, leaned over, rested one forearm on the pocked oak. Even through the tobacco curtain and the stink of booze he could pick up the clean smell of shampoo coming off her long blonde hair. She wore no perfume, and he couldn’t stand it when a woman did. He wondered, how in the hell could a dish like this be all alone?

  She wore a blue slack suit with wing sleeves on the drop-shouldered jacket, a white silk blouse underneath. Karras checked out her feet: cobra-skin sling pumps, open-toed. A matching handbag sat on the bar next to a pack of Camel cigarettes.

  “Snake charmers,” said Karras.

  “Excuse me?” she said, without looking up from her book.

  “Your shoes. I saw them down at Hahn’s. They had a little card set up next to the display. ‘Snake Charmers’ is what it said on the card.”

  She glanced up into his eyes for a second or so, and then at his hand on the bar. She had a small, tidy nose and a wide mouth that curved kind of nicely and didn’t seem to move too much when she spoke. Her own eyes were a kind of sea green, crystalline at times when they picked up the light from the fixtures above the bar. He could see that much in those couple of seconds, and knew right away that he liked what he had seen. She returned to her book, spoke to him again without so much as a movement of her head.

  “So what were you doing shopping for women’s shoes?”

  “It’s a hobby of mine.”

  “Or maybe you were thinking of picking up a little something for your wife. Men surprise their wives with gifts when they’ve got to take a load off their consciences, don’t they.”

  “I guess you got me,” said Karras, throwing up his palms in surrender. “Yeah, I’ve got a wife. Truth is, I’m as married as a drunk to his bottle.”

  “Well, at least you’re honest. You’re awful forward, but you’re honest, I’ll give you that. It’s an unusual combination in this town.”

  She had a gravelly quality to her voice, worn and frayed. It was the cigarettes that had done it, that and the bars, if bars were where she spent her nights. Tiny lines flowered off her eyes, and a nice long one arced around the side of her mouth. Her life was beginning to show itself on her face. Karras figured she had two, three years on him. He didn’t mind.

  “How’d you know I had a wife?”

  “You’ve got a sun line on your finger. You didn’t figure that, did you.”

  “Can’t say I did. Anyhow, we got that out of the way nice and quick. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

  “What am I going to have to do for it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Take your head out of that book, for one. It must be something, the way you’re buried in it.”

  “It’s The Fountainhead. Have you read it?”

  “I’m not big on books. Any good?”

  “It’s long, anyway. It’s about…well, it’s about Freud and Nietzsche, when you get right down to it.”

  “Nietzsche? Nietzsche, geechie, what do I know?”

  “He’s a philosopher. You know, Man and Superman.”

  “Superman? Him I know. I’ve seen the cartoons.”

  She laughed, put the book down on the bar, tossed her hair off her shoulder as she looked his way. She studied him this time.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll have that drink.”

  “What’s it gonna be?”

  “Scotch rocks, with a splash.”

  Karras ordered her drink and a fresh bottle of beer for himself. One of the Kavakos brothers—Karras didn’t notice which one—served the order. Karras reached across the woman for her pack of cigarettes.

  “You mind?”

  “Go ahead. But you might not like it. They use Turkish tobaccos in those.”

  “I get it. Like a joke, on account of my people can’t stand the Turks.” She was wise to go with the rest of the package. He liked that, too. “Who told you I was a Greek?”

  “You don’t look it exactly. You’re kind of on the blond side. But you don’t exactly look like you grew up milking cows for Farmer Brown, either. Anyway, it wasn’t much of a longshot to peg you for a Greek. In this place, you call out the name ‘Nick’ or ‘Pete’ or ‘George’ and ten heads are going to turn around.”

  “So what are you doing here, then?”

  “I like to drink, and I don’t like to do it alone. This place is as good as any.”

  Karras tapped his bottle to her glass. “Cheers, sweetheart,” he said.

  Clint Hobbs’s orchestra started up in the nightclub, kicked off with a Woody Herman number. They didn’t sound much like the Thundering Herd, but the tune was recognizable, the rhythm section tight enough to empty the tables. Through the doorway, Karras could see Recevo leading Lois Roman to the dance floor, the old gent sitting placidly at his chair.

  “You care to dance?”

  “Maybe a little later.”

  “How about the pictures? We could sneak out and see a picture right now. There’s a late show playing at the Keith’s. Scarlet Street, I think it is. Eddie Robinson and Joan Bennett. Dan Duryea plays a heavy—”

  “What else would he play? Anyway, I’ve seen it.”

  Karras dragged on his cigarette. “All right, then, how about we get some air? Take a walk.”

  He was closer to her now and didn’t know how he had gotten there. Her breasts hung down and curved up again and the points of them pushed out against the fabric of the shirt. Karras had gotten hard standing there, just looking at her. She caught the blackness in his eyes.

  “You’re moving too fast, soldier.”

  Karras stood straight, backed off a step. “Hell, I didn’t mean anything. I didn’t mean to rush you. I’m just having a little fun, that’s all.”

  She closed her
eyes slowly, opened them, spoke softly and with patience. “You guys. You guys come back from the war, you think because you made it out alive, everything and everybody’s got to lay down right in front of you. Everything’s a gift now, wrapped up special with a bow on it, just for you. You think because you’ve made it, you’re never going to die. But I’m telling you, it’s only a reprieve that you got. Just a reprieve. Guys like you, you just don’t get it.”

  He saw her hand shake as she tilted the glass back against her lips. “Settle down, will you? You lose someone in the war? Is that it?”

  “No one in particular. I’m no different or better than anybody else.”

  Karras stubbed out his cigarette. “Listen, I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot tonight, I guess. Maybe we can try some other time.”

  “Soldier, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Pete Karras.”

  She extended her hand. “Vera Gardner.”

  Karras shook her hand, rubbed his thumb down the softness of her forefinger. He let it go, dropped a few dollars on the bar.

  “How about I call you some night?”

  “I don’t give out my number in bars.”

  “Then how about this. If you want, you call me. You can leave a message for me at Adams four, sixty-four eighty. You want to write it down?”

  “I’ll remember it if I want to remember it.”

  “I get it. So long, then. Vera.”

  As he began to turn, she reached out and touched the mole on his face.

  “What is this, Pete?”

  “Just a birthmark,” he said. “Why, you think it ruins me?”

  “No,” she said. “It suits you.”

  He walked toward the nightclub, stumbling briefly on the uneven planks of the wood floor. He looked back once, past the back of Steve Nicodemus. Vera had stood now and was sliding her cigarettes into her handbag. Karras wished he had been smarter with her. He wished he hadn’t had so much to drink.

  Karras found Recevo and Lois Roman at a table in the club. The old guy’s seat stood empty, and his herringbone topcoat was gone as well. Recevo winked at Karras, ordered everyone another round. They had a few laughs over the drinks and cigarettes. Karras liked Lois all right, who was sharp-witted but otherwise not awfully bright. In that respect, she and Recevo made a good pair. Lois went off to rearrange herself in the ladies’ room. Recevo and Karras watched her walk away.