01 The Big Blowdown

by George Pelecanos

  Karras liked the Casino Royal as much as any nightclub in D.C. The dance floor was small, but the place had a certain kind of class, with Chinese waiters serving Chinese chow and dollar drinks mixed with liquor one step up the shelf. The house band. Jive Jack Schafer’s outfit, they could jump, too, and no wonder—the bald-headed Schafer had come up playing first trumpet with Harry James. The midget act, they were all right, but Karras relaxed a little more when Schafer’s band came out to play.

  The dance floor filled up fast. Schafer went right into a swing standard, and the jitterbuggers hit the floor. Karras saw Tommy Rados out there, felt a rush of affection, as Karras had not yet heard that Rados had made it out of the Philippines in one piece. That Rados character could really dance. Through the dancers, at a deuce at the edge of the floor, Karras caught a glimpse of Face and his wife, having a couple of drinks. Face’s wife, my God, she was almost as big and ugly as him. But he had his arm around her, and they were both grinning like teenagers, and their heads were bobbing and their oversized feet were making likewise-time beneath the table. Karras called his waiter over, pointed to Face’s table, sent Face and his wife a round. A few minutes later. Face looked over at Karras, smiled and raised his drink.

  The midgets came back out and did their song-and-dance for another forty-five minutes, and then it was Schafer again and more dancing, and by that time Karras was half in the bag. A Greek Eleni knew from Saint Sophia came over and timidly asked Karras if it would be all right if he and Eleni had a dance. Karras knew that Eleni was dying to take a spin around the floor, told the Greek that it was fine.

  “You don’t mind, Pete?”

  “Knock yourself out, sweetheart. I’m gonna go over to the bar, I think, have a taste of something else.”

  “Thanks, Pete. I’m only gonna take one dance.”

  “Go on, baby, have some fun.”

  Karras picked his deck of Luckies up off the table, rose from his chair, limped across the dining-room floor. He found an empty barstool and had a seat.

  “Yessir,” said the bartender, who was working on a good sweat.

  “A bottle of Senate and shot of rye. Make the rye that Pete Hagen’s up there on the shelf.”

  The bartender served both neatly on two cocktail napkins. Karras threw the shot back at once. He chased the rye with beer and lighted a cigarette. A paw landed on his shoulder. Karras glanced to his right; the hand was slightly smaller than Rhode Island. Face had a seat on the stool to the right.

  “You mind?” said Face.

  “Hell, no.”

  “Thanks for the round, Pete.”

  “Sure thing. Face. That your wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I never had the pleasure. She’s a looker.”

  Face blushed. “I tell her that, you’re gonna make her night.”

  “Then tell her,” said Karras.

  Face ordered a rum and Coke for himself, signalled the bartender to pour Karras another shot. They tapped glasses and drank. Karras blew a smoke ring over the bar.

  “How’s business?” he said, looking straight ahead.

  “All right, I guess,” said Face carefully. And then, by way of an apology said, “It ain’t exactly like I’m on the decision end of things. You know that, Pete.”

  “Sure, Face. I know.”

  Face looked down at Karras’s twisted knee. “You know, Pete…”

  “What?”

  “Aw hell, Karras, I’m too damn drunk.”

  “I’m three sheets myself.”

  “It’s just that, you ought to know…about Recevo, I mean.”

  “What about him?”

  “I never was no fan of his, you know that. But you ought to know that what happened that night with Reed and the others, in that alley…it wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Mr. Burke never told Reed to mess you up as bad as he did. He never told him to take no bat to your leg—”

  “What about Joe, Face?”

  Face took a long swallow from his drink. “I was in the office that night, when Joe called from the bar. Mr. Burke didn’t give Recevo no choice—it was either deliver you to Reed to get slapped around, or they were going to take you out. All the way out, Karras, get it? They woulda killed Joe, and you, if it hadn’t gone the way they said. Reed was only supposed to slap you around, that’s all.”

  “So Joe was just tryin’ to save his skin.”

  “And yours.”

  “You tellin’ me that Joe saved my life? Is that it?”

  Face nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Look at me, Face. You saw me draggin’ my leg across this dining room a few minutes ago. How did I look? Did I look alive to you?”

  Face stared into his drink. “Christ, Karras. I was only tryin’ to set you straight, that’s all.”

  Karras smiled to himself, shook his head. He took some tobacco into his lungs. “You’re all right, Face, you know it? For the life of me, I don’t know why a guy like you stays with Burke.”

  Face chuckled from somewhere deep in his gut. “Now it’s your turn to look at me. I’m big and I’m ugly and I’m just plain dumb. Workin’ muscle is the only thing I’m good for. What else would I do?”

  “Well…” Karras cleared his throat, touched the mole next to his mouth. “I oughta get back to my wife.”

  “I better do the same. The drinks are on me, Pete.”

  “Thanks, chum.”

  Face dropped money on the bar. Karras drained his shot. He closed his eyes, dragged deeply on his cigarette. The blare of Jack Schafer’s trumpet exploded in his head.

  Chapter 26

  Bender removed his topcoat, draped it across the back of a free chair. He had a seat in front of Burke’s desk, crossed one leg over the other, smoothed out the fine fabric of his suit trousers down to the knee.

  “Have a good night out at La Fontaine’s?” said Burke.

  Bender cocked his head. “I lost a hand or two. Thought I’d take a break, come over and see what you had on your mind. I’ll head back over the line after this, see if I can’t win some of it back. You know how I hate to leave money lying on the table.”

  “Drink?” said Burke.

  “What’re you having?”

  “A little bourbon.”

  “Bourbon’s fine. But yours looks a little dark to me. Cut mine with water, will you?”

  “Reed,” said Burke, making a head motion toward the liquor cart.

  Reed went to the cart, fixed a bourbon and water for Bender, dropped a couple of ice cubes in the glass. He carried the bottle over to Burke’s desk, because he knew that Mr. Burke would want the bottle close by, and then he placed the drink in Bender’s hand. Reed didn’t care to build drinks for anybody, and he especially didn’t like putting one together for a swish. He jammed his hands in the pockets of his sharkskin suit, continued pacing the room.

  Two other men in topcoats stood by the door: a red-haired pug with a beat-to-shit nose and a dark-skinned joker too big for his suit. Reed pegged the dark-skinned one as an Italian or some other variety of white nigger, but the reality was that the big man, who was called Moon, hailed from London. These two men were Bender’s. Recevo sat at the big table, where he always sat, always alone.

  “We walked right in the front door,” said Bender. “I was expecting to see that giant of yours. What was his name?”

  “Face.”

  “Where is he, out gathering bananas?”

  “He took his wife to a show. Some midget act they got over at Casino Royal.”

  “Midgets, huh? Charming. You know, Burke, you ought to introduce your men to some real culture. Take me and those two by the door, for example. Sure, we’re down here gambling. But we’ve also reserved tickets, two nights from now, to a play by the name of Hamlet. It’s running at the Little Theatre. You know where that is, don’t you?”

  “1 know where it is. On 9th above F.”

  “Then you’ve been there! Maybe you’d like to com
e along.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Larry Olivier’s in the title role.”

  Larry. Recevo looked over at Bender, bright-eyed and grinning in his seventy-five-dollar suit, a derby in one hand, a leather flower in his lapel. The guy was all over the place with his fluttery hands, and when he spoke it was up and down in tone, like he was singing a song or something. Fruit or no, this Bender was a real piece of work.

  “I’ll pass,” said Burke.

  “As you wish.”

  Burke poured his fourth bourbon into his glass. Some of the bourbon missed the inside of the glass and splashed onto the desk. Burke wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Listen, Bender. I don’t want to waste any more of your time tonight. Let me tell you why I asked you to drop by.”

  Bender nipped at his drink, jingled the cubes in the glass. “Go ahead.”

  Burke started in. Recevo pulled his deck of Raleighs, lighted a cigarette. He smoked through Burke’s pitch. By the time Recevo felt the heat of the burning end near his fingers, Burke was done.

  “It seems straightforward enough,” said Bender. “Shall we discuss compensation?”

  “Two hundred flat if he tumbles.”

  Bender frowned. “Is that fair? I take a flat fee and you collect protection money from the Greek in perpetuity.”

  “It’s my town. Bender. Maybe when I’m up in Philly I’ll do the same for you.”

  Bender brushed some imaginary lint off his trousers. “Maybe you shall.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  “All right. But you haven’t mentioned the odds. I never make a move without hearing the odds.”

  “Joe,” said Burke. “How many men at the Stefanos joint?”

  Recevo thought it over. “Anywhere from three to five if you count the bouncer. My take is the bouncer will fade.”

  “But it’s only the three of us on this trip,” said Bender. “I can’t say that those are odds I like.”

  “1 don’t like them either,” said Burke, a drop of bourbon dripping down his chin. “So I was thinking that I’d give you one of mine. Someone the Greek’s never met. Joe, whad’ya think of that?”

  I think you’re getting sloppy. You’re getting good and goddamn sloppy now.

  Recevo said, “I think it’ll be fine.”

  “Reed,” said Burke. “Go downstairs and bring up a man.”

  Reed stopped pacing. “A couple of those guys downstairs were with us when we went in the Greek’s place the first time.”

  “Then bring one up who wasn’t with you the first time! Goddamn it, Reed, do I have to explain everything?”

  Reed walked quickly from the room. Burke rubbed his temples; he wished he hadn’t given Gearhart the night off, so he could bounce some of these things off of him. Gearhart, he was a strange one, but he always knew what to do. Well, at least he had Joe around. Joe had a brain in his head, at least.

  Bender looked around the room, an expression of bemusement on his face. Then Reed walked back in with a man half his size. The guy had a small-man’s scowl; a cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth; he wore elevator shoes and a ten-gallon hat.

  Bender smiled. “This your man?”

  “His name’s Sanderson.”

  “Hmm.” Bender chuckled under his breath.

  Recevo checked out Sanderson—comical, if he wasn’t so pathetic. And then another Sanderson image entered his mind: Recevo pictured himself, three years back, looking in the rearview of the coupe, seeing Reed and Sanderson and the others stepping up to meet Karras on the sidewalk in front of the market.

  Burke turned to Bender. “He look okay to you?”

  “Fine,” said Bender. “In fact, this thing is beginning to look like it might be fun.”

  Recevo studied Sanderson and his Tom Mix hat.

  That hat. He was wearing that hat the night in the alley. I remember it now, clear as day. And Pete Karras will remember it, too.

  “How about you, Joe?” said Burke. “You see anything wrong with the setup?”

  Recevo leaned forward. “No, Mr. Burke. Not a thing.”

  * * *

  Matty Buchner had a sip of scotch, let his eye move casually around the room. It was a slow night in this place, with a couple of out-of-town businessmen and a solo fat man seated at the bar. A B-girl had managed to get some sucker to buy her a watered-down highball, and she and this suit-and-tie hayseed were in a booth making small talk. In the booth behind them, two high-end hookers sat drinking Cokes, trying in vain to get the attention of the businessmen at the bar. The girls looked like the Doublemint twins, but Buchner knew they were hookers, as he had seen them work this room before. Their clean-scrubbed looks fetched twenty dollars each, but in the heat of the summer, when this town was stone dead, you could get either one of them for ten. Never less than ten, though, Matty knew, because he had tried.

  No action tonight. The Hi-Hat lounge in the winter was usually good for a few bucks, but not tonight. The patrons at the bar had kept their coats with them, and the checkout woman at the cloakroom, a broad with a face that begged for a feed-bag, she couldn’t be bought. Yeah, the Hi-Hat, it was usually prime territory for a cold-finger man like Matty Buchner. But not tonight.

  Buchner liked the place, even if it was a freeze-out on nights like this. The lounge was in The Ambassador, one of the newest and nicest hotels in the city, with air-conditioning in every room, and it drew the visiting money. Yeah, this Cafritz guy who had built the joint, he had done it up right. Buchner supposed he could head over to the Madrillon at 15th and New York, see what was going on there, but they had that spic music real regular now, and that stop-and-start, cha-cha bullshit played hell with his ears. Even if nothing was happening, Buchner decided he would stay at the Hi-Hat, relax a little bit, see what came up, have another drink. He signalled the tender with a tilt of his chin.

  The bartender was a ratty-looking fuck who didn’t know Matty from Adam, which was why Matty was still on his stool. The previous bartender had caught Buchner with his hand in some other guy’s cashmere coat one year ago, and had tossed him out. And then there was the house dick, a fat, bald-headed dude who’d also given Matty the fisheye from time to time.

  But Buchner had heard that there was a new guy on barshift, and that was what had brought him back.

  “What’s it gonna be?”

  “A scotch and soda.”

  “Any flavor?”

  “The house. That’s forty-five cents, right?”

  “At happy hour it is. Thing is, pal, you’re about four hours late.”

  “Come on friend, cut me a little slack.”

  The bartender tapped his finger on the face of his watch. “The drinks are regular price, friend.”

  “Aw, go on and make it, then, if you’re gonna be cute.”

  The bartender ran a finger along the ploughshare line of his weathered face, and went to fix the drink. Buchner narrowed one eye; the lid of his glass eye stayed put.

  This bartender, he wasn’t fooling anybody, he was nothing but a lousy pimp. Buchner had seen him talking with the fat bird at the bar, had heard the whole deal being cut. Ever since he had lost his eye, doing his stretch for that misunderstanding at the Shoreham, his hearing had improved. It was funny, how that worked. The fat bird at the bar, he had asked the bartender for “a big one,” and then the bartender had gone to the wall phone, stuck a toothpick between his thin lips, and made the call. The two of them, they thought they were being real slick. But Matty, he had heard the whole thing.

  The tender served the drink. Buchner drained the old one, pushed the empty glass across the bar.

  Matty looked at the fat shmuck sitting there, his ass spilling over the sides of his stool. The guy reminded him of some movie actor who always played a heavy. He tried to think of who it was, but all he could come up with was Victor Mature. But this fuck, he didn’t look a thing like Mature. Mature was a handsome sonofabitch, a star, and this guy—

&n
bsp; The phone rang on the wall, and the bartender went to answer it. Then the bartender hung up the receiver and walked back over to the fat guy. The two of them whispered a little bit, which Matty couldn’t make out on account of they had brought it down so low. Then the fat guy, he left a big bill on the bar, put on his topcoat, and headed out. Buchner watched the fat fuck go; he reminded him of some actor, all right. But who?

  Buchner looked in the bar mirror at the wholesome hookers, and then he caught his own reflection in the glass. He could remember a time when the ladies found him pretty sharp, but now, with this cockeyed eye…anyway. He looked once more at the hookers. He smiled at them, tried to think if he had the dough on him to take the next step. Aw, what the hell. Even if he had the twenty for the both of them—and he knew he could get them down to twenty—how could he enjoy it, knowing that they’d be sick about it the whole time, that they couldn’t stand to be with a single-peepered sad sack like him?

  Matty Buchner sipped at his drink. The house brand, it wasn’t all that bad.

  Chapter 27

  “Lola…Lola, honey. C’mon, wake up.”

  Lydia Fortuno took her hand from Lola Florek’s shoulder, pulled back the topsheet that covered her. Lola lay fetally on the bed, her mocha-colored dress bunched and wrinkled, her ankle-strapped heels still on her feet. A spot of blood had formed and dried now in the area of Lola’s crotch. Lydia felt her jaws tighten—Morgan, that sonofabitch, he had sent her over to that colored reefer party at the blind pig off 7th earlier in the night, even after Lydia had warned him that the child might get hurt. The bastard she had been with, he had ripped into Lola real good. Afterwards, Lydia had seen her coming through the front door, trying not to double over from the pain, and she had taken her straight up the stairs and given her the sweet shot. It wouldn’t fix what had happened, but it would take Lola away.

  “Lola, please.”

  Lola’s eyes fluttered. “What?”

  “I need you to come with me, honey.”

  “Where?”

  “Morgan’s got me fixed up with a date. A fellow who asked for someone like me…you know, on the big side, honey, like me.”