Shoedog

by George Pelecanos

  Gorman stood, saw the young Irishman stand, saw his wild eyes as Gorman took aim above the barrel chest and fired. The young Irishman was thrown back against the wall, his face torn and peppered pink, his sawed-off exploding the plaster ceiling as he fell. Valdez reached over the counter, put another slug into the father, moved the gun, put one into the son.

  Valdez said, “Get the money, Gorman.”

  Gorman grabbed the bags, ignored the juicers spread flat on the floor as he joined Valdez by the front door. Valdez ejected the clip from the .45 in his right hand, palmed a fresh clip into the gun. He looked through the black bars, out onto the street at the idling Plymouth.

  “He’s there,” Valdez said, the sirens growing louder.

  “I see ‘im,” said Gorman.

  “They’re coming now,” Valdez said.

  Gorman said, “I know.”

  Gorman took the shells from his jacket pocket, thumbed them into the Mossberg’s breech. Valdez looked left, down the street. He saw the blue-and-white turn the corner.

  “What else you holdin’?” Valdez said.

  “My nine,” Gorman said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  “How many shots?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Keep the shotgun and the bags in one hand,” Valdez said. “Use the nine.”

  Gorman drew it from inside his jacket.

  The cop car rose and fell on its shocks as it blew down the street. The driver hit the brakes, the tires screaming as the car began its skid.

  Valdez said, “Now, Gorman,” and put his shoulder to the door.

  Valdez and Gorman came from the store, moved quickly across the sidewalk, stopped, and stood straight as the cop car skidded to a halt three feet behind the Plymouth.

  Valdez and Gorman fired into the windshield, Valdez moving his gun driver to passenger, repeating with both .45s. The glass spidered crimson, behind it the vague dark shapes of uniformed bodies rocking violently forward and back, jumping, coming to rest.

  Valdez and Gorman turned, casings rolling on the sidewalk, crunching beneath their feet. The street was empty now. The siren still wailed from the shot-up cop car and there were more sirens coming from two or three directions.

  Gorman got into the backseat of the Plymouth, dropped the shotgun and the bags on the floor. Valdez got into the seat next to Constantine.

  “Take off,” Valdez said, shutting the door, pulling the stocking off his head.

  Constantine’s face was pale, tight, stretched back. He worked the gears, stared straight ahead, pumped the gas against the clutch.

  “What the fuck’s goin’ on, man?” Gorman shouted. “Move it, driver!”

  The sirens were almost on them now. Valdez put the barrel of his .45 to Constantine’s temple. He bared his teeth and put his face close to Constantine’s ear.

  Valdez said, “Make it fly.”

  The Beat flashed white in Constantine’s head. He let up on the clutch and pushed down on the gas.

  The Plymouth laid rubber, screamed into the intersection at 14th and R. Constantine ran the red, skidded into a wide right turn as a blue Chevy sedan three-sixtyed, the ass end of it clearing the Plymouth.

  Constantine double-clutched the Hurst, headed north on 14th.

  “Heat,” Valdez said, pointing a finger at a blue-and-white driving head-on in their direction.

  Constantine cut the Road Runner across two southbound lanes, jumped the sidewalk at S, heard Gorman’s head hit the roof as he put the car back onto the blacktop. In the rearview, he saw the cop car skid into a right, straighten, fall in behind him.

  Constantine made a sharp left into the alley, hit the brick side of a rowhouse, saw sparks in his side vision, punched the gas. Pakistanis and Indians scattered ahead, frantically pushing their vending carts out of the way. Constantine landed on the horn, the Road Runner’s “beep-beep” sounding in the alley.

  “What the fuck is this!” Gorman said, as Valdez sideglanced Constantine.

  “Shut up,” Constantine said, over the screams of foreign words outside the car.

  He blew through a vendor’s cart, the cart jumping, tumbling back over the Plymouth’s hood and roof. Constantine turned sharply right at the T of the alley, took out a chain-link fence, gave the Plymouth gas, downshifted, got out of the grip of the fence.

  Gorman turned, looked out the back window. Through the smoke he could see the cop car, the vendor’s cart in pieces on the hood, as it crashed into the ruin of the fenced yard. Sirens still undulated in the air.

  “Where you goin’, Constantine?” Valdez said.

  Constantine raced through Johnson, the Plymouth’s four wheels lifting off the ground as it hit the street. The Plymouth came down, threw sparks, reentered the alley.

  “Fifteenth,” Constantine said.

  “Fifteenth’s one-way goin’ north.”

  “I know it,” said Constantine.

  Constantine blew out of the alley, fishtailed left, headed south against the traffic on 15th. A cop car sped toward them.

  “Goddamn it, Constantine,” Valdez said.

  Constantine pushed down on the accelerator, headed straight for the cop car. The front end of the Plymouth went down; Valdez and Gorman pushed back against their seats. Valdez gripped the armrest mounted on his door, his nails digging into the vinyl. Constantine kept the speed, kept the wheel straight. They could see the drawn-back faces of the cops, could see the mouth of the driver screaming.

  “Constantine,” Valdez said.

  Constantine cut it right, nicked the front end of the cop car, turned the wheel into the body of the cop car. There was a heavy collision of metal, the window on Gorman’s side imploding, and then the blue-and-white was off its wheels, airborne at the Plymouth’s side, rolling twice and landing, then skidding on its roof, stopped by a row of parked cars.

  Gorman laughed, screamed “Yeah!”, laughed again, rocked back against his seat. Valdez breathed out through his lips.

  Constantine turned right at R, drove against the traffic, cleared cars onto the sidewalk with the Road Runner horn. At 16th he cut north, drove to T, went right. Constantine swung left on 15th, headed north again. In his rearview, he saw the overturned car, smoke rising from its hood, a crowd forming around it.

  Constantine accelerated, downshifted as he hit the hill at Malcolm X Park. The 440 sang beneath them as they climbed the hill. The park, the people, and the buildings were a bleeding rush of color at their sides.

  “You catch Irving up ahead,” Valdez said, holstering his .45. “Take that across town, into northeast, catch Michigan Avenue.”

  Constantine nodded, expressionless.

  “Told you he could drive,” Gorman said, from the backseat.

  “Shut the fuck up, Gorman,” said Valdez.

  Constantine took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, put it to his lips. He pushed in the lighter on the dash.

  Chapter

  22

  THE floor of Mean Feet was filled with customers when Randolph entered a little past one o’clock.

  “Thanks for joining us, Randolph,” Mr. Rick said from behind the register, where a line of women had formed. Perspiration was beaded across Mr. Rick’s brow, his two or three hairs plastered down on his beige head.

  Mr. Rick handed a woman her change, kept talking at Randolph as he passed: “You do this to me on Friday, payday to boot. I’m not going to forget this, Randolph.”

  “I’m here now,” Randolph said, as he walked across the floor, headed to the back. He heard a couple of women greet him on the way, but he did not stop to acknowledge them or anything that was happening on the floor. He passed by the speaker that hung next to one of several full-length mirrors—Jorge was playing some Spanish Joe bullshit on the stereo—and entered the back room.

  Randolph hung his sport jacket on a nail, went to the water fountain near the stereo. Next to the fountain, two cigarettes burned down in a ceramic ashtray. The smoke curled into his face as he bent down and drank deeply of th
e ice-cold water. He lowered his face into the arc of water, kept it there.

  He stood up, ripped a paper towel off a nearby roll, wiped his face. Above him, in the center aisle of stock, Antoine straddled two shelves, reaching for a shoebox at the top. Antoine looked down, saw Randolph’s face buried in the towel.

  “Man, what the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Antoine said. “You pick a Friday, not to mention a payday, to Stroll on in here at one o’clock? Man, you know these bitches be comin’ in here to get all these shoes out of layaway today, and you know whose shoes they be gettin’ out. I been runnin’ my ass for you all day, man.”

  “I’m sorry, Antoine, I really am. It couldn’t be helped.”

  Antoine pulled out the box with a deft wrist movement, the boxes above it falling in line. The skinny man jumped down to the worn green carpet. He went to the ashtray, took a drag off the cigarette, exhaled smoke through his nose as he took another. He dropped the cigarette back in the ashtray.

  “You owe me, Shoedog.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “Yeah, you sorry.” Antoine smiled, let out the last of his smoke. “You be sorrier than a motherfucker when you see the numbers today. Even with all your layaways comin’ out, I’ll be bustin’ a double dot.”

  Randolph felt heat enter his face. “Double dot? Any motherfucker’d write a double dot today, all those freaks out there on that floor.” Randolph tossed the paper towel in the trash. “Shit, Spiderman—”

  “Don’t call me no Spiderman, man.”

  “Luther vandross move faster than you. You can’t run with me, boy, not on my worst day, hear?”

  “Uh-huh.” Antoine started walking, his head nodding rapidly. “Well, Shoedog, you just keep on scrubbin’ your face and shit. I got work to do.”

  Antoine jetted out onto the sales floor, and Randolph followed.

  Antoine went to his customer by the display, laid the shoebox at her feet. Randolph passed a fine woman in a blue skirt holding a shoe—he knew her, knew the woman never stepped up and bought—and walked straight to Jorge, who was trying to help one of Randolph’s regulars.

  “You come to get ’em today, darlin’?” Randolph said to the regular.

  “Randolph,” Jorge said, “we talkin’ here, man.”

  “You talkin’ to my lady,” Randolph said, giving it some teeth, flashing his smile at the woman. “That’s right isn’t it, darlin’?”

  “I always talk to Randolph,” the woman said shortly to Jorge, then looked back at Randolph and smiled. She took an evening shoe off the shelf and held it in her hand.

  “It’s an eight,” Randolph said, “isn’t it, baby?”

  “Seven and a half,” she said.

  Randolph said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Jorge followed Randolph toward the back room. He put a hand on Randolph’s shoulder. A woman at the register holding a layaway box called Randolph’s name.

  Randolph smiled, stepped away from Jorge’s hand, yelled across the store; “That’s a twenty-nine on that one, Mr. Rick.” He turned to Jorge. “What you want, man?”

  “Man, you just took my lady.” Randolph noticed Jorge’s thick eyebrows, his thick lips. Even when this one tried to look hard, he just looked pretty.

  “No, that’s my lady.” Randolph softened it. “But look here, amigo. You see that freak over there”—Randolph pointed to the woman in the blue skirt, holding up a shoe—“yeah, that one. Well, that’s one of my ladies, too. But just so there’s no hard feelin’s and shit, I’m gonna let you take her. Okay?”

  Jorge looked her over, liked what he looked at. He walked to the woman, tapped her on her shoulder. Randolph gave a last look at the floor, saw Antoine talking to an attorney holding a black pump. He studied the woman’s feet.

  “That’s a seven on that pump,” Randolph said loudly across the sales floor, and the attorney’s head turned. “Am I right?”

  “That’s right,” the attorney said, giving Randolph a smile.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Randolph.

  Randolph motored into the back room. He climbed the shelf on the left wall, heard Antoine repeating, “Uh-uh, uh-uh,” heard the “uh-uhs” getting louder as Antoine bolted into the stockroom.

  Randolph ignored him, reached for the seven—or had she said eight?

  “You’re disrespectin’ me now, Shoedog, you know I don’t play that—”

  “Relax, Antoine.” Randolph jumped down to the carpet, faced Antoine, spoke softly. “You know there’s plenty enough for everybody out there, man. Matter of fact, you missin’ it right now. Go on, man”—Randolph made a head motion toward the open door to the sales floor—“Go on and get some.”

  Antoine nodded, turned, went back out to the floor.

  Randolph moved quickly down the center aisle, tried to remember the name of that evening shoe—was it the Sweetie?—and the woman’s size. He looked blankly at the shoeboxes on the shelf. He thought of the automatic, pointed at his face. He thought of the recognition in the man’s eyes.

  He climbed up, straddled two shelves, watched his hand shake as he checked a couple of boxes. He found the shoe—it was the Tweetie, not the Sweetie—and pulled an eight. She had said seven and a half—or had she said seven?—but the freak was an eight. Randolph jumped down, picked up the pumps, put them on top of the evening shoes. He walked towards the front of the stockroom, feeling suddenly weak. He leaned against the shelf, balanced the shoeboxes with one hand, wiped his forehead with the other.

  Randolph laid the shoeboxes on the carpet. He went to the bathroom in the back of the store, vomited in the toilet. He put his hand on the sink, leaned over, finished vomiting. He found some mouthwash in the metal vanity, gargled, and spit into the sink. He splashed some water on his face and rubbed his hands dry on his pressed jeans.

  Randolph left the bathroom, picked up the two pairs of shoes, and walked out of the stockroom, onto the sales floor, into the light.

  WEINER checked his watch: five minutes past one o’clock. He switched to the left side of the moving steps, felt the ache in his calves as he walked up the long escalator out of the Dupont Metro. Behind him, at the bottom of the escalator, a boy in a white corduroy coat held up a stack of newspapers and repeated, “Washington Times, twenty-five cents. It ain’t the best, but it ain’t the worst.” Standing next to the boy, a shirtless man in overalls sang “A Change Is Gonna Come.” The richness of the singer’s voice resonated in the honeycombed concrete of the well.

  At the top of the escalator, Weiner dropped change in the plastic cup of a pleasant froggish man who stood in the same spot every day, saying “Thank you and have a nice afternoon” to everyone who passed. Weiner headed south on 19th, dodged business people, passed an acoustic guitarist, a food vendor, and a man selling caps and cheap silk ties. He saw the blue neon sign for Olssen’s, went to the doors, pushed on one, and walked inside.

  Inside, Weiner moved straight through the book section, moved past the sandals-and-eyeglasses crowd. A microphone came on in the store, and then a young woman’s tired voice: “I need a manager at the front register, please.” Weiner stopped, checked his reflection in a round security mirror hung and angled down above a blind corner of the fiction department.

  He looked okay. The mirror added ten pounds, maybe fifteen, that much he knew. The thing was, any extra weight the black shirt would hide. The paisley ascot was a nice touch too. Weiner tipped his brown beret a little off-center, used his thumb and forefinger to groom his goatee. He turned and walked into the music section of the store.

  A couple of employees, guys with lavish hair, stood in the back, talked and laughed. A pop song—strings and drum machines and girl-group harmony—played in the shop, and the more willowy of the two employees put his arms up and closed his eyes and swayed back and forth in an approximation of the beat. Weiner did not know the song.

  Weiner hit the jazz section, flipped through the CDs. He looked into the back room as he pretended to inspect the titles, a
bsently running his fingers through the pack. He could see Nita back there, talking to a thin young man. Nita held a cup of coffee in her hand, and the young man said something, putting his hands together as in prayer, and Nita laughed. She happened to look out onto the floor, and Weiner caught her eye. She stopped laughing, and just smiled.

  Weiner smiled back, put his hand in the pocket of his Sansabelt slacks, and touched the paper wrapped around the small box that held the ring. He straightened his posture, sucked in his gut.

  Nita came out onto the floor, a black sweater over black tights, and walked toward Weiner. He checked out her hips, then the rest of her, and he felt a small stab in his chest. Nita had a full, plainish face, and she was on the heavy side—he knew that—but in her own way, the way those hips moved, the youth in her eyes, the freshness of the whole package, God, she was gorgeous. He’d die happy, and with a Cheshire smile on his face, if only he could touch it.

  “Hello, Weiner,” she said, stopping on the other side of the rack.

  “Nita,” Weiner said. “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you,” Nita said, bowing her head, her black hair falling across her face. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Weiner glanced at the two employees in the rear of the store, joined now by the young man Nita had been laughing with in the back room. The three of them were smiling alternately at Nita and Weiner. When Weiner looked at them, they looked away. So they were her friends, and something was funny. Was this chick putting him on?

  “Excuse me, sir,” Nita said, getting his attention. “I said, can I help you?”

  “Possibly,” Weiner said, feeling sweat above his lip but not moving to wipe it away. “Yeah, I think you might be able to help me.” In his pocket, he put his fingers around the ring.

  “Well?” Nita said.

  “Well, I’ve got this itch, see?”

  “An itch?”

  “That’s right. I’m itching—I’m hot, sweetheart, to hear some saxophone. Specifically, some Sonny Rollins—type saxophone. Are you with me?”