Shoedog

by George Pelecanos

  In the lobby, the acne-scarred desk clerk did not look up from his porno mag as Constantine passed. Some breakfast jazz came buoyantly from the lounge at Constantine’s back as he moved through the glass doors and stepped out into the Georgia Avenue night. The rain still came down, though the worst of it had passed. Constantine went to the Super Bee beneath the streetlight where he had parked it, got behind the wheel, and drove south.

  Constantine pulled the Dodge over at the Shepherd Park library, a couple of miles from the motel. He went inside, walked straight to the computerized index, a screen on a high table set next to a rutted pine card catalog. Constantine put his palm over his swollen eye, focused his good eye as he touched his finger to the alphabetized subjects on the screen. The subject windows became narrower with each touch. Finally he found the one that he was after.

  Constantine pulled a book, The Forgotten War by Clay Blair, from the shelf. He took the book to a table, had a seat across from a snoring homeless man who slept upright with a magazine stuck in his hand. Constantine sat there for the next hour, carefully reading a long chapter of the book. He barely noticed the smell of the homeless man’s soiled car coat, barely heard the laughter of children coming from behind a nearby partition as he read.

  When he had finished reading, he sat at the table for a little while longer. The homeless man woke up, asked Constantine for the time. Constantine checked his watch, said “Seven-thirty.” He got up from the table and walked heavily across the carpeted floor. Out on the street, he climbed into the Dodge and headed back to the motel.

  CONSTANTINE packed his Jansport in the room and slung the backpack over one shoulder. He picked up the briefcase, closed the lights in the room, and went down to the lobby.

  Constantine turned in his room key to the desk clerk, then took the backpack out to the Dodge and locked it in the trunk. He returned to the motel lobby carrying the briefcase and walked straight through to the lounge.

  The round-faced bartender with the moley face was on duty, standing at the service end, putting up drinks. John Handy’s “Hard Work” came through the house speakers. Constantine bought a deck of Marlboros from the machine by the entrance, passed quiet couples in booths, had a seat at the end of the empty bar. He put the briefcase behind the rail, at his feet. The bartender moved slowly, stopped where Constantine sat, wiped the area in front of him, placed a clean ashtray and a coaster on the mahogany.

  “Back for more,” the bartender said.

  Constantine said, “I guess.”

  The bartender looked squarely at Constantine for the first time, wrinkled his brow. “Hey, man, I know it’s none of my business—”

  “You’re right, it’s not.” Constantine winked painfully. “I slipped on a wet spot, out on the sidewalk. Tough town.”

  “Tougher than a motherfucker,” the bartender said, leaning on one round elbow. “I was listenin’ to the radio in my car, on the way into my shift. There was ten killin’s today in the District, including a couple of armed robberies, man, uptown and down in Shaw, where these boys just tore it up. It’s Good Friday today, you know? That’s why we’re so slow. Anyway, the man on the radio said they’d have to rename it Black Friday in D.C., what with all the—”

  “You got a phone I can use?” Constantine said.

  The bartender stepped back, stood straight. He wiped the bar rag across his hands. “Pay phone’s in the lobby.”

  “Tell you what,” Constantine said. “Put your phone on the bar. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  The bartender thought about it, nodded. “I can do that,” he said. “What’s it gonna be tonight?”

  “Vodka rocks,” said Constantine.

  “Right.”

  The bartender served the drink after a few long minutes, and placed the phone on the bar next to the drink. Constantine lighted a cigarette, dragged on it, fitted the cigarette in the notch of the ashtray. He pulled his wallet from the seat of his jeans. In the back of the wallet, he found Randolph’s card, the number of Delia’s private line at the Grimes estate, and another faded phone number on a folded, thin scrap of paper. He aligned the three numbers on the bar in front of him, and dialed the number penciled in on the scrap of paper.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Constantine talked to Willie Hall at the bar in Baton Rouge. He made the arrangements, said goodbye to Hall, got a new tone, and dialed Delia’s line. He heard her voice, and felt a drop in his chest.

  “Yes?”

  “Delia, it’s Constantine.”

  “Constantine.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It went all wrong today, didn’t it?”

  “Delia, don’t talk. Listen, okay?”

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “I want you to put on something comfortable. Something you can wear for a couple of days. Then I want you to get as much cash as you can carry in your pocketbook, and leave the house. I don’t care what you have to tell Grimes, just do it. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Delia, is the Mercedes registered in your name?”

  “No.”

  “Take the Mercedes and drive it down to Union Station.” Constantine looked at his watch. “Be at the Amtrak ticket counter at nine-thirty. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I can do it.” He listened to Delia breathe in and out. “Constantine, are you going to be there?”

  Constantine closed his eyes. “I’ll be there,” he said.

  “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Delia, it’s going to be fine.”

  “Constantine—”

  “Nine-thirty,” he said, and placed the receiver back on the cradle.

  Constantine lighted a cigarette, signaled the bartender for another drink. He reached into his jacket pocket, shook two more painkillers out of the bottle, and washed them down with the melted ice from his drink. The bartender put a fresh vodka on the coaster and walked away. Constantine dialed the next number, dragged on his cigarette, blew smoke over the bar. Randolph picked up on the third ring.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Constantine.”

  “Constantine, man.”

  “I need your help, Randolph. I need it tonight.”

  “It’s over for me,” Randolph said.

  “I know it,” said Constantine. “It’s over for all of us. I’m going to take care of it, understand?”

  For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Randolph said, “You in the lounge, man? I can hear that tired-ass funk.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m sitting at the bar.”

  Randolph sighed. “I’ll be there, all right? Fifteen minutes.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Constantine said. “I need you to bring something.”

  “What’s that?” said Randolph.

  Constantine told him, and racked the phone.

  CONSTANTINE watched Randolph move through the entrance, walk tiredly across the lounge. Randolph wore a loose-fitting sport jacket over a mustard-colored shirt buttoned to the neck. He pulled out a stool at the bar, shook Constantine’s hand as he settled on the stool. He studied Constantine’s battered face.

  “What the fuck happened to you?”

  “Me and Valdez,” Constantine said.

  “You—”

  “I’m all right. Thanks for coming, man.”

  “Ain’t no thing,” said Randolph.

  The bartender came from the service end, stood in front of Randolph. Randolph called him by name, ordered a drink.

  “Another one for you?” the bartender said to Constantine.

  “Yeah,” Constantine said. “Make this one an Absolut.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The bartender walked away. Constantine tapped out a beat on the bar, pointed to the speaker hung to the left of the high call rack.

  “You remember this one?” Constantine said.

  “I remember. It’s ‘Good to Your Earhole,’ right? Funkadelic.”

  Constantine nodded. “I had the original,
with the Pedro Bell cover—”

  “On Westbound,” Randolph said, giving Constantine skin.

  Randolph looked at the bartender’s back as he poured the drinks. He turned, checked out the couples sitting in the booths, into each other.

  “Nineteen seventy-five.” Constantine finished what was left in his glass. “I took my girl to see Funkadelic that year, right over at Carter Barron. You ever see them, man?”

  “No,” Randolph said, “but I saw Parliament, though, at the Cap Center, the next year after that. They turned that shit out, man, you know what I’m sayin’? The Mothership came down.”

  “That was the year I left D.C.,” Constantine said. “Funny thing, man. After all this time, the only music I remember is the music I was listenin’ to when I was here. I can’t really give you details about much of anything since then, and I been all over the world. It’s like it ended, when I left.”

  “Here,” Randolph said quietly, looking around once more before reaching into his jacket and drawing his .45. He passed it across his lap over to Constantine. Constantine put it under his jacket, moved it around to his back, slid the barrel down behind the belt loop of his jeans, fitted it there. Randolph passed Constantine an extra clip. Constantine slipped that in the pocket of his jacket.

  Constantine said, “Thanks,” and Randolph nodded.

  The bartender put a cognac and a side of ice water in front of Randolph, and an Absolut rocks in front of Constantine. The cocktail waitress with the scarred chin and the bandy legs called the bartender’s name, and he walked away.

  “All right, man,” Randolph said, tapping Constantine’s glass with his. The two of them drank.

  Constantine smiled weakly, put his glass down on the coaster. “You know, it doesn’t taste any different.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” said Constantine.

  Randolph squinted. “You okay, man? You drunk?”

  “I’m okay.” Constantine sipped his drink.

  Randolph pulled hard on his cognac, chased it with water, placed the glass back on the bar. He looked into his drink as he spoke. “I’m sorry about Polk. He was a good man.”

  “He was just a man.” Constantine burned a match, put it to the end of a cigarette. “He wasn’t what I thought he was. But he was a man.”

  “You’re talkin’ crazy, man.”

  Constantine used his foot to push the briefcase in front of Randolph. Randolph felt it touch his feet, looked down, looked at Constantine.

  “One more favor, buddy,” Constantine said.

  Randolph said, “Go ahead.”

  “I want you to take this down to Union Station. I want you to take it and meet Delia. She’s waiting for me, down at the Amtrak counter. Use some of the money to get her on a train to New Orleans. Get her on a train, tonight. Give her this”—Constantine handed a piece of notepaper with Willie Hall’s address and phone number written on it—“and tell her to look this guy up. He’s expecting her. He owns a bar and some stables, and he’s going to give her some work. Get her started.” Constantine dragged on his cigarette. “Tell her I got held up, man, tell her I had one more thing to do. Tell her I’m going to meet her in Baton Rouge.”

  Randolph hit the cognac, finished it. He put the snifter on the coaster and stared at Constantine. “But you ain’t goin’ to meet her. Are you, Constantine?”

  Constantine looked into his drink, shook the ice around in the drink.

  Randolph said, “You love her, man?”

  “No,” said Constantine.

  “What you doin’ this for, man?”

  Constantine dragged on his cigarette, blew smoke toward the bar mirror. “My whole life, Randolph, I been fuckin’ up. Today was the end of it. Some people got killed today”—Constantine closed his eyes, shook his head—“I can’t change it, man, but I can’t run away from it. I can make it so it doesn’t happen again. I can make it so Delia has a chance. I can make it so you and Weiner don’t get any more calls.” Constantine looked at Randolph. “I just want to do something right. Can you understand that?”

  “Sure, Constantine. I understand.”

  Constantine took Randolph’s hand, squeezed it. “You’ve been a good friend, man.”

  Randolph nodded, started to speak, did not speak. He bent down, picked up the briefcase from the floor, turned, and walked from the lounge. Constantine watched him go out through the glass doors of the lobby, walk under a streetlight, and disappear.

  The bartender placed the tab facedown in front of Constantine. Constantine left thirty on nineteen, pushed away from the bar. He stepped quickly out of the lounge.

  In the lobby, he passed the desk clerk, pushed on the double glass doors as the bass-heavy funk pumped and faded at his back. He walked out onto the sidewalk, into the night. The rain had stopped, but a mist still hung in the air. He turned the collar of his jacket up against the chill. Orange and red neon reflected off the puddles in the street.

  Constantine stepped off the curb, walked across Georgia Avenue toward the Dodge. He looked down at his feet moving on the wet asphalt, automatic, right before left then right again. He smelled the April air, felt the cool hardness of the gun pressed against the small of his back. And Constantine smiled, feeling as he did, just then, like a dog crossing over a bridge.

  Chapter

  26

  CONSTANTINE copped a pint of Popov at Mayfair Liquors, then drove to an Amoco station and filled the gas can that he found in the trunk. He rolled the windows down and headed southeast, sipping from the pint as he drove. He found a radio station playing straight-ahead rock and roll—two guitars, a bass, and drums—and turned up the volume. He smoked a cigarette down to the filter, lit another off that one as he caught Pennsylvania Avenue going east.

  He took Pennsylvania out of the District, let the 383 unwind as Pennsylvania widened, lost the moniker, became Route 4. He found the turnoff north of Dunkirk, drove to the unlit two-lane road, made the turn, and punched the gas. He tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder onto the backseat, dragged on his cigarette until it was hot against his lips, flicked the cigarette out the window. Up ahead, at the treeline, the split-rail fence began.

  Constantine drove by woods, then the Grimes estate. He kept his speed, glanced briefly at the house. The lights were on in the second-story windows; the floodlights that hung on the front of the house burned yellow, illuminating the grounds. He drove past another mile of woods, saw the break in the fence and the gravel road. He turned the Dodge into the gravel road, cutting his lights as he pulled up to the paddock that encircled the stable.

  Constantine got out of the Dodge, opened the trunk. He pulled the can from the trunk, poured gas on his backpack, poured some across the roof and on the front and back seats. He walked through the gate, into the paddock, walked through the dutch doors of the dimly lit stable.

  Constantine put the gas can down in the dirt. He found the leather halter hanging on a nail, took it to the stall where the stallion nervously clomped the dirt. Constantine opened the stall gate out and to the left, put his hand on the white diamond between the stallion’s eyes, rubbed it there and below, rubbed it gently, as Delia had done.

  “All right, Mister,” Constantine said.

  He held the mane with his right hand, and buckled the crown piece over the horse’s head. He patted the stallion on his hindquarters as he talked to him, pulled easily on the rope, walked him out of the stable. He led him through the paddock gate, released him, smacked him sharply on the rump. The stallion trotted away, stopped thirty yards out in the field, bucked his head, and looked back at Constantine. Constantine turned and walked back into the stable.

  He picked up the gas can, moved quickly to the corner of the stable, found the green button fixed to the area below the video camera, and pushed the button. The light below the camera burned red.

  Constantine stared up into the lens of the camera. He felt a weakness in his knees, an adrenaline surge, and a cleansing wash of power. Const
antine held the gas can up to the lens and smiled.

  GORMAN walked to the kitchen that he and Valdez shared in the back of the house. He had been awakened from his nap by the sound of the Mercedes engine starting up, and he had sat up in bed and spread the curtains, watching the woman drive the car out the front gate. He had rubbed his face, thinking of the woman in the car for only a few seconds, before deciding to pour some glue into the brown bag and have a huff. He had tripped on the glue for a while after that, lying faceup in the bed, and then he had gotten off the bed, put on his shoes, and gone to the kitchen to crack a beer.

  He heard the low sound coming from the monitor on the kitchen counter even before he walked into the room. He heard the sound, and then saw the flashing red light as he stood before the screen.

  “Valdez,” he said, keeping his voice just loud enough for only the Mexican to hear. “Better get in here.”

  Valdez came from his bedroom wearing his cheap black suit pants and a clean white button-down shirt. He stood next to Gorman and stared at the black-and-white images on the screen.

  “What the fuck,” Valdez muttered, shaking his head. “What the fuck.”

  On the monitor, Constantine poured gas around the stable. He poured the gas, and then he returned to the camera, talked to the camera, smiled, talked some more. Valdez looked at the ruined face, the one good eye, the eye that had been empty, now filled with some twisted howl of purpose.

  “I thought you killed him.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Gorman giggled. “You fucked him up real good, though, didn’t you?”

  “Shut up, Gorman.”

  “Should we tell Grimes?”

  “Shut up and let me think.” Valdez watched Constantine light a match, hold it in front of the camera. Then: “Get your gun, Gorman. Get both of mine from my room.”