George Pelecanos - Down By the River Where the Dead Men Go

“Jefferson,” Donny said.

“Mr. Jefferson, please put that down, it’s my son’s-”

“Mr. Tobias,” McGinnes said, warming to it now, “you sure you’re not getting your product from the Brontmans? Because I know-I know — that our product has ten times the value-”

“Sir,” Bernie said, “I’m getting most of my product out of Southeast right now, the Buzzard Point area. Some of my stuff comes out of an apartment house in Silver Spring. I mean, I know where my product’s coming from.”

“We wouldn’t suggest otherwise,” LaDuke said. “But aside from the fact that we offer the best value for the money, we also offer a steady supply of product. New titles every two weeks.”

“I’ve even got you there,” Bernie said. “My suppliers, they shoot one night a week, deliver me new product each Saturday. I couldn’t be happier with the situation I’ve got.”

“They shoot on what night?” I said, and saw from the exasperated look on Tobias’s face that I had pushed it too far.

He breathed out slowly, let his composure creep back in. “Gentlemen, I know what you’re trying to do here. You’re trying to pump me for information, gain some kind of competitive advantage so you can come back to me with a program. But that’s not the way I do business.” Tobias smiled genially. “Listen, the next time you’re in town, bring some samples of your product. We’ll have a look, sit down, work on some pricing. If I like what I see, who knows, maybe we’ll make a deal. In the meantime, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and pushed myself up from my chair. My associates followed suit. I shook Tobias’s hand.

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Tobias,” I said. “We’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure you will,” Bernie said. “You fellows have an unusual style, by the way.”

“We try,” I said. “Thanks again.”

LaDuke went to shake Tobias’s hand. I heard a bone crack, and Tobias jerked his hand back.

“You’ve got a hell of a grip,” Bernie said with a nervous chuckle. “That’s my golf hand, you know.”

“Sorry,” LaDuke said. “I’m stronger than I look, I guess.” He smiled, his teeth bared like a dog’s. We walked from the room, leaving Tobias staring at his hand.

DARNELL DROVE US BACK to the lot of Goode’s White Goods. Donny and McGinnes got out of the car, and I got out with them. The heat rose off the black asphalt of the lot. I put fire to a smoke.

“How’d I do?” Donny said. He looked shrunken in his clothes, his mouth screwed up to one side.

“You did good,” I said. “When I get paid on this one, I’ll send you and Johnny a little piece of it.”

“At your service.” Donny looked at Darnell through the open window of the Ford and said, “My brother.” Darnell smiled, and Donny stepped across the parking lot, toward the double glass doors.

McGinnes said, “Told you he was all right.”

“Thanks, man. Thanks for everything.”

“Hey, you and me…” McGinnes shuffled his feet. “Nothing to it.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “By the way, No Damn Good’s got an opening on the floor. Any interest? You can’t keep doing this sideline thing of yours forever.”

“It’s not a sideline,” I said. “It’s what I do.”

“Right,” McGinnes said, unconvinced. “Just thought I’d ask.”

“You wouldn’t want me to take the food out of your mouth, would you?”

“Wouldn’t want that.”

“Take it easy, Johnny.”

“You too, Jim.” McGinnes grinned. “Better get my ass back inside. The little bastard’s probably in there stealing all my ups.”

He put his hands in his pockets and walked away, whistling through his teeth. I hit my cigarette, dropped it, and ground it under my shoe.

We dropped Darnell back at the Spot, and afterward LaDuke took me back to my place. We sat out front, the Ford idling at the curb.

“Wish we could have gotten more out of Tobias,” LaDuke said.

“We got everything we could,” I said. “And anyway, I think we got plenty.”

“Like?”

“Just a feeling. This thing’s getting ready to bust.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.” I put my hand on the door latch and lightly tapped his arm. “You did all right back there, you know it?”

“I’m catching on.”

“I’ll call you in the morning,” I said. “We’ll put it in gear.”

“Why not tonight?”

“ ’Cause I got to go see somebody right now.”

“On the case?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“Look, LaDuke, you don’t have to worry. I’m not gonna leave you behind. We’re partners, right?”

LaDuke smiled, sat a little straighter behind the wheel. I got out of the car, rapped the roof with my knuckles, and walked toward my apartment as he pulled out from the curb. Some electric guitar and a screaming vocal cut the quiet of the early-evening air. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn LaDuke had turned his car radio on, and was playing it loud as he drove away.

My uncle Costa is not my uncle. He is not my father’s brother, or my grandfather’s, or a distant cousin, and I’m fairly certain that there is none of his blood running through my veins. But to Greeks, this is a minor detail. Costa is as much a part of my family as any man can be.

Ten years younger than my grandfather, Big Nick Stefanos, Costa came to this country from a village outside Sparta. Though I’ve not confirmed it, it’s been said that Costa killed his sister’s groom over a dowry dispute the night after their wedding and then left Greece the following day. He worked for many years as a grille man in my grandfather’s coffee shop downtown and lived above it in a small apartment with his wife, Toula. In the forties, my grandfather hit the number in a big way and staked Costa in his own store, a lunch counter on 8th and K.

Children tend to force assimilation in their immigrant parents, and as Costa and Toula were childless, Costa never fully embraced the American culture. But he loved his adopted country as much as any native-born, and he was especially enamored of the opportunities available for men who had the desire to work. Fiercely loyal to my grandfather, he remained friends with him until Big Nick’s death. I saw Costa on holidays after that and spoke to him on the phone several times a year. The last time he phoned, it was to tell me that he had cancer and had only a short time to live.

The beer in my hand wouldn’t help Costa, but it would make it easier for me to look at him. I sat in my car on Randolph Street, off 13th, in front of Costa’s brick row house. When I had taken the last swig, I crushed the can and tossed it over my shoulder behind the seat. I locked my car and took the steps up to his concrete porch, where I rang the bell. The door opened, and a handsome, heavy-hipped woman stood in the frame.

“Nick Stefanos. I’m here to see my uncle.”

“Come on in.”

I entered the small foyer at the base of the stairs. The air was still, as it always was in Costa’s house, but added to the stillness now was the distinct stench of human excrement. The nurse closed the door behind me and caught the look on my face.

“He’s nearly incontinent,” she said. “He has been for some time.”

“That smell.”

“I do the best I can.”

I could hear Costa’s voice, calling from his bedroom up the stairs. He was speaking in Greek, saying that his stomach was upset, asking for some ginger ale to settle it.

“He wants some soda,” I said.

“I can’t understand him,” she said, “when he’s talkin’ Greek.”

“I’ll get it for him,” I said, and moved around her.