George Pelecanos - Shoedog

The man fingered a mound of magnetic chips on a black plastic base as he glanced briefly at Constantine and smiled thinly at Polk. It was a smile Constantine had seen on priests and salesmen.

The man said, “Polk.”

Polk nodded. “Grimes.”

Grimes did not get up, and Polk stood with his hands loose in the pockets of his windbreaker. They stared at each other blankly, though in the eyes of Grimes Constantine could see a light, a flicker of history between the two men.

Grimes looked at the lean man and said, “Jackson,” then made a sharp, economical movement of his head. Jackson slipped the file into the pocket of his slacks. He rose without speaking and walked slowly to a bookcase that had a ledge, where he sat with one foot brushing the floor.

“You too, Valdez,” Grimes said.

Valdez got out of his chair and swept a stony glance past Polk and Constantine as he stepped to the far wall. Gorman was there, his arms folded, and Valdez took his place beside him.

Polk walked to the chair directly in front of the desk and took a seat. He folded one leg over the other and crossed his hands in his lap. Constantine settled into the chair where Jackson had been.

Grimes moved the magnetic toy and field glasses from the center of his desk and tented his hands in their place. “You’re back,” he said.

“Yes,” Polk said.

“How long’s it been?”

“I don’t know. A couple, three years.”

“Get into anything interesting while you were out on the road?”

“Some things,” Polk said, and cut it at that.

Jackson had retrieved his file and was digging deeply into the cuticle of his thumb. No one spoke for a minute or so and then Constantine heard the Mexican sigh behind his back. Grimes cleared his throat to break the silence.

“Valdez tells me you stopped by yesterday and inquired about the twenty thousand,” Grimes said. “I thought we had that settled the last time you were in town.”

“You had your muscle throw me out,” Polk said. “That didn’t settle it.”

“Well,” Grimes said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. Because you and me go back. But we’ve been going around on this thing for years now, and I think you know me well enough-”

“And you know me.”

Grimes bit down on the inside of his lip and lowered his voice. “Yes.”

Polk smiled and made an easy wave with one hand. “So, the money, Grimes. Then you don’t see me again.”

Grimes put a finger in the air and said, “Excuse me, one minute.” He turned his desk phone around, picked the receiver out of its cradle, and punched a three-digit extension into the grid. “Hi… bring me a coffee up to the office, will you? Thanks.” He replaced the receiver and looked back at Polk.

Polk patted the inside of his knee. “Back to the money, Grimes.”

“Right. Well, I’m going to be honest with you, Polk. This whole discussion-it’s all irrelevant now.”

“Why’s that?”

Grimes showed some teeth. “I just don’t have it, old buddy. I simply haven’t got it.”

Polk laughed loudly, a short, cynical eruption. “You haven’t got it? That’s rich, Grimes. That’s really rich.”

Grimes’s grin widened. “Listen, I won’t bullshit you. Of course I can get it. But the way I have my funds tied up, to maximize return, it would take a few days to get you the cash. So this is what I’m thinking: since you’re going to be hanging around for a couple of days, why not cut you in on something… extra we’ve got going on. Something big.”

Constantine felt a tic, a weakness in the knees, and a brief rush of power. His thumb dented the leather arm of the chair.

Polk leaned forward. “Like what?”

Grimes shifted his gaze to Constantine and back to Polk. “We haven’t been introduced.”

“His name’s Constantine.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Grimes said.

Polk said, “He’s a driver.”

Constantine heard a grumble and some movement behind him-the unfolding of arms. Jackson looked up from his surgery and dropped the file into the side pocket of his slacks.

“A driver?” Grimes said. “It happens that we could use a driver.”

Polk said. “What’s the game?”

Grimes moved the magnetic toy back in front of him on the desk and ran his fingers through the chips. “The briefing’s two-thirty this afternoon. All the details will be handled then, by Weiner.”

“Condense it for us, Grimes. You can do that.”

“Of course I can. But if you turn it down, how can I let you and your friend walk?”

“Because you know me,” Polk said, making a head movement toward Constantine. “And I’m vouching for him.”

“I don’t like it,” Valdez said, behind their backs.

Polk and Grimes kept their eyes on each other, ignoring Valdez. It was as if the Mexican were not standing in the room.

Grimes played with the magnetic chips, making a mound of them before he pushed the toy away. “All right,” he said. “In a nutshell: we’re talking about a knockover, this Friday. Two liquor stores, on opposite ends of Northwest.”

“What’s the payoff?” Polk said.

“Total take? I put it at three hundred Gs.”

“How many men?”

“Six, not counting Weiner.”

“The split?”

“The usual,” Grimes said. “A hundred to me, inclusive of my bankroll-guns, automobiles, anything else. Twenty to Weiner, for logistics. The rest to the six who pull the job. That’s thirty each, for you and your friend.” Grimes grinned. “And something else.”

“Keep talking.”

“The extra twenty. It’s yours when you complete the job.”

“Why so generous?”

“I need you, Polk. I’ve looked at this closely, and it’s as near to a sure thing as you can get. But it’s never all cake.” Grimes pointed over the desk. “You’re good. I want to hedge my bet.”

Polk let it settle. “What if I pass, just take the original twenty?”

Grimes said, “That’s not an option.”

Polk chewed on that for a while. He said, “If I decide to come on board-and I haven’t decided-there’s one more thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“If something goes down-if I don’t make it-Constantine here gets my share. My thirty, and his, and the extra twenty. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Grimes said, against the tightness in the room.

There was a knock on the door, and an entrance. A woman carrying a cup and saucer walked through the room and stopped at the desk.

Constantine took her in: a thirtyish blonde, natural from the looks of her-pale, unblemished complexion and blue, blue eyes. She wore riding jeans and low-heeled calfskin boots, with a chambray shirt tucked into the jeans and a red scarf tucked into the neck of the shirt. The scarf hid most of the neck, but not the best of it, the long swannish curve mat ended at the chiseled chin. There was a freshness in her like newly printed money. Constantine could smell it from his chair, as if a window had been opened in the room.

The woman placed the setup in front of Grimes and ran one slender finger along the edge of the blotter. “Is that all?” she said. “Because I’m about ready for my ride.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Grimes said, looking suddenly small and boyish behind the desk. “I’m about done here.” He moved his eyes to his guests. “You remember Mr. Polk, don’t you, Delia?”

The woman named Delia gave Polk a polite but disinterested smile. “Of course. Nice to see you again.”

Polk nodded, his eyes fixed on the woman.

Constantine spoke for the first time. “My name’s Constantine,” he said, no longer wishing to remain invisible.

He stood and walked to the desk, where he stretched out his hand. Delia shook it, held on a second longer than necessary, looking him over before she released her grip. Constantine thought he saw something familiar in her eyes, but the sensation passed. The only thing familiar, he decided, was his own desire.