George Pelecanos - Shoedog

Delia turned and walked from the room. Jackson chuckled under his breath, stroking his sparsely goateed chin as he eyeballed Constantine. The door shut behind the woman, and Constantine returned to his seat.

Grimes had a sip of coffee. He placed the cup back on the saucer, staring once meaningfully at Constantine before he spoke to Polk. “Well,” he said. “What do you think?”

Constantine thought of the money. He pictured it in tightly banded stacks. In the picture, next to the stacks of money, stood the woman. He looked at Polk, and he nodded.

Polk said, “We’ll come to the meeting this afternoon. See what this thing’s all about. I’ll give you my answer then.”

Grimes took a pen from a leather cup and wrote some words down on a green pad. He tore the top sheet off the pad and held it out to Polk. Polk got out of the chair, limped to the desk, and took the paper from Grimes’s hand.

“I’d like you to take care of this,” Grimes said, “before the meeting. Okay?”

Polk read the note, said, “Right,” folded the paper, and put it into his windbreaker. “Let’s go, Connie.”

Constantine joined Polk and the two of them walked from the room. When the door was shut, Valdez pushed off from the wall.

“Mr. Grimes-”

“Save it,” Grimes said, his palm up. “Just save it. I know what I’m doing, understand? You and Gorman, take a walk. And be back for the meeting.”

Valdez and Gorman split. Jackson watched them walk-raggedy-ass motherfuckers, out of the old school-until the door closed behind them. He looked at Grimes.

“You want me gone too, Mr. Grimes?”

“No.” Grimes pulled a white envelope heavy with hundreds from his top drawer and pushed the envelope to the edge of the desk. “Come on over here and have a seat, Jackson,” he said. “I’ve got a little extra something I want done on this one.”

Jackson crossed the room, picked up the envelope. “This have somethin’ to do with the old man?”

“Yes,” Grimes said. “I’ll let you handle it, any way you see fit.”

“So, just get it done, right?”

“That’s right.” Grimes nodded, lowered his eyes to the blotter on the desk. “I think you’ll like it.”

Jackson ran his fingers through the deck of green. He smiled and said, “I think so too.”

Polk and Constantine took the marble stairs to the foyer, Polk holding the banister for support. Valdez and Gorman had come out behind them. Valdez stood on the landing, his eyes following Constantine, his mouth moving gutturally, his face contorted. Gorman stared over the balcony, his hands dug rigidly into his pockets.

At the bottom of the stairs, by the open doors that led into a library, Polk pulled Constantine aside. Delia sat in an armchair on the opposite end of the foyer, one leg crossed over the other. She looked anxiously at Polk, as if she wanted to speak. Polk caught it, but first turned to Constantine.

“What do you think?” Polk said, keeping his voice low.

“About the woman?”

He frowned and shook his head. “I know what you think about the woman. I’m talking about the job.”

Constantine shrugged. “I’ll listen to what they’ve got to say.”

“All right.” Polk watched Delia get out of the chair and cross the room. “Good.”

Constantine studied Delia’s walk, admired it as she came to a stop in front of them.

“Mr. Polk,” she said, “if you’re on the way out, I’d like you to drop me at the stable. If it’s not an inconvenience.”

Polk smiled. “I’d love to, sweetheart. But I think I’m going to stick around, catch up with the boys upstairs.” He pulled the notepaper and car keys from his windbreaker and handed them both to Constantine. “You don’t mind taking Delia down to the stables, do you Connie? After that, take care of this errand. And meet me back here, two-thirty.”

Constantine pocketed the note and palmed the keys. “I’ll see you then.”

He began to walk for the front door, and Delia followed. Valdez looked down from above and ran his tongue across thick lips. His eyes trailed them to the door.

Out in the yard, Constantine stepped quickly across the driveway toward Polk’s car. Delia trotted a few steps to catch up.

“You in a hurry?” she said.

“I walk fast,” he said, keeping his stride. Constantine noticed, walking next to her, that the woman was nearly his height.

“I’ve got to get something out of my car.”

Constantine said, “I’ll meet you at the Dodge.”

He dropped into the driver’s side of the bench, moved the seat back, and cooked the ignition. Through the windshield he watched Delia reach into the Mercedes and pull a gadget from the visor. She walked to the Super Bee and slid in on the passenger side.

“Nice car,” she said dryly.

“You could take yours.” He motioned towards the Mercedes. “It is yours, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But I don’t want to take it. When I finish my ride, I always walk back to the house, through the woods. It’s my routine.”

“Some routine. Like working, I guess, only different” Constantine swung the Dodge around and headed down the driveway toward the gate. He looked at the beeper-sized gadget in Delia’s hand. “That open everything around here?”

Delia said, “I suppose it does,” and she rolled down the window to take some air. The rain had stopped, and with the window open a damp green smell settled around them.

Delia pointed the gadget at the gate. It swung in and Constantine edged through, turning left onto the two-lane. He punched the gas and felt the surge of the 383.

She looked at him, across the seat. “You’re some sort of driver, aren’t you?”

“They think I am.”

Delia looked out at the road as it disappeared beneath the hood. “You’re here for this new project.”

“You don’t know the particulars, huh?”

“He spares me the details.”

“But you know something about it, don’t you? It bothers you enough to pretend you’re outside of it all. But not enough to walk.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talkin’ about Grimes’s business. It keeps you in designer scarves, and it keeps you in horses.”

“I’m not interested in what you think.”

“You’re interested,” Constantine said. “I felt it in your touch.”

Delia said, “Just drive.”

The woods ended, the split rail continuing to border the field where the stable stood. Delia pointed to an open gate. Constantine slowed the Dodge, turning in and driving slowly down the gravel road that ran a path to the stable. He cut the engine.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, not looking at him now.

Constantine made a head movement toward the stable. “Can I see it?”

Delia pushed some blond off her face. “If you’d like.” She started out of the car. Constantine stopped her with his hand. Her arm felt soft beneath the chambray of her shirt.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”

“You don’t know me,” she said, and moved out of the seat.

Constantine exited the Dodge and followed her through a gate, into a paddock, and then through the dutch-doored entrance to the stable. Two stalls stood inside the stable, with the head of a horse visible over the gate of one stall. The opposite stall was open and unoccupied. The stable appeared neatly arranged, clean, with the pleasant smell of damp hay. Hooves clomped the dirt as they entered.

“Hello, Mister,” Delia said musically, opening the stall gate out and to the left. She stood protectively against the gate as the horse moved halfway out into the stable.

The stallion stood still as Delia patted his neck and forequarters. He was black and full and muscled, with a blue-black mane and tail, and a diamond of white between his eyes, covering the area from his forehead down close to his muzzle. Constantine looked at the horse’s deep, intelligent eyes, and then at Delia’s, crinkled at the corners as she traced her fingers down his face as she might the face of a lover.