George Pelecanos: Shoedog

“A thoroughbred,” Constantine said, knowing nothing of horses, though this was something anyone could see.

“Yes,” Delia said. “The son of an Arabian stallion and an English mare.”

“Beautiful,” he said, looking at Delia.

Delia walked to the back of the stable, took a leather halter and rope off a nail, and returned. She held the horse by the mane with her right hand, brought the nose band up, pushed the loose end of the crown piece over the head, and buckled it. She patted the black stallion on his hindquarters and watched him walk slowly from the stable out into the paddock.

“What now?” Constantine said.

“Nothing too exciting. I clean his stall-shovel it out, and lime it-and then I ride. When I get back, I feed him.”

Constantine looked into the empty stall, the dirt damp with urine. A wooden manger sat half filled with hay, a bucket of water by its side. His eyes moved above and to the left of the stall, in a corner of the stable. A video camera hung there, pointed down, an indicator light burning red below the lens, a green button below the light. Constantine looked into the lens, chuckled, then looked at Delia.

“We being watched?” he said.

“Not necessarily. It’s always on. They’re not always monitoring it.” Delia put a strand of blond behind her ear. “I can call them, though. That’s what the button’s for, below the light.”

“It’s a lot of security for an animal. Grimes got a thing about the horse?”

“He’s got a thing about protecting his investment.”

“When you’ve got something that sweet, I guess… you don’t want to lose it.”

“That’s right.”

“It is sweet,” Constantine said. “Isn’t it? I’m thinking right now how sweet it must be-”

“Don’t,” Delia said sadly. “Don’t think about it.”

She made a move to go around him, but Constantine stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Her blue eyes bore into his with determination, but there was something else there, something like an opening; Constantine took it, holding her chin in his hand just as she tried to jerk it away. He put his mouth on hers. Her lips were warm and almost at once there was no resistance, and Constantine took his hand off her chin, feeling her mouth open as she relaxed against him. He put his hands on her shoulders and smelled the clean scent of her hair, and the smell aroused him as much as the smoothness of her tongue and the pressure and warmth of her groin against his.

They broke apart. Delia stepped back, ran the back of her hand across her mouth, slowly looked him up and down.

“Why did you do that?” she asked quietly.

“You wanted me to.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I suppose I did.”

“You can’t be happy.”

She studied his face. “You’re not going to make trouble, are you?”

“I might,” he said.

She came forward, closing her eyes this time before they kissed. He felt her around him, felt her tongue slide over his. She took his fingers and put them to her breast, her teeth pressing into his lips as he touched her. They walked to the far corner of the stable, where they undressed.

Delia dropped Constantine’s denim shirt into the damp dirt. He watched the muscles of her back wash over her rib cage as she carefully spread the shirt. She sat on it and reached for his hand. He came to her as barn swallows fluttered in the rafters.

Afterward, they did not speak. Constantine held her, her tears hot on his neck. The feeling of her in his arms frightened him, the same fear that had gripped him when he had held the boy in the park, in Greece. He could just move on-there would be other children to hold, and there would be other women-but he was tired.

Delia looked up at him and smiled, wiping the tears off her face. She put her head back down and buried her face into his shoulder. After a while the fear that he was feeling went away.

A catalog of power fashion packed the lunch-hour sidewalk at Connecticut Avenue and K, the downtown hub of the city’s lobbyists, and blue-chip law and brokerage firms. Armani suits and Louis Vuitton handbags paraded by, sharing the concrete with the homeless and the vendors and the bums, the scent of Opium colliding with the stench of urine.

At one particularly busy avenue storefront, Washington’s working women-secretaries, attorneys, and hookers-buzzed in and out of glass doors. Those exiting the shop carried white plastic bags emblazoned with a luxuriant blue logo depicting one delicate foot resting on a pillow. Mean Feet, D.C.’s premier shoe boutique, had begun to heat up.

Inside, Randolph worked the floor.

“What size, girlfriend?” Randolph said, to the woman in the red skirt. She was standing by the display rack holding a spectator, a black number with a blue vamp, in her hand.

“That depends on what you’re doing tonight,” she said coyly.

“Tonight?” Randolph said, buying time, looking away like he was thinking it over, really looking at the rest of the customers on the floor, making sure none of the other boys took one of his women. Antoine, that skinny boy from Georgia, was edging over to one of his best regulars, a perfect seven and a half, a regular with a full-time paycheck and a government job. And Jorge, the Latin with the thin mustache and all the hair, was sniffing after something in a tight leather skirt, always lookin’ to get next to that Man in the Boat.

“Yes, tonight.”

Randolph looked down impatiently at the woman’s foot. “You an eight and a half, right?”

“That’s right.”

“How’s next Tuesday sound?”

“Tuesday’s good,” said the woman in the red skirt.

Randolph said, “I’ll be right back.”

On the way to the stockroom Randolph stopped at a large woman wearing a colorful dress and a headband to match. She was sitting on the end of the padded bench, and she was holding a sale shoe, some burlap-lookin’ bullshit, some old-ass espadrille-lookin’ shit, in her callused hand.

“You ready now?” Randolph said.

“Nine,” said the woman.

“Be right back.” Randolph paused before entering the stockroom. He turned and shouted across the sales floor, over the seventies funk-Rick James, “Bustin’ Out of L 7”-that was booming out the store speakers, toward his regular, who was now holding a shoe and talking to Antoine. “What size, baby?”

The woman said, “Antoine’s helping me today, Randolph.”

Randolph bugged his eyes and shook his head. “Uh- uh! What you want to talk to that itty-bitty”-Randolph paused, grabbed the top of his thigh, shook what he grabbed-“you want a man with some heft, don’t you, baby?”

The regular looked at Antoine, blinked apologetically, and turned back to Randolph. “Seven and a half,” she said.

Randolph jetted into the stockroom, kicking boxes out of the way. He felt Antoine follow him back.

“What you want to go and disrespect me like that for?” Antoine shouted, as he entered the clutter of stock and stretching tools and empty cartons.

Randolph turned, gave Antoine his godfather stare. “You know better than to talk to my ladies, Spiderman.”

“Don’t call me no Spiderman, man.”

Randolph softened his voice-he didn’t need to throw gasoline on this shit, not during the rush. “Go on, man. There’s plenty of money out there for everyone. Plenty of money and plenty of honey. Right, Antoine?”

Antoine smiled his country smile, said, “That’s a bet. Sure is plenty of honey.” He turned his arachnid’s torso and loped back out the door, all arms and legs.

Randolph headed for the back of the stockroom, thinking that the boy Antoine could be good- if he concentrated more on picking up customers and less on his pride. Now the other one, Jorge, he’d wash out. All he thought about was the nappy, day and night. Randolph knew one thing: the day was for taking those shoes to the hole; the night was for the freaks.