George Pelecanos - Shoedog

Coming out of the elevator, Constantine could hear the Ohio Players’ “Sweet Sticky Thing” playing from the lounge. He entered, scoped the bar. In a far corner, he saw Polk and Randolph sitting with a woman at a roundtop. Constantine crossed the room, passed juicers huddled over their drinks at the bar, and stopped at the table.

“Connie!” Polk said, standing at once, shaking Constantine’s hand. Polk had put on a textured dress shirt, a Puerto Rican-looking number, over his white T-shirt. His windbreaker was spread over the back of the chair.

“Polk. Randolph.” Constantine smiled politely, extended his hand to the middle-aged woman in the chair. “My name’s Constantine.”

“Charlotte,” the woman said, closing and then opening her eyes slowly in drama-class fashion. She had deep purple eye shadow and penciled-in brows, sharply pointed at the tips. A shock of white-blond hair had been bleached into the front of her black bouffant. Straightaway, Constantine thought of Lily Munster.

“Good to meet you.”

“And you, honey.” Charlotte gave him a nicotinetinted smile. “Polk told me you were a looker. He was right.”

“Thanks.”

“Sit down, lover,” Randolph said, “and have a drink.”

Constantine sat, pushed the netted orange candle away from him, to the center of the table. A bandy-legged waitress came by, jutted her chin upward at Constantine. The motion revealed a scar beneath her chin.

“Vodka rocks,” Constantine said.

“What flavor?” the waitress said, impatiently jiggling change in her black apron.

“Just vodka.”

The waitress gave the rest of the table an eye-sweep. “Anybody else?”

“Two more of these, sweetheart,” Polk said, twiddling his fingers between his and Charlotte’s glasses.

“You?” the waitress said to Randolph.

“I’m good,” Randolph said, cupping his hand over his glass of soda water. The waitress gave Randolph an unclean look, wiped quickly at the area in front of Constantine. She brushed ashes off the table, half of them going into her hand, the other half drifting into Constantine’s lap. The waitress turned to walk away, and Randolph watched her feet.

Randolph said, “Eight and a half.”

“What’s that?” said Constantine.

“The lady wears an eight and a half. An A width, though. Tougher than a motherfucker to fit.” Randolph eyed Constantine’s denim shirt. “Speakin’ of threads, man, that outfit there-what the fuck is that your uniform?”

Constantine flashed on his high school military academy and service days, chuckled to himself. “I guess so,” he said. “Too many choices, too many complications. You know what I’m saying?”

“I know you’re a little off,” Randolph said. A softness came into his eyes. “But you’re down, I guess.”

Constantine glanced at Polk and Charlotte, huddled across the table, laughing. Eddie Kendricks’s “Keep on Trucking” had begun to blare through the bar speakers. Randolph sipped at his soda.

“You don’t drink,” Constantine said.

“I drink,” Randolph said. “But I keep it in check. Drinkin’s ruined most every man I know. When I get into the store every morning, I got to be on my game, one hundred percent. Can’t let those other boys get the jump on me, man.”

“But you do something,” Constantine said, looking into the pinkish white of Randolph’s eyes.

Randolph grinned. “I do like my herb, now and again”

“You holdin’?”

“Sure am. Shit I got’ll make your dick hard. You wanna get high?”

“That would be good,” Constantine said.

The two of them excused themselves and headed for the bathroom in the back of the lounge. Constantine went in first, motoring quickly to one of two urinals. Randolph had a look around the blue-tiled bathroom, then leaned back against the wall, next to a casement window. He pulled a manila coin envelope and some papers from his maroon sport jacket.

Constantine urinated while Randolph shook a line of pot into two papers he had glued together. He twisted a tight one, passed it through his lips, then ran a flame beneath the number to dry it, give it a seal. Constantine washed his hands in the sink as Randolph flicked his lighter and burned one end of the joint.

Randolph hit the weed, closed his eyes, held it in. He cranked open the window, looked through the crack, saw a barely lit alley, and blew the smoke out into the night. Randolph passed the joint to Constantine. Constantine blew the ash off the end, took a hit. He paused, felt the smooth warmth in his lungs, exhaled.

“Nice taste,” Constantine said.

Randolph formed an “okay” sign with his thumb and forefinger. “Sens.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“The bartender ran with this lady I used to know,” Randolph said. “Homeboy’s cool.”

Constantine passed the joint back to Randolph just as the bathroom door swung open.

“Gentlemen!” Weiner said, marching in. His floral print shirt had been buttoned to the neck, the tails tucked into his brown Sansabelt slacks. A beret, the same shade of brown as the slacks, sat cocked on his head.

Randolph reproduced the joint that he had cupped when the door had opened. He put it to his mouth, hit it once more, and passed it to Weiner. Weiner smelled the sweet wisp coming off the burning end, smiled, hit it, and talked as the smoke passed through his lips.

“Nice tea,” Weiner said.

“Sens,” said Randolph.

“What about Polk?” Constantine said. “He comin’ in too?”

“Not his bag,” Weiner said. “He knows what’s going on, though. Said you guys were in here doing one of two things-fucking each other or smoking grass.” Weiner grinned as he handed the number to Constantine. “It made Charlotte blush. And it takes something to make her blush.”

Constantine drew on the joint, then turned it around in his hand. He felt himself smile stupidly. “Hey, Randolph. Come on over here, man, let’s get serious.”

Constantine blew the ash off, put the lit end in his mouth, felt it singe his tongue. Randolph stepped up, cupped his hands around his mouth, and took the shotgun from Constantine.

“If you don’t mind,” Weiner said, “I’ll have some of that.” Constantine turned, blowing a great jet of smoke into Weiner’s face.

The bathroom was filled now with the heavy smoke of marijuana. Constantine took another pull, handed the joint to Randolph.

The door opened. A middle aged man wearing a loosely knotted tie stepped inside. He stopped walking, had a look at the three men, and went to the head to urinate. When he was done, he zipped up his fly and faced Randolph.

“How ‘bout a hit off that stick?” he said.

“Why not?” Randolph said. “Everyone else in this motherfucker’s had some.”

The man hit it, kept hitting it until Randolph plucked the joint from his mouth. The four men stood in the bathroom and laughed.

Constantine lighted a cigarette, savored the good taste of the tobacco in his lungs. He patted Randolph on the shoulder and said, “Let’s get out of here, man.”

The four of them were still laughing as they walked out into the lounge.

The stranger waved them off and returned to his seat at the bar. The Isley Brothers’ “What It Comes Down To” played now in the lounge. Constantine heard himself singing it as they walked to the table. The ground felt soft beneath his feet; the room and the people in it glowed faintly in the barroom light.

Constantine sat, noticing that Polk had ordered him another drink. He killed the rest of the watered-down vodka and quickly had a sip of the new, toasting Polk with the glass. Polk, his arm around Charlotte, winked back. Constantine dragged on his cigarette, blew a smoke ring in the direction of Randolph.