George Pelecanos - Shoedog

Randolph and Constantine walked along the side of the warehouse to the parking area, got into the T-Bird. Randolph turned the key on the smooth engine, backed out of his space, put the car in drive, and pulled out of the lot.

“You sure you all right with that car?” Randolph said, looking at the road.

“It’s fine,” Constantine said.

“And you don’t mind that simple-ass horn.”

“No, I don’t mind.”

“You serious, man?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.” Constantine pulled hair off his face, pushed it behind his ear, and grinned at his friend driving the car, “Serious as a hangnail, Randolph.”

Valdez and Gorman sat in the black Caddy in front of Constantine’s motel at the District line, Gorman’s thin arm out the driver’s side window, a cigarette dangling in his fingers. Jackson sat alone in his own car, behind them. Constantine noticed them as Randolph pulled to a stop on the east side of Georgia Avenue.

Randolph cut the engine. “Here’s where we split up,” he said to Constantine.

“You goin’ with Jackson?”

“Yeah.”

Constantine nodded past Randolph, to Valdez and Gorman in the Caddy parked across the street. “What am I supposed to do with those lovers?”

“Go with ’em, have a look at the joint.” Randolph prodded his finger gently into Constantine’s arm. “And keep your mouth shut. Don’t let Valdez fire you up into talkin’ about nothin’, hear?”

“What are you sayin’, man?”

“I’m talkin’ about the woman, Constantine. I didn’t mention it ‘cause it wasn’t none of my goddamn business. Any fool can see… listen, man, you got a death wish, that’s your thing.” Randolph cut it, shook his head. He scooted up in the seat, pulled his wallet, pulled a card from the wallet, flipped the card over, and wrote something on its back. “Here, man”-Constantine took the card-“you need me, you can reach me at work, or on the number on the back. You might want to talk, ‘specially tonight. Hear?”

Constantine slid the card into his breast pocket. He got out of the car and closed the door, bent over and leaned his elbows on the frame of the open window.

“Thanks,” Constantine said.

“Ain’t no thing,” said Randolph.

Constantine pushed away, waited for a break in the traffic. He jogged across Georgia to the black Caddy, got into the backseat. Valdez and Gorman were both wearing shades, staring straight ahead. Valdez took the toothpick that was lodged in the corner of his plump mouth and dropped it out the window. He looked in the rearview at Constantine.

“You’re late,” Gorman said.

Constantine looked away. “I was picking out the car.”

“You pick out a good one?” Valdez said.

“It’ll do.”

“Maybe you want to drive right now,” Valdez said, shooting an ugly grin toward Gorman. “Seeing as how you’re the driver.”

“And maybe,” Constantine said, “you’d like to kiss my white ass.”

Gorman laughed sharply, punched Valdez in the shoulder. Valdez squirmed in the seat, looked back up in the rearview.

“I don’t know why Grimes put you on this thing,” Valdez said, “but I hope we all make it through. ‘Cause after it’s over, brother, you can believe one thing: I’m gonna fuck you up.”

Constantine stared back in the mirror. “Can we just go?”

Gorman dragged his cigarette down to the filter, flicked it out onto Georgia Avenue, and turned the key in the ignition.

“Come on, Valdez,” he said. “We sit here all day, you gonna miss your fuckin’ show.”

Randolph drove north on Wisconsin Avenue, looked across the seat at Jackson. The man had been talking shit the whole trip, since he and Randolph had argued in front of the motel over who would drive. Randolph had ended it when he told Jackson to get his seventies-lookin’ ass inside the car. Now Jackson had brought out his pick-a black plastic comb with a black plastic fist clenched on the end of it-and he was raking the comb up the front of his modified Afro. Randolph hadn’t seen a pick like that in years.

Jackson whipped his head to the right, rolled his window down, and yelled something out to a large-breasted, long-legged woman walking up the street in a short leather skirt. The woman kept walking, her alternating-piston ass moving with beautiful efficiency, her eyes straight ahead. Randolph gave the T-Bird gas and sped past.

“Hey, slow down, man!” Jackson said.

“She ain’t look like she want to talk to you, man,” Randolph said.

“I’ll make the bitch talk”-Jackson smiled, ran his fingers across his crotch-“right into the goddamn microphone.” Jackson turned his head once again to get a final look, lowered his voice to a mumble. “She looked like Pam Grier, too.”

Randolph parked a few doors down from Uptown Liquors. The time was a little after eleven, and already there was some early alky action, in and around the shop. Jackson strained his eyes to see through the plate glass of the store: in the back, near the end of the counter, stood Isaac, gathering and breaking down cartons. Jackson knew that Isaac would have to take the cartons out, to the green dumpster in the garage beside the store.

Randolph checked his watch. “We meetin’ Polk here?”

“Uh-uh,” Jackson said. “He’s still shacked up with the nappy, that old freak of his. Said he’d swing by later in the day, check the place out.”

“Then let’s get on it, man. I got to get my ass down to the shoe store, for the noon rush.”

“You go on,” Jackson said. “I done took the tour yesterday.” Through the glass, Jackson watched Isaac head into the back room, the cartons under his arm.

Randolph opened the door, put one foot out on the asphalt. “All right, then. I’ll be right back.”

Jackson put his hand around Randolph’s arm. “Take your time. I know you just the driver, but Grimes wants you to know the place real good. Get yourself an education, hear?”

Randolph pulled his arm away, shifted his shoulders beneath his jacket as he climbed out of the T-Bird. He walked down the sidewalk to the double glass doors of Uptown Liquors, went inside. When the door closed behind him, Jackson bolted from the car, jogged past the store, and entered the darkness of the small garage.

He took off his shades, folded them, hung one stem in the pocket of his shirt. Adjusting his eyes, he moved quickly toward the green dumpster. To the side of it, a door opened, and Isaac stepped out into the garage. Jackson stopped walking, watched Isaac put the broken-down sheets of cardboard into the dumpster. Isaac looked bigger, harder up close.

“What’s goin’ on, brother?” Jackson said.

“Nothin’ to it,” Isaac said, looking at Jackson for only a fraction of a second, the look disinterested, as if Jackson were a salesman who had come to his door.

Jackson said, “Got a minute?”

Isaac closed the lid of the dumpster. This time he did not bother to look at Jackson. “You take it easy, man,” he said, and he turned to walk back through the door.

Jackson reached into his pocket, pulled the hundreds that were bound with the heavy rubber band, used his forefinger and thumb to fan the stack. The sound of it cut the stillness of the dark garage.

Isaac stopped walking. He knew the sound, had heard it every night at closing time, when old man Rosenfeld and young Rosenfeld counted out the money. He had gotten used to hearing the sound. But now the sound was aimed at him.

Isaac turned, squinted his eyes at the hustler with the muttonchop sideburns and the tight green pants. “What you want, man?” he said.

Jackson slapped the stack of hundreds against his palm. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “quarter past eleven-me and a couple of boys gon’ knock this motherfucker over.”