George Pelecanos - Shoedog

Constantine climbed out of the Dodge, walked toward the house. He looked across the property at the black cage set in the middle of the lawn. The Doberman’s head came up, then dropped back down to rest on its paws. The dog’s eyes were serene, still, like deep, black water.

Constantine took the steps up, stood beneath the portico, rang the bell. He looked up at the wall of brick, noticed the floodlights hung on both corners of the house. He saw the curtains drawn in Grimes’s office, the curtains drawn in the bedroom as well.

The door opened. “Come on,” Gorman said.

Constantine stepped into the marble foyer. Valdez was sitting at the bottom of the staircase, rubbing a wet towel across his face. Gorman leaned against the door frame of the library, lighting a smoke. He squinted through the smoke at Constantine, dropped the spent match into an ashtray set on an end table. Constantine looked at Gorman, then at Valdez.

“Where’s Polk?” said Constantine.

“He didn’t make it,” said Valdez. “Neither did Jackson.”

Constantine put his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looked at the checkerboard marble floor. He ran the toe of his boot along the line between the black and white of the floor. He listened to Gorman’s exhale, listened to the seconds tick off the clock in the library.

Constantine raised his head. “What about Randolph?” he said.

“He did good,” Valdez said.

Gorman pushed away from the doorframe. “I’m gonna take a fuckin’ shower,” he said. He walked past Constantine, through a door beneath the bowed staircase. His footsteps echoed in the foyer.

Valdez stood up, folded the towel, and sighed. “Go on up,” he said. “Go on up and get your money.”

Constantine knocked twice on the office door, turned the knob, and entered. He closed the door behind him.

Grimes sat behind the cherry-wood desk, his blazer hung over the back of his chair. He took his hand away from the mound of magnetic chips on the plastic base, and motioned Constantine into the room. Constantine walked past the chairs upholstered in green leather, went to the window, stood in the sunlight that spilled through the window. He looked out onto the grounds.

“Cigar?” Grimes said.

“No,” said Constantine.

Grimes took one from a wooden box on his desk, lighted it slowly. Constantine smelled it, saw the smoke of it creep into the light where he stood.

“You did fine today, Constantine. I knew you would. Valdez said-”

“What happened?” Constantine said. He heard wood creak as Grimes leaned back in his chair.

“The stockman surprised them. Polk never made it out of the store. Jackson got the money to the car. He died on the sidewalk.”

Constantine ran his hand through his long black hair. “Gorman. He blew that liquor store up. Him and Valdez, they killed a couple of cops.”

“I know it,” Grimes said.

“We left a lot of bullets, man. People, they saw me. They saw the car.”

“I know it.” Grimes rolled the end of his cigar on the edge of the tray, dropped a piece of ash. “The cars are being broken down. The guns can’t be traced. Nobody on Rego’s end will ever talk. Everybody knows not to talk.” Grimes pointed his cigar at Constantine’s back. “You might want to shave, cut off some of that hair.”

Constantine rubbed his face. “You know, Grimes,” he said, “you don’t seem too shook.” His voice was dull, flat. “Those cops, those men in the store. Polk.”

“They did their jobs,” Grimes said. “All of them.”

Constantine closed his eyes slowly. He kept them closed as he spoke. “I know about Korea, Grimes. I know what you did for him. Polk was your friend.”

“Yes,” Grimes said. “But that was Korea. This is something else.” Grimes looked towards the window. “It happens, Constantine. And when it happens, you can’t change it. So forget it.”

Constantine turned away from the window, walked to the front of the desk, faced Grimes. Constantine’s hands gripped the corners of the desk, his jaw set tight. “I’ll take mine,” he said.

Grimes nodded, reached beneath the desk. He put an imitation leather briefcase on top of the desk, slid it toward Constantine.

“Thirty thousand,” Grimes said. “Count it out if you’d like.”

Constantine looked at the case, did not touch it. “What about the rest of it?”

“You-”

“The rest of the money, Grimes. Polk’s thirty, and the extra twenty, from the old job. That was the deal.”

Grimes attempted a smile, made an awkward wave of his hand. “There’ll be other jobs, Constantine, and more money. Twice what’s in that case.”

“No more jobs, Grimes. I’m gone, today.” Constantine leaned over the desk. “The money.”

They stared at each other for what seemed to be a long time. Grimes looked for something in Constantine’s eyes, saw only emptiness. Grimes looked away.

“I don’t have the rest of it here,” Grimes said.

“Then get it.”

“All right,” Grimes said quietly. “It’s… somewhere else. Go downstairs and meet Valdez in the foyer. I’ll have him take you to it.”

Constantine nodded, took the briefcase off the desk, walked from the room. When the door shut, Grimes picked the receiver up from the desk phone. He buzzed Valdez, and gave him his instructions.

Grimes hung up the phone, sat back in his chair, and drew on his cigar. He looked at his hand and saw that it was shaking.

George Pelecanos

Shoedog

Constantine descended the stairs and met Valdez in the center of the marble foyer. Valdez looked Constantine over slowly, lowered his head, stared blankly at the floor. He shook his head one time, rubbed his finger along the bridge of his nose.

“All right, Constantine,” Valdez said. “Let’s go ahead and get this done.”

Constantine followed Valdez out the front door, down the steps onto the asphalt drive. The sun still came down on the lawn, but the wind had kicked up now, and a slate wall of clouds approached from the northeast. Valdez walked quickly toward the Cadillac. “Where we goin’?” Constantine said to the wide back of Valdez.

“The stable,” Valdez said, still walking. “Take the Dodge, meet me there.” Valdez stopped at the door of the Caddy, smiled thickly at Constantine. “You know where the stable is, don’t you, Constantine?”

“I know where it is.”

“I’ll see you there,” said Valdez.

Constantine got into the Dodge, dropped the briefcase on the passenger seat. He opened the briefcase, ran his fingers through the contents, closed the lid. He put his hand on the ignition key, turned it over, felt the rumble of the 383. He leaned forward, over the wheel. He looked through the windshield, up to the second-story windows. In Grimes’s office, the swivel chair moved slowly, back and forth. In the bedroom, he saw the movement of curtains, Delia’s slim figure stepping back from the light, nothing else.

Constantine swung the Dodge around, took it down the asphalt drive, passed through the gate, turned left onto the two-lane. He switched on the radio, heard a newscaster’s voice, quickly moved the thumb wheel of the dial away from the voice and onto a station playing music. He heard a pedal steel guitar, and a man singing mournfully about a woman, and the solace of drink. He kept the tuner there, gave die Dodge gas.

He drove along the split-rail fence, the woods thick behind it. Up ahead, where the forest broke again to an open field, he saw Valdez turn the Caddy onto the gravel road. For a moment Constantine considered driving on-thirty grand could take him someplace far away, and keep him there-but he flashed on Polk, his blue windbreaker hung loosely on his slight frame, a cigarette locked in his jaw, his flattop, his wrinkled brow. Constantine downshifted into second, followed the Caddy down the gravel road.