George Pelecanos - Shoedog

Constantine pulled the Dodge over at the Shepherd Park library, a couple of miles from the motel. He went inside, walked straight to the computerized index, a screen on a high table set next to a rutted pine card catalog. Constantine put his palm over his swollen eye, focused his good eye as he touched his finger to the alphabetized subjects on the screen. The subject windows became narrower with each touch. Finally he found the one that he was after.

Constantine pulled a book, The Forgotten War by Clay Blair, from the shelf. He took the book to a table, had a seat across from a snoring homeless man who slept upright with a magazine stuck in his hand. Constantine sat there for the next hour, carefully reading a long chapter of the book. He barely noticed the smell of the homeless man’s soiled car coat, barely heard the laughter of children coming from behind a nearby partition as he read.

When he had finished reading, he sat at the table for a little while longer. The homeless man woke up, asked Constantine for the time. Constantine checked his watch, said “Seven-thirty.” He got up from the table and walked heavily across the carpeted floor. Out on the street, he climbed into the Dodge and headed back to the motel.

Constantine packed his Jansport in the room and slung the backpack over one shoulder. He picked up the briefcase, closed the lights in the room, and went down to the lobby.

Constantine turned in his room key to the desk clerk, then took the backpack out to the Dodge and locked it in the trunk. He returned to the motel lobby carrying the briefcase and walked straight through to the lounge.

The round-faced bartender with the moley face was on duty, standing at the service end, putting up drinks. John Handy’s “Hard Work” came through the house speakers. Constantine bought a deck of Marlboros from the machine by the entrance, passed quiet couples in booths, had a seat at the end of the empty bar. He put the briefcase behind the rail, at his feet. The bartender moved slowly, stopped where Constantine sat, wiped the area in front of him, placed a clean ashtray and a coaster on the mahogany.

“Back for more,” the bartender said.

Constantine said, “I guess.”

The bartender looked squarely at Constantine for the first time, wrinkled his brow. “Hey, man, I know it’s none of my business-”

“You’re right, it’s not.” Constantine winked painfully. “I slipped on a wet spot, out on the sidewalk. Tough town.”

“Tougher than a mother fucker,” the bartender said, leaning on one round elbow. “I was listenin’ to the radio in my car, on the way into my shift. There was ten killin’s today in the District, including a couple of armed robberies, man, uptown and down in Shaw, where these boys just tore it up. It’s Good Friday today, you know? That’s why we’re so slow. Anyway, the man on the radio said they’d have to rename it Black Friday in D.C., what with all the-”

“You got a phone I can use?” Constantine said.

The bartender stepped back, stood straight. He wiped the bar rag across his hands. “Pay phone’s in the lobby.”

“Tell you what,” Constantine said. “Put your phone on the bar. I’ll make it worth your while.”

The bartender thought about it, nodded. “I can do that,” he said. “What’s it gonna be tonight?”

“Vodka rocks,” said Constantine.

“Right.”

The bartender served the drink after a few long minutes, and placed the phone on the bar next to the drink. Constantine lighted a cigarette, dragged on it, fitted the cigarette in the notch of the ashtray. He pulled his wallet from the seat of his jeans. In the back of the wallet, he found Randolph’s card, the number of Delia’s private line at the Grimes estate, and another faded phone number on a folded, thin scrap of paper. He aligned the three numbers on the bar in front of him, and dialed the number penciled in on the scrap of paper.

For the next fifteen minutes, Constantine talked to Willie Hall at the bar in Baton Rouge. He made the arrangements, said goodbye to Hall, got a new tone, and dialed Delia’s line. He heard her voice, and felt a drop in his chest.

“Yes?”

“Delia, it’s Constantine.”

“Constantine.”

“I’m fine.”

“It went all wrong today, didn’t it?”

“Delia, don’t talk. Listen, okay?”

“I’m listening,” she said.

“I want you to put on something comfortable. Something you can wear for a couple of days. Then I want you to get as much cash as you can carry in your pocketbook, and leave the house. I don’t care what you have to tell Grimes, just do it. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Delia, is the Mercedes registered in your name?”

“No.”

“Take the Mercedes and drive it down to Union Station.” Constantine looked at his watch. “Be at the Amtrak ticket counter at nine-thirty. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do it.” He listened to Delia breathe in and out. “Constantine, are you going to be there?”

Constantine closed his eyes. “I’ll be there,” he said.

“It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Delia, it’s going to be fine.”

“Constantine-”

“Nine-thirty,” he said, and placed the receiver back on the cradle.

Constantine lighted a cigarette, signaled the bartender for another drink. He reached into his jacket pocket, shook two more painkillers out of the bottle, and washed them down with the melted ice from his drink. The bartender put a fresh vodka on the coaster and walked away. Constantine dialed the next number, dragged on his cigarette, blew smoke over the bar. Randolph picked up on the third ring.

“Yeah.”

“It’s Constantine.”

“Constantine, man.”

“I need your help, Randolph. I need it tonight.”

“It’s over for me,” Randolph said.

“I know it,” said Constantine. “It’s over for all of us. I’m going to take care of it, understand?”

For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Randolph said, “You in the lounge, man? I can hear that tired-ass funk.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sitting at the bar.”

Randolph sighed. “I’ll be there, all right? Fifteen minutes.”

“There’s one more thing,” Constantine said. “I need you to bring something.”

“What’s that?” said Randolph.

Constantine told him, and racked the phone.

Constantine watched Randolph move through the entrance, walk tiredly across the lounge. Randolph wore a loose-fitting sport jacket over a mustard-colored shirt buttoned to the neck. He pulled out a stool at the bar, shook Constantine’s hand as he settled on the stool. He studied Constantine’s battered face.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Me and Valdez,” Constantine said.

“You-”

“I’m all right. Thanks for coming, man.”

“Ain’t no thing,” said Randolph.

The bartender came from the service end, stood in front of Randolph. Randolph called him by name, ordered a drink.

“Another one for you?” the bartender said to Constantine.

“Yeah,” Constantine said. “Make this one an Absolut.”

“Sure thing.”

The bartender walked away. Constantine tapped out a beat on the bar, pointed to the speaker hung to the left of the high call rack.

“You remember this one?” Constantine said.

“I remember. It’s ‘Good to Your Earhole,’ right? Funkadelic.”

Constantine nodded. “I had the original, with the Pedro Bell cover-”

“On Westbound,” Randolph said, giving Constantine skin.

Randolph looked at the bartender’s back as he poured the drinks. He turned, checked out the couples sitting in the booths, into each other.

“Nineteen seventy-five.” Constantine finished what was left in his glass. “I took my girl to see Funkadelic that year, right over at Carter Barron. You ever see them, man?”