George Pelecanos - Shoedog

“No,” Randolph said, “but I saw Parliament, though, at the Cap Center, the next year after that. They turned that shit out, man, you know what I’m sayin’? The Mothership came down.”

“That was the year I left D.C.,” Constantine said. “Funny thing, man. After all this time, the only music I remember is the music I was listenin’ to when I was here. I can’t really give you details about much of anything since then, and I been all over the world. It’s like it ended, when I left.”

“Here,” Randolph said quietly, looking around once more before reaching into his jacket and drawing his. 45. He passed it across his lap over to Constantine. Constantine put it under his jacket, moved it around to his back, slid the barrel down behind the belt loop of his jeans, fitted it there. Randolph passed Constantine an extra clip. Constantine slipped that in the pocket of his jacket.

Constantine said, “Thanks,” and Randolph nodded.

The bartender put a cognac and a side of ice water in front of Randolph, and an Absolut rocks in front of Constantine. The cocktail waitress with the scarred chin and the bandy legs called the bartender’s name, and he walked away.

“All right, man,” Randolph said, tapping Constantine’s glass with his. The two of them drank.

Constantine smiled weakly, put his glass down on the coaster. “You know, it doesn’t taste any different.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” said Constantine.

Randolph squinted. “You okay, man? You drunk?”

“I’m okay.” Constantine sipped his drink.

Randolph pulled hard on his cognac, chased it with water, placed the glass back on the bar. He looked into his drink as he spoke. “I’m sorry about Polk. He was a good man.”

“He was just a man.” Constantine burned a match, put it to the end of a cigarette. “He wasn’t what I thought he was. But he was a man.”

“You’re talkin’ crazy, man.”

Constantine used his foot to push the briefcase in front of Randolph. Randolph felt it touch his feet, looked down, looked at Constantine.

“One more favor, buddy,” Constantine said.

Randolph said, “Go ahead.”

“I want you to take this down to Union Station. I want you to take it and meet Delia. She’s waiting for me, down at the Amtrak counter. Use some of the money to get her on a train to New Orleans. Get her on a train, tonight. Give her this”-Constantine handed a piece of notepaper with Willie Hall’s address and phone number written on it-“and tell her to look this guy up. He’s expecting her. He owns a bar and some stables, and he’s going to give her some work. Get her started.” Constantine dragged on his cigarette. “Tell her I got held up, man, tell her I had one more thing to do. Tell her I’m going to meet her in Baton Rouge.”

Randolph hit the cognac, finished it. He put the snifter on the coaster and stared at Constantine. “But you ain’t goin’ to meet her. Are you, Constantine?”

Constantine looked into his drink, shook the ice around in the drink.

Randolph said, “You love her, man?”

“No,” said Constantine.

“What you doin’ this for, man?”

Constantine dragged on his cigarette, blew smoke toward the bar mirror. “My whole life, Randolph, I been fuckin’ up. Today was the end of it. Some people got killed today”-Constantine closed his eyes, shook his head-“I can’t change it, man, but I can’t run away from it. I can make it so it doesn’t happen again. I can make it so Delia has a chance. I can make it so you and Weiner don’t get any more calls.” Constantine looked at Randolph. “I just want to do something right. Can you understand that?”

“Sure, Constantine. I understand.”

Constantine took Randolph’s hand, squeezed it. “You’ve been a good friend, man.”

Randolph nodded, started to speak, did not speak. He bent down, picked up the briefcase from the floor, turned, and walked from the lounge. Constantine watched him go out through the glass doors of the lobby, walk under a streetlight, and disappear.

The bartender placed the tab facedown in front of Constantine. Constantine left thirty on nineteen, pushed away from the bar. He stepped quickly out of the lounge.

In the lobby, he passed the desk clerk, pushed on the double glass doors as the bass-heavy funk pumped and faded at his back. He walked out onto the sidewalk, into the night. The rain had stopped, but a mist still hung in the air. He turned the collar of his jacket up against the chill. Orange and red neon reflected off the puddles in the street.

Constantine stepped off the curb, walked across Georgia Avenue toward the Dodge. He looked down at his feet moving on the wet asphalt, automatic, right before left then right again. He smelled the April air, felt the cool hardness of the gun pressed against the small of his back. And Constantine smiled, feeling as he did, just then, like a dog crossing over a bridge.

Constantine copped a pint of Popov at Mayfair Liquors, then drove to an Amoco station and filled the gas can that he found in the trunk. He rolled the windows down and headed southeast, sipping from the pint as he drove. He found a radio station playing straight-ahead rock and roll-two guitars, a bass, and drums-and turned up the volume. He smoked a cigarette down to the filter, lit another off that one as he caught Pennsylvania Avenue going east.

He took Pennsylvania out of the District, let the 383 unwind as Pennsylvania widened, lost the moniker, became Route 4. He found the turnoff north of Dunkirk, drove to the unlit two-lane road, made the turn, and punched the gas. He tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder onto the backseat, dragged on his cigarette until it was hot against his lips, flicked the cigarette out the window. Up ahead, at the treeline, the split-rail fence began.

Constantine drove by woods, then the Grimes estate. He kept his speed, glanced briefly at the house. The lights were on in the second-story windows; the floodlights that hung on the front of the house burned yellow, illuminating the grounds. He drove past another mile of woods, saw the break in the fence and the gravel road. He turned the Dodge into the gravel road, cutting his lights as he pulled up to the paddock that encircled the stable.

Constantine got out of the Dodge, opened the trunk. He pulled the can from the trunk, poured gas on his backpack, poured some across the roof and on the front and back seats. He walked through the gate, into the paddock, walked through the dutch doors of the dimly lit stable.

Constantine put the gas can down in the dirt. He found the leather halter hanging on a nail, took it to the stall where the stallion nervously clomped the dirt. Constantine opened the stall gate out and to the left, put his hand on the white diamond between the stallion’s eyes, rubbed it there and below, rubbed it gently, as Delia had done.

“All right, Mister,” Constantine said.

He held the mane with his right hand, and buckled the crown piece over the horse’s head. He patted the stallion on his hindquarters as he talked to him, pulled easily on the rope, walked him out of the stable. He led him through the paddock gate, released him, smacked him sharply on the rump. The stallion trotted away, stopped thirty yards out in the field, bucked his head, and looked back at Constantine. Constantine turned and walked back into the stable.

He picked up the gas can, moved quickly to the corner of the stable, found the green button fixed to the area below the video camera, and pushed the button. The light below the camera burned red.

Constantine stared up into the lens of the camera. He felt a weakness in his knees, an adrenaline surge, and a cleansing wash of power. Constantine held the gas can up to the lens and smiled.