George Pelecanos: Shoedog

GORMAN walked to the kitchen that he and Valdez shared in the back of the house. He had been awakened from his nap by the sound of the Mercedes engine starting up, and he had sat up in bed and spread the curtains, watching the woman drive the car out the front gate. He had rubbed his face, thinking of the woman in the car for only a few seconds, before deciding to pour some glue into the brown bag and have a huff. He had tripped on the glue for a while after that, lying faceup in the bed, and then he had gotten off the bed, put on his shoes, and gone to the kitchen to crack a beer.

He heard the low sound coming from the monitor on the kitchen counter even before he walked into the room. He heard the sound, and then saw the flashing red light as he stood before the screen.

“Valdez,” he said, keeping his voice just loud enough for only the Mexican to hear. “Better get in here.”

Valdez came from his bedroom wearing his cheap black suit pants and a clean white button-down shirt. He stood next to Gorman and stared at the black-and-white images on the screen.

“What the fuck,” Valdez muttered, shaking his head. “What the fuck.”

On the monitor, Constantine poured gas around the stable. He poured the gas, and then he returned to the camera, talked to the camera, smiled, talked some more. Valdez looked at the ruined face, the one good eye, the eye that had been empty, now filled with some twisted howl of purpose.

“I thought you killed him.”

“I didn’t.”

Gorman giggled. “You fucked him up real good, though, didn’t you?”

“Shut up, Gorman.”

“Should we tell Grimes?”

“Shut up and let me think.” Valdez watched Constantine light a match, hold it in front of the camera. Then: “Get your gun, Gorman. Get both of mine from my room.”

Gorman left the kitchen. Valdez watched Constantine toss the match. Through the white flames that flared across the screen, he saw Constantine’s back as he ran away, out of the frame, his long black hair flying wildly about his head.

Gorman came back to the kitchen wearing a jacket, handed both packed shoulder holsters to Valdez. Valdez slipped them on, drew his guns, checked them, reholstered them.

“Come on,” Valdez said.

They walked from the kitchen, out to the foyer. Grimes came from the office in his blazer and slacks, stood on the landing, leaned over the rail.

“What is it, Valdez?” Grimes said. “What’s the matter?”

“Something at the stable,” Valdez said. “We’ll take care of it.”

“The horse,” Grimes said.

“We’ll take care of it,” Valdez said, looking away from Grimes. He pulled on Gorman’s jacket.

Gorman and Valdez went out through the front door, ran to the Cadillac. Gorman got behind the wheel, cooked the ignition. He backed off the circular driveway, onto the grass, pulled down on the column arm, put it in drive. He clipped the bumper of the Olds 98 coming out of the turn. He gave the Cadillac gas.

“You and that fuckin’ glue,” Valdez said, pulling the rectangular gadget from the visor. “Stop the car.”

Gorman braked in the middle of the driveway. Valdez pointed the gadget out the window at the black iron doghouse. He hit the button, and the doghouse gate swung open.

“Move it,” Valdez said.

Gorman goosed the accelerator, caught rubber in the driveway, drove through the main gate. He turned left, fishtailed the Caddy onto the two-lane.

“What do you wanna do with the driver?” Gorman said, the dash lights giving a green cast to his gray complexion.

“Shoot him,” Valdez said. “When you see him, don’t say nothin’. Just shoot, hear? Keep shooting till there’s nothing left”

CONSTANTINE walked to the path cut in the woods behind the stable. The trees in front of him glowed orange, lit from the fire in the stable behind him. He turned once more before he entered the woods. The stable burned through now, and the Dodge burned as well; the stallion galloped in the field, alternately silhouetted and highlighted by flames. Constantine quickly entered the woods.

It was cooler in the woods, and the coolness felt good. He smelled the carbon on his clothing, the gasoline on his hands, the wet green of the forest. The residual light from the fire gave light to the path, the light dying as he walked. He had clocked the road distance from the house to the stable as a mile, but the road twisted. He was not sure how far he would have to walk to get to the house.

He heard the gas tank go in the Dodge, a muffled surge. The sounds of the fire faded; the woods grew darker, denser. He walked through some brambles, stopped, pulled thorns off his clothes. Moving away from the brambles, he slipped, slid down an embankment, knew he had gone off the path. He saw liquidy movement in the darkness, thought of snakes, panicked briefly, stood, breathed evenly, waited. The moon came from behind a wall of clouds, giving form to the woods. He stared at the ground, saw he was standing at the edge of a narrow creek, put his hand over his blood-gorged eye, stared ahead, saw space between the trees past the creek, saw yellow light beyond the trees. He walked through cold, shallow water, slipped and fell again on the other side of the creek. He got to his feet and headed toward the light.

Constantine found a path, followed it in the moonlight. The light from the house grew brighter, and the woods thinned out. Then he was standing at the tree line, on the edge of the grounds of the Grimes estate.

Constantine pulled the Colt from behind his back, put one in the chamber. He looked at the grounds, half lit by the yellow floodlights, half in shadow and darkness. Delia’s Mercedes was gone, as was the Caddy. Grimes’s black 98 remained, parked crookedly in the circular driveway. Constantine watched his breath, steady and visible in the light. He stepped out of the woods and walked towards the house.

Across the grounds, on the other side of the house, the black Doberman sprang from out of the shadows.

Constantine stood still, covered his bad eye, extended his gun hand, tried to focus. The Doberman sprinted, head up, pink gums and yellow teeth bared, all black-eyed rage. He moved toward Constantine, moved across the green of the lawn like a crazy shadow. Five feet shy of Constantine, he leapt.

Constantine shot the Doberman in the mouth. The dog yelped, flipped in the air, went down. Constantine put his boot to the Doberman’s neck, pinned it to the ground, put another bullet in its head.

Constantine stepped back and vomited in the grass. Empty now, he walked toward the house.

He heard a siren wailing at his back, far away. He gripped the. 45 in his hand, flashed on his own image, standing in the road a few days back, his thumb out, his pack by his side. Constantine smiled as he looked at the house, smiled viciously, watched Grimes pace behind the lit square of office window. The Beat pounded white in Constantine’s head.

Constantine passed through the yellow floodlights, took the steps up to the door, went through the open door, stood in the marble foyer. He could hear Grimes’s shoes pacing the floor above, the tick of the clock from the library, the vague, feline call of the distant siren. Constantine headed for the stairs.

He took the bowed stairs, ran his hand along the cherry-wood banister as he ascended. He reached the landing, walked across it, went to the office door, turned the brass knob. Constantine entered the office, his gun down at his side.

Grimes stood at the window, looking out toward the woods.

The fire from beyond the woods reflected in the glass, as if a match had been struck to the window, in front of Grimes’s face. Grimes had combed his fine gray hair back; his posture was erect, the crease in his khaki slacks impeccable.