George Pelecanos - Shoedog

“You’ve done it now,” Grimes said quietly, as if to himself. “Haven’t you? The firemen will be coming, and then the police. I figure we’ve got five, maybe ten minutes.” Grimes stared out the window. “It’s over.”

“No,” Constantine said. “Not yet.”

Grimes stepped back from the window, looked at Constantine.

“You don’t look well, Constantine.”

“Valdez,” said Constantine.

“He’s brutal, isn’t he? But no brains. He should have done what I told him to do.”

“He didn’t.” Constantine touched his taped fingers to his face, wiped wet hair and mud away with a shaking hand. He pointed the Colt at Grimes, moved the barrel to the high-backed swivel chair behind the desk, moved it back at Grimes. “Sit down.”

Grimes took a seat. He fingered the mound of magnetic chips on the desk, pushed it away, reached into the cigar box.

“No,” said Constantine.

Grimes frowned, leaned back in the seat, studied Constantine.

“Delia’s gone,” Grimes said. “You want the money too, is that it?” Grimes opened his fist, pointed his fingers below the desk. “The rest of it’s here. Take it, if that’s what you want.”

Constantine shifted his feet. “This isn’t about money.”

Grimes shook his head. “Sentiment, then,” he said, with contempt.

Constantine’s voice shook. “You set up Polk today, didn’t you?”

Grimes looked towards the window. “Yes. He wouldn’t go away.”

“But I thought that’s what you wanted, Grimes. Everybody under you, on a string.”

Grimes looked back at Constantine, smiled weakly. “You know, don’t you? That’s what this is about.”

Constantine nodded. “The first time I looked at Delia, there was something in her eyes, something I recognized. I didn’t see it then, and I didn’t even see it at her mother’s apartment, when I saw the patch on her mother’s dresser. Twelve twenty-one.”

“Hill twelve twenty-one,” Grimes said, his eyes gone away. “A bunch of us in Company C who made it over that hill, we had those patches made. So we’d never forget. I carried that son of a bitch across the reservoir, Constantine. Do you know that?”

Constantine stepped slowly to the desk. “You thought that what you did for Polk in Korea, that would make him in debt to you for the rest of his life. But Polk didn’t see it that way. When Delia’s mother died, you moved into the picture. You needed something on Polk, something big. Something that would bring him back.”

“That’s right.”

“Polk was Delia’s father. Wasn’t he, Grimes?”

“Yes,” Grimes said.

“After you fell in love with her,” Constantine said, “you didn’t want Polk around anymore. But he wouldn’t go away. That’s when you decided to get rid of him.”

“Yes.” Grimes sat back in the chair. “And he won, didn’t he? He beat us all. He dragged you into this, encouraged you to take her away. And it worked. It worked.”

Constantine heard tires squeal, heard the dull collision of metal against the brick pillars at the gate, heard the big GM engine as the Cadillac came down the drive.

“That would be Valdez,” Grimes said.

“I know it,” said Constantine.

Constantine raised the gun, shot Grimes twice in the chest. The slugs threw Grimes and the chair back against the wall. Grimes bucked violently, his hands bent at the wrists. He coughed once, tried to breathe, and then he was dead.

Constantine walked to the window, opened it. The Cadillac braked in the circular drive, skidded to a stop. Valdez and Gorman came out together, Valdez zigzagging combat-style in the yellow light, running across the asphalt, guns drawn, not looking up. Gorman ran straight, slow, his face stretched tight. Constantine squinted painfully, got Gorman in his sights.

Know how to use it, driver?

Constantine squeezed the trigger, saw smoke and cloth tear away from Gorman’s knee. Gorman slipped and fell, his automatic thrown to the side. Gorman cried out, reached for the gun, tried to move, could move only in a tight circle. Constantine blew a round into the asphalt, watched the asphalt spark. He aimed again, fired. Blood and smoke sprang from the skinny man’s chest.

Constantine heard Valdez yell his name, heard the heavy footsteps on marble as he charged the stairs. He knew Valdez would come in straight.

Constantine jerked his wrist, ejected the spent clip. He slapped the fresh clip into the Colt. He moved to the middle of the room, centered the gun on the door.

“Come on,” Constantine said.

The door swung open.

Constantine heard the shots as he saw the muzzle flash, saw the Mexican’s white shirt splash red from the fire of his own gun. Constantine felt the hot stings, like the bee stings from the pear tree in his backyard. He kept his finger on the trigger, squeezed it as his feet left the floor, hearing screams not his own, knowing then that he had killed the Mexican, knowing that the Mexican had killed him.

Constantine fell back, felt his face rip away, saw white, then the brilliant blue cloth of a housecoat. He heard a woman’s voice, heard the voice say his name. Black arms encircled him, covered him, closed his eyes.

And Constantine thought: So, this is how it is, at the end.