Shoedog (22 page)

“That’s a seven on that pump,” Randolph said loudly across the sales floor, and the attorney’s head turned. “Am I right?”

“That’s right,” the attorney said, giving Randolph a smile.

“I’ll be right back,” said Randolph.

Randolph motored into the back room. He climbed the shelf on the left wall, heard Antoine repeating, “Uh-uh, uh-uh,” heard the “uh-uhs” getting louder as Antoine bolted into the stockroom.

Randolph ignored him, reached for the seven—or had she said eight?

“You’re disrespectin’ me now, Shoedog, you know I don’t play that—”

“Relax, Antoine.” Randolph jumped down to the carpet, faced Antoine, spoke softly. “You know there’s plenty enough for everybody out there, man. Matter of fact, you missin’ it right now. Go on, man”—Randolph made a head motion toward the open door to the sales floor—“Go on and get some.”

Antoine nodded, turned, went back out to the floor.

Randolph moved quickly down the center aisle, tried to remember the name of that evening shoe—was it the Sweetie?—and the woman’s size. He looked blankly at the shoeboxes on the shelf. He thought of the automatic, pointed at his face. He thought of the recognition in the man’s eyes.

He climbed up, straddled two shelves, watched his hand shake as he checked a couple of boxes. He found the shoe—it was the Tweetie, not the Sweetie—and pulled an eight. She had said seven and a half—or had she said seven?—but the freak
was
an eight. Randolph jumped down, picked up the pumps, put them on top of the evening shoes. He walked towards the front of the stockroom, feeling suddenly weak. He leaned against the shelf, balanced the shoeboxes with one hand, wiped his forehead with the other.

Randolph laid the shoeboxes on the carpet. He went to the bathroom in the back of the store, vomited in the toilet. He put his hand on the sink, leaned over, finished vomiting. He found some mouthwash in the metal vanity, gargled, and spit into the sink. He splashed some water on his face and rubbed his hands dry on his pressed jeans.

Randolph left the bathroom, picked up the two pairs of shoes, and walked out of the stockroom, onto the sales floor, into the light.

W
EINER
checked his watch: five minutes past one o’clock. He switched to the left side of the moving steps, felt the ache in his calves as he walked up the long escalator out of the Dupont Metro. Behind him, at the bottom of the escalator, a boy in a white corduroy coat held up a stack of newspapers and repeated,
“Washington Times,
twenty-five cents. It ain’t the best, but it ain’t the worst.” Standing next to the boy, a shirtless man in overalls sang “A Change Is Gonna Come.” The richness of the singer’s voice resonated in the honeycombed concrete of the well.

At the top of the escalator, Weiner dropped change in the plastic cup of a pleasant froggish man who stood in the same spot every day, saying “Thank you and have a nice afternoon” to everyone who passed. Weiner headed south on 19th, dodged business people, passed an acoustic guitarist, a food vendor, and a man selling caps and cheap silk ties. He saw the blue neon sign for Olssen’s, went to the doors, pushed on one, and walked inside.

Inside, Weiner moved straight through the book section, moved past the sandals-and-eyeglasses crowd. A microphone came on in the store, and then a young woman’s tired voice: “I need a manager at the front register, please.” Weiner stopped, checked his reflection in a round security mirror hung and angled down above a blind corner of the fiction department.

He looked okay. The mirror added ten pounds, maybe fifteen, that much he knew. The thing was, any extra weight the black shirt would hide. The paisley ascot was a nice touch too. Weiner tipped his brown beret a little off-center, used his thumb and forefinger to groom his goatee. He turned and walked into the music section of the store.

A couple of employees, guys with lavish hair, stood in the back, talked and laughed. A pop song—strings and drum machines and girl-group harmony—played in the shop, and the more willowy of the two employees put his arms up and closed his eyes and swayed back and forth in an approximation of the beat. Weiner did not know the song.

Weiner hit the jazz section, flipped through the CDs. He looked into the back room as he pretended to inspect the titles, absently running his fingers through the pack. He could see Nita back there, talking to a thin young man. Nita held a cup of coffee in her hand, and the young man said something, putting his hands together as in prayer, and Nita laughed. She happened to look out onto the floor, and Weiner caught her eye. She stopped laughing, and just smiled.

Weiner smiled back, put his hand in the pocket of his Sansabelt slacks, and touched the paper wrapped around the small box that held the ring. He straightened his posture, sucked in his gut.

Nita came out onto the floor, a black sweater over black tights, and walked toward Weiner. He checked out her hips, then the rest of her, and he felt a small stab in his chest. Nita had a full, plainish face, and she was on the heavy side—he knew that—but in her own way, the way those hips moved, the youth in her eyes, the freshness of the whole package, God, she was gorgeous. He’d die happy, and with a Cheshire smile on his face, if only he could touch it.

“Hello, Weiner,” she said, stopping on the other side of the rack.

“Nita,” Weiner said. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” Nita said, bowing her head, her black hair falling across her face. “Can I help you, sir?”

Weiner glanced at the two employees in the rear of the store, joined now by the young man Nita had been laughing with in the back room. The three of them were smiling alternately at Nita and Weiner. When Weiner looked at them, they looked away. So they were her friends, and something was funny. Was this chick putting him on?

“Excuse me, sir,” Nita said, getting his attention. “I said, can I
help
you?”

“Possibly,” Weiner said, feeling sweat above his lip but not moving to wipe it away. “Yeah, I think you might be able to help me.” In his pocket, he put his fingers around the ring.

“Well?” Nita said.

“Well, I’ve got this itch, see?”

“An itch?”

“That’s right. I’m itching—I’m hot, sweetheart, to hear some saxophone. Specifically, some Sonny Rollins—type saxophone. Are you with me?”

“You’ve got a hot itch,” Nita said.

“Like I said,” said Weiner.

Nita pulled hair off her face, grinned, pushed her chin out at Weiner. “What else have you got?”

“Well,” Weiner said, “by coincidence, I have these two tickets, happen to be to the Sonny Rollins show. Down at One Step—”

“That it?” said Nita.

Weiner shifted his feet, began to withdraw the ring from his pocket. “There
is
something else—”

“We don’t need anything else, Weiner.” Nita smiled, laughed a little with the smile. He could see in her eyes that the boys in the back of the store were only boys, and that all of this was real.

“The show’s really going to cook, sweetheart. I mean, it’s
really
going to cook.”

“I’m sure the show will be fine,” Nita said. “But what I’m really looking forward to is the company.”

Weiner loosened his fingers. He let go of the ring, let it drop back into his pocket. The first thing he thought: had he kept the receipt?

Weiner concentrated, tipped his beret back on his head. “You’ll go with me, then?”

“Yes,” Nita said. “I’d love to go with you, Weiner.”

He smiled, getting a picture now, seeing the receipt in the wooden box on the top of his dresser. He’d return the ring, get the three C notes back, maybe take the money to the track. He’d take the money, and he’d parlay it.

“I’ll swing by, pick you up at closing time.”

“I’ll be here,” Nita said.

Weiner looked at Nita and said, “Beautiful.”

Chapter
23

C
ONSTANTINE
turned off Indian Head Highway, found the decaying commercial strip at the end of the short road, went behind the strip. The T-Bird and the Fury were gone. Constantine parked the Road Runner between the Super Bee and the Caddy. He cut the engine. In the backseat, Gorman picked chips of glass from his hair.

“Leave the keys in the ignition,” Valdez said. “Gorman, you drop the shotgun back there on the floor. Constantine, lay the .45 under your seat.”

“It’s clean,” Constantine said. “I never touched it.”

“Leave it anyway,” said Valdez.

“What about your guns?” Constantine asked.

“These guns are mine,” Valdez said.

Constantine slid the .45 beneath his seat. He looked out across the weedy field. A thin man in a blue zip-up jacket got out of a late-model sedan parked near the row of Cape Cods, and walked toward them, across the field.

“That’s Rego’s man,” said Valdez. “Come on.”

“Polk and Randolph,” Constantine said. “I guess—”

“They’ve come and gone,” Valdez said. “The Fury’s on the way to the chop. You take the Dodge and meet us at the house. Let’s go, Gorman. Grab the bags and let’s go.”

Valdez and Gorman took the money to the Cadillac, drove out of the lot. Constantine got into the Super Bee. He found the key in the ignition, where the old man had left it.

T
HE
black iron gate was open at the Grimes estate. Constantine drove between the squat brick pillars, headed down the asphalt drive, parked the Super Bee next to the Caddy. To the right of the Caddy was the Olds 98. Parked next to that, Delia’s Mercedes.

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.”

C
ONSTANTINE
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.”