Shoedog (23 page)

They stared at each other for what seemed to be a long time. Grimes looked for something in Constantine’s eyes, saw only emptiness. Grimes looked away.

“I don’t have the rest of it here,” Grimes said.

“Then get it.”

“All right,” Grimes said quietly. “It’s … somewhere else. Go downstairs and meet Valdez in the foyer. I’ll have him take you to it.”

Constantine nodded, took the briefcase off the desk, walked from the room. When the door shut, Grimes picked the receiver up from the desk phone. He buzzed Valdez, and gave him his instructions.

Grimes hung up the phone, sat back in his chair, and drew on his cigar. He looked at his hand and saw that it was shaking.

Chapter
24

C
ONSTANTINE
descended the stairs and met Valdez in the center of the marble foyer. Valdez looked Constantine over slowly, lowered his head, stared blankly at the floor. He shook his head one time, rubbed his finger along the bridge of his nose.

“All right, Constantine,” Valdez said. “Let’s go ahead and get this done.”

Constantine followed Valdez out the front door, down the steps onto the asphalt drive. The sun still came down on the lawn, but the wind had kicked up now, and a slate wall of clouds approached from the northeast. Valdez walked quickly toward the Cadillac. “Where we goin’?” Constantine said to the wide back of Valdez.

“The stable,” Valdez said, still walking. “Take the Dodge, meet me there.” Valdez stopped at the door of the Caddy, smiled thickly at Constantine. “You know where the stable is, don’t you, Constantine?”

“I know where it is.”

“I’ll see you there,” said Valdez.

Constantine got into the Dodge, dropped the briefcase on the passenger seat. He opened the briefcase, ran his fingers through the contents, closed the lid. He put his hand on the ignition key, turned it over, felt the rumble of the 383. He leaned forward, over the wheel. He looked through the windshield, up to the second-story windows. In Grimes’s office, the swivel chair moved slowly, back and forth. In the bedroom, he saw the movement of curtains, Delia’s slim figure stepping back from the light, nothing else.

Constantine swung the Dodge around, took it down the asphalt drive, passed through the gate, turned left onto the two-lane. He switched on the radio, heard a newscaster’s voice, quickly moved the thumb wheel of the dial away from the voice and onto a station playing music. He heard a pedal steel guitar, and a man singing mournfully about a woman, and the solace of drink. He kept the tuner there, gave die Dodge gas.

He drove along the split-rail fence, the woods thick behind it. Up ahead, where the forest broke again to an open field, he saw Valdez turn the Caddy onto the gravel road. For a moment Constantine considered driving on—thirty grand could take him someplace far away, and keep him there—but he flashed on Polk, his blue windbreaker hung loosely on his slight frame, a cigarette locked in his jaw, his flattop, his wrinkled brow. Constantine downshifted into second, followed the Caddy down the gravel road.

Valdez cut the engine by the entrance to the paddock that surrounded the stable. Constantine pulled up beside him. Valdez got out of the car, walked into the paddock. Constantine climbed from the Super Bee, shut the door.

Constantine looked at the suitcase lying on the seat, turned his head, looked at the two-lane a hundred yards back across the field. He could not hear the approach of other vehicles from either direction. The wind blew through the trees, the undersides of leaves flashing white in the last of the sun.

Valdez turned the corner of the stable. Constantine glanced back at the road one more time, then followed Valdez.

He walked across the worn grass of the paddock, walked beside the weathered gray wood of the stable. He heard a snort, a toss of the head, and the clomp of the stallion’s hooves behind the wood. Beyond the paddock, at the tree line, he saw the beginnings of a path cut into the woods. Constantine turned the corner, saw Valdez standing alone behind the stable.

Valdez walked to a post in the split-rail fence, removed his jacket, hung it on the post.

“Where’s the money?” Constantine said.

“The money,” Valdez muttered, removing his ring and watch, dropping them in his pocket.

“That’s right. Me and Grimes, we had a deal.” Constantine looked behind him, knew before he looked that the stable blocked a view from the road.

Valdez took both shoulder holsters off, hung the .45s over his jacket. He stepped away from the fence.

“You shoulda kept driving, Constantine. You were a lucky man. That shit today, that was as close as it gets. You shoulda kept driving with that thirty grand, right down the road. You were stone fuckin’ free, man.” Valdez shook his head. “Stupid,” he said. “Stupid.”

Valdez walked toward Constantine, moved across the paddock with strong, even strides. Constantine could see that Valdez was not going to stop.

“We can talk,” Constantine said.

“Sure,” Valdez said, as he reached Constantine. “We’ll talk. But first, this.”

Constantine saw the blurred flesh of the right almost as he felt it. Valdez connected high in the cheek, knocked Constantine off his feet, sent him down into the dirt.

Constantine got to his knees, looked up, saw the fence and Valdez shooting up at an angle and meeting somewhere in the darkening sky. Constantine leaned back on his elbow, closed his eyes.

“Just sit there,” Valdez said.

Constantine swallowed, worked his jaw, tried to focus. After a while, the paddock stopped moving. When it stopped moving, he looked at Valdez and nodded.

“Get up,” Valdez said. “You been wantin’ to try me. So get up.”

Constantine stood. He balled and unballed his fists, sized up the Mexican. He kept his eyes on Valdez, touched his right thumb to his chin, then his left. He knew where his hands were then. He put his weight on the balls of his feet.

“All right,” Constantine said, leaving his right hand under his chin. “Come on.”

They circled each other in the paddock. The sun fell behind the clouds, and a blanket of shadow settled on the grass. Valdez bobbed, came in.

Valdez threw a roundhouse right and then a left. Constantine covered up, tucked his chin to his chest, breathed evenly, took the blows on his shoulders.

Valdez pulled back for another right. Constantine saw the opening close-in, concentrated on the meaty triangle of the fat man’s chin. Constantine aimed straight through for the Mexican’s skull, exploded an uppercut, connected on his jaw. Valdez’s eyes rolled up with the punch.

Constantine combined with a left jab and a right cross, both to the head. Someone’s bones cracked in the wind, and Constantine felt a stab of pain in his hand as the Mexican stumbled back, his arms spread wide. Constantine went in.

He put one in the Mexican’s gut, buried it there, heard the Mexican grunt. Valdez came back with a head shot that threw Constantine back four steps. Valdez charged, screamed as he charged, pushed Constantine into the back of the stable. Constantine felt his head hit the wood, heard the wood splinter, heard the stallion rear up and come back to the ground behind the wall.

Valdez wrapped his arms tightly around Constantine, squeezed, closed his eyes, made a low moaning sound. Constantine threw his head back, violently butted his forehead down into the Mexican’s broad nose, felt the nose give. Constantine butted the nose again, harder this time, felt Valdez’s arms loosen, saw the blood shoot from his nose down to his white shirt, saw the fresh blood mix with the blood dried on the shirt.

Constantine saw the black eyes of Valdez, heard the deep howl of his rage. He did not feel the blow that rushed toward him. He did not remember the brown fist hitting him at all.

T
HE
rain woke Constantine. He felt it cool and sting his broken face. He knew that he was lying on his side in the worn grass and dirt. He looked straight ahead at the blades of grass, watched the rain fall on the blades. Then he felt the hard barrel of a gun touch his temple.

Constantine stared at the grass. Valdez’s face was very close to his. He could hear the Mexican’s wheeze, could smell his foul breath. Constantine stared at the grass, feeling neither fear nor anticipation. Feeling nothing, he knew that it was not the end.

“I’ve done too much killin’ today,” Valdez said quietly with a sigh, pulling the .45 away from Constantine’s head. “Get in the Dodge, driver.”

Constantine stayed still, listened to the heavy, slow footsteps of Valdez fade. He heard a car door open and shut, heard the start of the Cadillac engine, heard the wheels spit gravel.

Constantine felt the cool rain, smelled the green of the grass, smelled the lime and urine of the stable. He blinked slowly, breathed evenly. He listened to the Mexican drive away.

Chapter
25

C
ONSTANTINE
slept, had a hot shower in his room on Georgia Avenue, then ran a bath. He washed four ibuprofens down with beer, finished the beer while lying in the bath. He stared at the alternating black and beige tiles in the wall of the bathroom, the mildew layered on the grout that ran between them. He thought of Delia, Grimes, and Polk. He thought of them, and the tiles bled white.

The water cooled. Constantine sat up in the bath, reached between his feet, and pulled the rubber plug.

He dried himself with a worn white towel, wiped the steam off the mirror above the sink, and looked into the mirror. Both shoulders carried bruises, the right more painful than the left. There was a deep scrape on his cheek, and the area around his left eye was both purple and black, the lids swollen nearly shut, the eye itself gorged with blood. His forehead was discolored, swollen as well. He looked down at his left hand, thicker now than his right. The forefinger on that hand was twisted oddly at the first joint. Constantine tried to bend it, saw a glimpse of his own ugly wince in the mirror.

Constantine got his shaving kit, taped the broken finger to his middle one, ate two more ibuprofens. He dressed in his denim shirt and jeans, put on a zip-up jacket over the shirt. He laced up his Timberland boots, tied them tightly. He took a hundred in twenties from the briefcase, put the briefcase under the bed, and walked out of the room.

In the lobby, the acne-scarred desk clerk did not look up from his porno mag as Constantine passed. Some breakfast jazz came buoyantly from the lounge at Constantine’s back as he moved through the glass doors and stepped out into the Georgia Avenue night. The rain still came down, though the worst of it had passed. Constantine went to the Super Bee beneath the streetlight where he had parked it, got behind the wheel, and drove south.

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.

C
ONSTANTINE
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.