Shoedog (6 page)

The yellow Super Bee approached just after nine and stopped at the curb, pointing north. Constantine put his Jansport over his shoulder and trotted through the rain, across the street to the car. He threw his pack in the backseat and climbed in next to Polk.

“Mornin’,” Polk said.

“Morning.”

Polk wore the blue windbreaker buttoned high, with a triangle of white T-shirt showing below the neck. He held a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand, a small ring of plastic cut from the top. He took another full cup off the dash and handed it to Constantine.

“This’ll start us off,” he said.

Constantine tore a piece from the lid. He blew on the steam that twisted out of the hole before he sipped. He took his Marlboros out of the breast pocket of his denim shirt and tossed them onto the deck of the dash. It was a gesture to let Polk know that the cigarettes were theirs. The ride south was going to be long, and everything from then on would be cut straight down the middle.

They rode out toward the suburbs of Wheaton and caught the Beltway east. A half hour later they were on Route 4, and soon after that the crispness of country had returned to the air. Gradually the traffic died out and then it seemed to be just the two of them and the occasional pickup passing from the opposite direction. Constantine noticed a stone marker at the head of the unnamed two-lane that they had taken the previous day. Polk turned onto the road and gave the Dodge some gas.

They drove past woods and took a wide curve, past more woods fenced with a split rail, and then a clearing. The big colonial sat back in the clearing. Polk slowed and steered the Super Bee between the squat brick pillars, stopping at the iron gate. He glanced at his watch and shifted in the bench.

Through the windshield Constantine could see the figure with the field glasses framed above the portico in the center window. The figure moved out of the frame, and the iron gate opened inward. Polk eased through the gate and drove toward the house.

A thickly barred cage containing a doghouse stood thirty yards to the left of the house. In front of the doghouse, behind the bars, a black Doberman lay calmly on its belly, its thick head up and tracking the movement of the Dodge. The bars on the cage matched the thickness of those on the front gate.

They stopped the car between a late model Buick and the black Olds, where Polk cut the engine. Constantine retrieved the smokes off the dash and slipped them into his breast pocket. He turned to look at Polk.

“In and out, right Polk?”

“That’s right, Connie. A quick twenty grand, and then we walk.” Polk glanced in the rearview, wet his fingers with his tongue, and ran the fingers through the bristles of his flattop. “You’re going to see some shit in there, and hear a little bit too. It’s smoke, that’s all you gotta remember. They’re nothing but hoods. So keep quiet and don’t sweat it.”

“All right.”

Polk pulled back on the interior latch. “Let’s go.”

They got out of the car and took the three steps up to the front door, Polk grasping the railing for support. He pushed on an oval button set to the left of the door while Constantine studied the brick face of the house. Floodlights hung from the top corners, facing out toward the lawn.

The door opened. Gorman, skinny and gray, stood back in the frame. He nodded at Polk and jerked his head back and up. Constantine marked Gorman as a boozehound, but there was something else—drugs, maybe, and nothing designer—that was eating off the color in his complexion and in his eyes.

They walked behind him through a white marble foyer, past large open rooms done in green leather and dark wood. Two staircases bookended the foyer, leading like bowed legs to the upstairs landing. Gorman chose the left, and they fell in behind him. Constantine ran his hand along the shiny cherry-wood banister as he ascended the marble stairs.

The landing ran square around the second floor, with double doors centered in each wall. Gorman walked them around to the wall situated at the front of the house. He knocked twice on the door, turned the brass knob, and stepped in. Polk and Constantine followed.

Two men sat in armchairs upholstered in green leather, in front of a cherry-wood desk set next to the large bay window that gave a view out onto the lawn. One of the men was Valdez. The other, a lean man with muttonchop sideburns, wore an open-necked lime green shirt tucked into pleated tan slacks. Neither he nor Valdez looked up or acknowledged the entrance. The lean man was using a thin metal file to pick dirt from his thumbnail.

Behind the desk sat a trim older man with short, slicked gray hair. He wore a navy sport blazer over a green polo shirt. His tan face was tight and handsome.

The man fingered a mound of magnetic chips on a black plastic base as he glanced briefly at Constantine and smiled thinly at Polk. It was a smile Constantine had seen on priests and salesmen.

The man said, “Polk.”

Polk nodded. “Grimes.”

Grimes did not get up, and Polk stood with his hands loose in the pockets of his windbreaker. They stared at each other blankly, though in the eyes of Grimes Constantine could see a light, a flicker of history between the two men.

Grimes looked at the lean man and said, “Jackson,” then made a sharp, economical movement of his head. Jackson slipped the file into the pocket of his slacks. He rose without speaking and walked slowly to a bookcase that had a ledge, where he sat with one foot brushing the floor.

“You too, Valdez,” Grimes said.

Valdez got out of his chair and swept a stony glance past Polk and Constantine as he stepped to the far wall. Gorman was there, his arms folded, and Valdez took his place beside him.

Polk walked to the chair directly in front of the desk and took a seat. He folded one leg over the other and crossed his hands in his lap. Constantine settled into the chair where Jackson had been.

Grimes moved the magnetic toy and field glasses from the center of his desk and tented his hands in their place. “You’re back,” he said.

“Yes,” Polk said.

“How long’s it been?”

“I don’t know. A couple, three years.”

“Get into anything interesting while you were out on the road?”

“Some things,” Polk said, and cut it at that.

Jackson had retrieved his file and was digging deeply into the cuticle of his thumb. No one spoke for a minute or so and then Constantine heard the Mexican sigh behind his back. Grimes cleared his throat to break the silence.

“Valdez tells me you stopped by yesterday and inquired about the twenty thousand,” Grimes said. “I thought we had that settled the last time you were in town.”

“You had your muscle throw me out,” Polk said. “That didn’t settle it.”

“Well,” Grimes said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. Because you and me go back. But we’ve been going around on this thing for years now, and I think you know me well enough—”

“And you know me.”

Grimes bit down on the inside of his lip and lowered his voice. “Yes.”

Polk smiled and made an easy wave with one hand. “So, the money, Grimes. Then you don’t see me again.”

Grimes put a finger in the air and said, “Excuse me, one minute.” He turned his desk phone around, picked the receiver out of its cradle, and punched a three-digit extension into the grid. “Hi… bring me a coffee up to the office, will you? Thanks.” He replaced the receiver and looked back at Polk.

Polk patted the inside of his knee. “Back to the money, Grimes.”

“Right. Well, I’m going to be honest with you, Polk. This whole discussion—it’s all irrelevant now.”

“Why’s that?”

Grimes showed some teeth. “I just don’t have it, old buddy. I simply haven’t got it.”

Polk laughed loudly, a short, cynical eruption. “You haven’t got it? That’s rich, Grimes. That’s really rich.”

Grimes’s grin widened. “Listen, I won’t bullshit you. Of course I can get it. But the way I have my funds tied up, to maximize return, it would take a few days to get you the cash. So this is what I’m thinking: since you’re going to be hanging around for a couple of days, why not cut you in on something…
extra
we’ve got going on. Something big.”

Constantine felt a tic, a weakness in the knees, and a brief rush of power. His thumb dented the leather arm of the chair.

Polk leaned forward. “Like what?”

Grimes shifted his gaze to Constantine and back to Polk. “We haven’t been introduced.”

“His name’s Constantine.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Grimes said.

Polk said, “He’s a driver.”

Constantine heard a grumble and some movement behind him—the unfolding of arms. Jackson looked up from his surgery and dropped the file into the side pocket of his slacks.

“A driver?” Grimes said. “It happens that we could use a driver.”

Polk said. “What’s the game?”

Grimes moved the magnetic toy back in front of him on the desk and ran his fingers through the chips. “The briefing’s two-thirty this afternoon. All the details will be handled then, by Weiner.”

“Condense it for us, Grimes. You can do that.”

“Of course I can. But if you turn it down, how can I let you and your friend walk?”

“Because you know me,” Polk said, making a head movement toward Constantine. “And I’m vouching for him.”

“I don’t like it,” Valdez said, behind their backs.

Polk and Grimes kept their eyes on each other, ignoring Valdez. It was as if the Mexican were not standing in the room.

Grimes played with the magnetic chips, making a mound of them before he pushed the toy away. “All right,” he said. “In a nutshell: we’re talking about a knockover, this Friday. Two liquor stores, on opposite ends of Northwest.”

“What’s the payoff?” Polk said.

“Total take? I put it at three hundred Gs.”

“How many men?”

“Six, not counting Weiner.”

“The split?”

“The usual,” Grimes said. “A hundred to me, inclusive of my bankroll—guns, automobiles, anything else. Twenty to Weiner, for logistics. The rest to the six who pull the job. That’s thirty each, for you and your friend.” Grimes grinned. “And something else.”

“Keep talking.”

“The extra twenty. It’s yours when you complete the job.”

“Why so generous?”

“I need you, Polk. I’ve looked at this closely, and it’s as near to a sure thing as you can get. But it’s never all cake.” Grimes pointed over the desk. “You’re good. I want to hedge my bet.”

Polk let it settle. “What if I pass, just take the original twenty?”

Grimes said, “That’s not an option.”

Polk chewed on that for a while. He said, “If I decide to come on board—and I haven’t decided—there’s one more thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“If something goes down—if I don’t make it—Constantine here gets my share. My thirty, and his,
and
the extra twenty. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Grimes said, against the tightness in the room.

There was a knock on the door, and an entrance. A woman carrying a cup and saucer walked through the room and stopped at the desk.

Constantine took her in: a thirtyish blonde, natural from the looks of her—pale, unblemished complexion and blue, blue eyes. She wore riding jeans and low-heeled calfskin boots, with a chambray shirt tucked into the jeans and a red scarf tucked into the neck of the shirt. The scarf hid most of the neck, but not the best of it, the long swannish curve mat ended at the chiseled chin. There was a freshness in her like newly printed money. Constantine could smell it from his chair, as if a window had been opened in the room.

The woman placed the setup in front of Grimes and ran one slender finger along the edge of the blotter. “Is that all?” she said. “Because I’m about ready for my ride.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Grimes said, looking suddenly small and boyish behind the desk. “I’m about done here.” He moved his eyes to his guests. “You remember Mr. Polk, don’t you, Delia?”

The woman named Delia gave Polk a polite but disinterested smile. “Of course. Nice to see you again.”

Polk nodded, his eyes fixed on the woman.

Constantine spoke for the first time. “My name’s Constantine,” he said, no longer wishing to remain invisible.

He stood and walked to the desk, where he stretched out his hand. Delia shook it, held on a second longer than necessary, looking him over before she released her grip. Constantine thought he saw something familiar in her eyes, but the sensation passed. The only thing familiar, he decided, was his own desire.

Delia turned and walked from the room. Jackson chuckled under his breath, stroking his sparsely goateed chin as he eyeballed Constantine. The door shut behind the woman, and Constantine returned to his seat.

Grimes had a sip of coffee. He placed the cup back on the saucer, staring once meaningfully at Constantine before he spoke to Polk. “Well,” he said. “What do you think?”

Constantine thought of the money. He pictured it in tightly banded stacks. In the picture, next to the stacks of money, stood the woman. He looked at Polk, and he nodded.

Polk said, “We’ll come to the meeting this afternoon. See what this thing’s all about. I’ll give you my answer then.”

Grimes took a pen from a leather cup and wrote some words down on a green pad. He tore the top sheet off the pad and held it out to Polk. Polk got out of the chair, limped to the desk, and took the paper from Grimes’s hand.

“I’d like you to take care of this,” Grimes said, “before the meeting. Okay?”

Polk read the note, said, “Right,” folded the paper, and put it into his windbreaker. “Let’s go, Connie.”

Constantine joined Polk and the two of them walked from the room. When the door was shut, Valdez pushed off from the wall.

“Mr. Grimes—”

“Save it,” Grimes said, his palm up. “Just save it. I know what I’m doing, understand? You and Gorman, take a walk. And be back for the meeting.”

Valdez and Gorman split. Jackson watched them walk—raggedy-ass motherfuckers, out of the old school—until the door closed behind them. He looked at Grimes.

“You want me gone too, Mr. Grimes?”

“No.” Grimes pulled a white envelope heavy with hundreds from his top drawer and pushed the envelope to the edge of the desk. “Come on over here and have a seat, Jackson,” he said. “I’ve got a little extra something I want done on this one.”