Shoedog

Chapter 11

Polk, Randolph, and Weiner waited in the driveway for Constantine to come from the house. Jackson had walked out behind them, gotten in his car. He pulled the car alongside the men and rolled down the window.

“Pick a good one tomorrow, hear?” he said to Randolph, and Randolph knew he meant the car. Jackson winked at Randolph, but Randolph did not acknowledge the wink. Randolph considered Jackson a loser, worse than a bum. There were those who could work, and those who couldn’t; those who could and who chose the hustle were worse than those on the bum.

As Jackson drove toward the gate, Delia walked from the woods, past the men. The men tracked her walk, admired it, Polk more deeply than the rest. She did not look at them as she passed them and entered the house.

Five minutes later Constantine opened the front door and stepped out. He crossed the driveway to where the men had grouped themselves around Randolph’s T-Bird.

“What’s going on?” Constantine said.

Randolph said, “Waitin’ on you.”

“Well,” Constantine said, “here I am. What now?”

“We usually go out after the meeting, have a few,” Polk said. “Like a tradition. You up for that, Connie?”

“I guess I am,” Constantine said. “I need to check back into my motel, take a shower, change my clothes.”

Randolph said, “We’ll pick up Polk’s heap, swing back out.”

“You guys can meet me in the motel lounge,” Constantine said.

Weiner said, “Where would that be?”

“On the west side of Georgia, just over the District line. Place doesn’t have a name, just says ‘Motel.’”

“I know the place,” Weiner said, then looked at his wristwatch. “I’ll see you gentlemen around eight.”

Randolph said, “Right”

Weiner marched to his car, a midsized, cookie-cutter GM product-from where he stood, Constantine could not make out if it was a Buick or an Olds-and drove off. Randolph, Polk, and Constantine climbed into the T-Bird, Polk squirreling himself into the backseat. Randolph turned the ignition key and headed down the driveway to the open gate.

“What’d Grimes want with you?” Polk said.

“Pat on the back,” Constantine said.

Polk said, “Thought it might have something to do with the woman.”

Constantine said, “It didn’t.”

“She is fine, though,” Randolph said.

“Yes,” Constantine said.

“Too fine,” Randolph said, “for a poor motherfucker like you.”

“I guess you’re right,” Constantine said.

Polk tapped Constantine on the shoulder. “Hey, Connie, how about passing me back a smoke?”

Constantine took the pack from his shirt pocket and tossed it over his shoulder to Polk in the backseat. Polk took a cigarette, wedged it between his lips, passed the pack back up to Constantine.

“I thought for sure,” Polk said, “that Grimes was going to talk to you about the woman.”

“Come to think of it,” Constantine said, “he did mention something.”

Constantine asked for and checked into his old room after Randolph dropped him at the motel. He napped in the room, falling asleep immediately, the venetian blinds sealing out most of the light. He awoke a short time later in the dark.

After his shower Constantine had the last of his vodka while he cleaned up his beard and dressed in fresh clothing. Before he left, he checked himself once in the mirror, then switched off the light.

Coming out of the elevator, Constantine could hear the Ohio Players’ “Sweet Sticky Thing” playing from the lounge. He entered, scoped the bar. In a far corner, he saw Polk and Randolph sitting with a woman at a roundtop. Constantine crossed the room, passed juicers huddled over their drinks at the bar, and stopped at the table.

“Connie!” Polk said, standing at once, shaking Constantine’s hand. Polk had put on a textured dress shirt, a Puerto Rican-looking number, over his white T-shirt. His windbreaker was spread over the back of the chair.

“Polk. Randolph.” Constantine smiled politely, extended his hand to the middle-aged woman in the chair. “My name’s Constantine.”

“Charlotte,” the woman said, closing and then opening her eyes slowly in drama-class fashion. She had deep purple eye shadow and penciled-in brows, sharply pointed at the tips. A shock of white-blond hair had been bleached into the front of her black bouffant. Straightaway, Constantine thought of Lily Munster.

“Good to meet you.”

“And you, honey.” Charlotte gave him a nicotinetinted smile. “Polk told me you were a looker. He was right.”

“Thanks.”

“Sit down, lover,” Randolph said, “and have a drink.”

Constantine sat, pushed the netted orange candle away from him, to the center of the table. A bandy-legged waitress came by, jutted her chin upward at Constantine. The motion revealed a scar beneath her chin.

“Vodka rocks,” Constantine said.

“What flavor?” the waitress said, impatiently jiggling change in her black apron.

“Just vodka.”

The waitress gave the rest of the table an eye-sweep. “Anybody else?”

“Two more of these, sweetheart,” Polk said, twiddling his fingers between his and Charlotte’s glasses.

“You?” the waitress said to Randolph.

“I’m good,” Randolph said, cupping his hand over his glass of soda water. The waitress gave Randolph an unclean look, wiped quickly at the area in front of Constantine. She brushed ashes off the table, half of them going into her hand, the other half drifting into Constantine’s lap. The waitress turned to walk away, and Randolph watched her feet.

Randolph said, “Eight and a half.”

“What’s that?” said Constantine.

“The lady wears an eight and a half. An A width, though. Tougher than a motherfucker to fit.” Randolph eyed Constantine’s denim shirt. “Speakin’ of threads, man, that outfit there-what the fuck is that your uniform?”

Constantine flashed on his high school military academy and service days, chuckled to himself. “I guess so,” he said. “Too many choices, too many complications. You know what I’m saying?”

“I know you’re a little off,” Randolph said. A softness came into his eyes. “But you’re down, I guess.”

Constantine glanced at Polk and Charlotte, huddled across the table, laughing. Eddie Kendricks’s “Keep on Trucking” had begun to blare through the bar speakers. Randolph sipped at his soda.

“You don’t drink,” Constantine said.

“I drink,” Randolph said. “But I keep it in check. Drinkin’s ruined most every man I know. When I get into the store every morning, I got to be on my game, one hundred percent. Can’t let those other boys get the jump on me, man.”

“But you do something,” Constantine said, looking into the pinkish white of Randolph’s eyes.

Randolph grinned. “I do like my herb, now and again”

“You holdin’?”

“Sure am. Shit I got’ll make your dick hard. You wanna get high?”

“That would be good,” Constantine said.

The two of them excused themselves and headed for the bathroom in the back of the lounge. Constantine went in first, motoring quickly to one of two urinals. Randolph had a look around the blue-tiled bathroom, then leaned back against the wall, next to a casement window. He pulled a manila coin envelope and some papers from his maroon sport jacket.

Constantine urinated while Randolph shook a line of pot into two papers he had glued together. He twisted a tight one, passed it through his lips, then ran a flame beneath the number to dry it, give it a seal. Constantine washed his hands in the sink as Randolph flicked his lighter and burned one end of the joint.

Randolph hit the weed, closed his eyes, held it in. He cranked open the window, looked through the crack, saw a barely lit alley, and blew the smoke out into the night. Randolph passed the joint to Constantine. Constantine blew the ash off the end, took a hit. He paused, felt the smooth warmth in his lungs, exhaled.

“Nice taste,” Constantine said.

Randolph formed an “okay” sign with his thumb and forefinger. “Sens.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“The bartender ran with this lady I used to know,” Randolph said. “Homeboy’s cool.”

Constantine passed the joint back to Randolph just as the bathroom door swung open.

“Gentlemen!” Weiner said, marching in. His floral print shirt had been buttoned to the neck, the tails tucked into his brown Sansabelt slacks. A beret, the same shade of brown as the slacks, sat cocked on his head.

Randolph reproduced the joint that he had cupped when the door had opened. He put it to his mouth, hit it once more, and passed it to Weiner. Weiner smelled the sweet wisp coming off the burning end, smiled, hit it, and talked as the smoke passed through his lips.

“Nice tea,” Weiner said.

“Sens,” said Randolph.

“What about Polk?” Constantine said. “He comin’ in too?”

“Not his bag,” Weiner said. “He knows what’s going on, though. Said you guys were in here doing one of two things-fucking each other or smoking grass.” Weiner grinned as he handed the number to Constantine. “It made Charlotte blush. And it takes something to make her blush.”

Constantine drew on the joint, then turned it around in his hand. He felt himself smile stupidly. “Hey, Randolph. Come on over here, man, let’s get serious.”

Constantine blew the ash off, put the lit end in his mouth, felt it singe his tongue. Randolph stepped up, cupped his hands around his mouth, and took the shotgun from Constantine.

“If you don’t mind,” Weiner said, “I’ll have some of that.” Constantine turned, blowing a great jet of smoke into Weiner’s face.

The bathroom was filled now with the heavy smoke of marijuana. Constantine took another pull, handed the joint to Randolph.

The door opened. A middle aged man wearing a loosely knotted tie stepped inside. He stopped walking, had a look at the three men, and went to the head to urinate. When he was done, he zipped up his fly and faced Randolph.

“How ‘bout a hit off that stick?” he said.

“Why not?” Randolph said. “Everyone else in this motherfucker’s had some.”

The man hit it, kept hitting it until Randolph plucked the joint from his mouth. The four men stood in the bathroom and laughed.

Constantine lighted a cigarette, savored the good taste of the tobacco in his lungs. He patted Randolph on the shoulder and said, “Let’s get out of here, man.”

The four of them were still laughing as they walked out into the lounge.

The stranger waved them off and returned to his seat at the bar. The Isley Brothers’ “What It Comes Down To” played now in the lounge. Constantine heard himself singing it as they walked to the table. The ground felt soft beneath his feet; the room and the people in it glowed faintly in the barroom light.

Constantine sat, noticing that Polk had ordered him another drink. He killed the rest of the watered-down vodka and quickly had a sip of the new, toasting Polk with the glass. Polk, his arm around Charlotte, winked back. Constantine dragged on his cigarette, blew a smoke ring in the direction of Randolph.

Randolph said, “Heard you singin’ that song.”

Constantine smiled. “The Isleys, man. ‘Three Plus Three.’ Ernie wailed on that one.”

“ ‘Who’s That Lady,’ ‘Summer Breeze’-shit, Constantine, he wailed on that whole motherfucker. Boy played some guitar.”

“I wore the grooves out on the disc. I had the original-”

“On T-Neck,” Randolph said, giving Constantine skin.

“Nineteen seventy-three,” Constantine said. “I had just got my license, bought this Dodge-a sixty-six Coronet Five Hundred. Yellow, with black buckets, a swivel tach.” He closed his eyes, had a taste of his drink. “I had this girlfriend then, girl by the name of Katherine. I used to drive her in that car through Rock Creek Park, on Saturday afternoons. The Mighty Burner was the deejay on WOL, remember?”

“You know I do,” Randolph said. “I had just moved up here, from North Carolina.”

“When I’d ride with Katherine in that car, I practically used to pray the Burner would play that song.”

Randolph said, “Yeah, well, you older than a motherfucker now. So you might as well forget all about your first nut, hear?”

Constantine thought of Katherine, what he had done the night before. He thought of Delia, in the barn. He took a drag, stubbed out his smoke in the ashtray.

“I guess you’re right,” he said.

Weiner had been looking around the bar, moving his head to the music. He signaled the waitress, ordered a Brandy Alexander. Randolph asked for a cognac. The rest of them held.

“How about you, Weiner?” Randolph said mockingly. “This tune remind you of anything?”

Weiner pursed his lips, shook his head broadly. “If it’s after Phil Ochs, I can’t identify it The Beatles ended it for me, gentlemen.”

“Who the fuck is Phil Ochs?” Randolph said.

Weiner waved his hand. “Never mind. Suffice it to say that there was a scene in this town that you two can’t even imagine-Constantine, you in particular were kicking the slats out of your crib in the era I’m talking about.”

The waitress returned with the drinks, served them clumsily. Constantine ordered another vodka.

The waitress said, “Why didn’t you order your drink when I was here before?”

“Because I didn’t,” Constantine said.

The waitress rolled her eyes and slouch-walked away.

“Anyway,” Weiner said, raising his Brandy Alexander. “Ladies and gentlemen? To success.” The five of them tapped glasses in the middle of the table. Polk and Charlotte returned to their private conversation.

“Like I was saying,” Weiner said. “There was this scene in D.C. A real Beat scene, an underground. I used to go to this one club, Coffee and Confusion was the name of it, over on Tenth and K.”

“That was your bar?” Randolph said.

“Oh, there were other joints. The Java Jungle, the Ontario Place-but Coffee and Confusion, that was it for me. Guys playing guitars, bongos, wearing shades inside the club. A real scene. And the chicks there”-Weiner’s eyes, already glazed, deepened at the memory-“my God, you should have seen them. Long, straight hair, parted in the middle. Heavy makeup, black around the eyes. Their breasts, their young breasts-the whole package, I’ve got to tell you, was terrifically sexy. Totally and terrifically sexy.”

“Sounds like a winner,” Randolph said.

Weiner smiled wryly. “Well, of course, you’re patronizing me. But you’ve got to agree, Randolph, everyone has their time. And everyone knows that their time was the best. Do you agree?”

Randolph thought of the Zanzibar, in the Seventies. “Yes,” he said.

The waitress returned, served Constantine. He nodded to her, hit the drink. “After this round,” he said to Randolph, “let’s get out of here.”

“I’m down with it.”

Polk broke away from Charlotte. “We’ll head downtown,” he said. “Charlotte’s got a friend, wants to hook up with us. That okay by you guys?”

Constantine nodded. Randolph watched the feet of a woman who walked past their table.

“Hey, Weiner,” Randolph said, nudging him with his elbow, nodding towards the woman’s feet. “What you figure her shoe size is?”

“I have no idea,” Weiner said.

“I’ll bet you ten bucks she’s a nine.”

“You make your living selling shoes.” Weiner shook his head. “That’s a sucker’s bet.”

“Anyway,” Randolph said, “she would have told you she’s an eight and a half. But believe me-the freak is a nine.”

After a while they got their tab and left eight on thirty-three for the waitress with the bandy legs and the scarred chin. Despite her attitude, Constantine had argued for the heavy tip. He had known many waitresses in his life, and he liked even the bad ones.

Out on Georgia Avenue, the five of them walked to Polk’s Super Bee. Polk limped alongside Charlotte, Randolph at their side. Constantine stayed with Weiner, smiling fondly at the little man’s march. Something had loosened in Constantine; he could not tell now if it was the marijuana or the alcohol that had unscrewed his head. But he’d forgotten about the things that were behind him. He’d forgotten, just then, about the thing that he’d agreed to do.

George Pelecanos

Shoedog