Shoedog

Chapter 19

The men met in the foyer of the Grimes estate at ten o’clock on Friday morning.

Valdez and Gorman stood together next to the entrance to the library, their hands in the pockets of their loose-fitting, zippered jackets. Randolph, Polk, and Constantine stood on the opposite end of the foyer, talking quietly. Jackson dug under his thumbnail with a metal file, and stood alone.

A little past ten, Weiner came down the stairs carrying a large duffel bag in his right hand. Grimes walked from his office, leaned on the rail that ran around the landing, and looked down on the men. Grimes wore a blazer over a salmon-colored polo shirt, with khaki slacks and loafers. His gray hair had been lightly slicked back.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Weiner said, placing the duffel bag in the center of the marbled foyer.

The men formed a semicircle around Weiner and the bag. Weiner crouched down, zipped open the bag. He looked inside it, looked up at Randolph.

“You’re okay,” Weiner said. “Right, Randolph?”

“I got mine,” Randolph said, pulling back the lapel of his jacket to reveal the butt of a holstered. 45. Constantine recognized the checkered walnut stock, the raised horse insignia in the middle of the grip.

“Constantine?” Weiner said.

“I won’t need-”

“We already went through this, kid.”

“The Colt, then,” said Constantine.

Weiner pulled a blue-steeled automatic from the bag, handed it, butt out, to Constantine.

“Full clip,” Weiner said. “Safety on.”

Gorman nudged Valdez as Constantine checked it.

“You know how to use it, driver?” Gorman said.

Constantine ignored Gorman, hefted the gun in his hand.

“Jackson?” Weiner said.

Jackson dropped the file into his pocket, looked down at Weiner. “I got my Walther,” he said lazily. “I’m good.”

Weiner nodded, pulled another. 45 from the bag. “Polk.”

Polk took the gun, checked the action, holstered it inside his windbreaker. “Thanks, buddy.”

Weiner moved his brown beret back on his head, glanced up at Valdez. Valdez unzipped his jacket, opened it, showed automatics holstered beneath each arm.

“I’ll take a revolver,” Valdez said, “for insurance. Case one o’ these sonofabitches jams.”

Weiner drew a snub-nosed. 38 from the bag. Valdez took it, dropped to one knee, raised his pant leg, slid the. 38 into the empty holster strapped to his ankle. He stood, shook his pant leg down over the holster. Weiner pointed his chin at Gorman.

“I’m holdin’ my nine,” Gorman said. “You know what else I want. Give it to me.”

Weiner reached into the bag, withdrew a 12-gauge pump shotgun with a pistol grip. The skinny man with the gray complexion grabbed it, ran his hand down the barrel.

“This the six- or the eight-shot?” Gorman said.

“The six,” Weiner said. “Mossberg makes the barrel shorter by two inches on the six-shot. Thought you’d want the short-”

“It’ll do,” Gorman said, adding, “Shells.”

Weiner tossed a box of shells to Gorman, stood up, faced the men. Gorman put the shells in his jacket.

“Masks are by the door,” Weiner said. “Randolph and Constantine, you know the drop for the cars. Any questions, gentlemen?”

None of them spoke.

“That’s it, then,” Grimes said, from above. He pushed away from the rail, walked back into his office, and closed the door.

The car drop was near Indian Head Highway in Oxon Hill, behind a nondescript commercial strip of rundown brick structures well off the main road. Constantine drove the Super Bee with Polk to the drop. Randolph and Jackson went in Randolph’s T-Bird, and Gorman and Valdez took the Caddy. They parked on the side of a closed television repair shop whose windows displayed sun-faded banners, and moved to the rear of the strip. Gorman walked in the middle of the pack, the shotgun tight against his leg.

The Fury and the Road Runner sat together, the only cars in the gravel lot. The sun hung overhead, drying the dew beaded on the cars’ hoods. Constantine pointed to the Road Runner, side-glanced Valdez.

“That’s us,” he said.

Gorman went to it, opened the door, slid the Mossberg behind the buckets onto the floor of the backseat. He walked around the car, opening all the windows. Valdez grunted, got down on his belly, checked beneath the Plymouth for leaks.

Jackson walked to the Fury, ran his hand down the long black hood on his way to the door. He opened the door, got into the shotgun seat, pulled the nail file from his slacks. He pushed the file beneath his thumbnail, stared straight ahead.

Polk, Randolph, and Constantine stood at the edge of the lot and looked out across a weedy field. Beyond the field, a few Cape Cods stood on a dead-end street.

“Hot for April, man.” Randolph shifted his shoulders, looked over at Constantine. “You gonna be all right, lover?”

“I’ll be all right,” Constantine said.

“We best be goin’, then. Got to get my ass into work, too. Friday’s my day. I sell some shoes on Friday, boy.” Randolph stared across the field, spoke softly to himself. “Triple dot,” he said.

“Go on, Randolph,” Polk said. “I’ll be along.”

Randolph shook Constantine’s hand, did not look in his eyes. He walked to the Fury, settled himself in the driver’s seat.

Polk said, “Got a smoke, Connie?”

Constantine took the pack from his denim shirt, shook one out for Polk. He lit Polk’s, lit one for himself. He took three cigarettes from the pack and slipped them carefully into his breast pocket. He put the remainder of the pack in the pocket of Polk’s windbreaker.

“Here,” Constantine said.

Polk wrinkled his forehead. “You got enough for yourself?”

“Take ‘em.”

Behind them, they heard the voice of Gorman: “Come on, driver, move it!”

Constantine turned to say good-bye, but the old man was already gone. Polk limped to the car, climbed into the backseat of the Fury. A rumble cut the air as Randolph lit the 440.

Constantine had a drag off his cigarette, followed that with a long hotbox. He pitched the butt, blew smoke in the wind as he walked towards the car. The ugly face of the Mexican gazed out from the shotgun seat.

Constantine opened the door, settled in behind the wheel. He found the key under the seat, fitted it. He looked in the rearview at the gaunt, cadaverous face of Gorman staring out the window. He adjusted the rearview, made an adjustment to the side mirror.

Constantine put his fingers to the key and cooked the ignition.