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
Chapter 12
Polk drove the Dodge downtown, Charlotte at his side, her thigh touching his. Randolph and Constantine flanked Weiner in the backseat. A cool April mist cut the air, came through the open windows.
Constantine let the mist and wind bite his face as he stared out the window at the neon life of Georgia Avenue. Small bars, Caribbean nightspots, athleticshoe stores, funeral parlors, independent insurers, Korean beer markets, and liquor stores blurred by. On every block there seemed to be an easel set on the sidewalk, advertising beepers and answering services. Constantine noticed the cursive, neon sign for Posin’s, the Hebrew grocery store where his mother had taken him weekly as a child, to shop for meat. It was the only business on Georgia that Constantine could recognize.
Constantine said, “What’s with the beepers?”
“Man, you have been away,” Randolph said. “The beepers are for all these young entrepreneurs and shit.”
A young man in a hooded jacket and baggy jeans stood on the corner of Georgia and Buchanan, watching the Dodge and its occupants pass. He formed his hand into the shape of a pistol, pulled the trigger on Constantine. Constantine looked away.
