“The thing I noticed,” Constantine said, “since I been back in D.C. The young people-none of them smile. It’s like they don’t know how to smile.” He rubbed at his beard. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“Simple, man,” Randolph said. “It’s the end of the motherfuckin’ world.”
Weiner squirmed between the two men. “Polk, put on some music, will you?”
Polk clicked the radio on to an easy-listening station. A string version of “When Doves Cry” came through the trebly dash speaker.
Randolph groaned. “Come on, man, turn this Geritol bullshit off.”
Polk notched the volume down. “Hey, Connie, how about passing me up a smoke.”
Constantine put the pack on Polk’s shoulder. Charlotte turned, took the pack, smiled at Constantine. She put a cigarette to her lips, pushed in the dashboard lighter, and handed the pack back over the seat. Constantine slipped the deck into the pocket of his denim shirt.
“Where we headed?” Constantine asked.
“Place in southeast,” Polk said. “A joint where cops hang out, believe it or not. Charlotte’s friend wants to meet us there.”
“That’s that joint on Eighth and G,” Randolph said. “Right?”
“Yeah,” Polk said, taking the lit cigarette from Charlotte’s hand, wedging it between his teeth. “Place called The Spot.”
THE Spot was a windowless, cinder-block establishment set on a dark corner of the city, east of the Hill. Its transom, a dirty piece of rectangular glass framed above the door, functioned as the only source of natural light. As the group walked to the front door, Constantine noticed the rag-swathed feet of a man protruding from a nearby alley.
The six of them stepped inside, stood on a two-step landing. To the left, a mahogany bar ran along the wall, lit by hanging conical lamps. A handful of men, some alone and some in groups, sat on barstools, their drinks and ashtrays set in front of them. One of the men who sat alone, a bearish man with short, dirty blond hair, talked quietly to the bartender. A bulge in the shape of a gun butt protruded from the back of the man’s tweed jacket. Three other men sat grouped at the end of the bar under a large Redskins poster, arguing loudly over the results of a fifteen-year-old playoff game. Bluesy slide guitar played loudly through the house stereo, but none of the patrons seemed to notice.
Polk and Charlotte stepped down into the bar area, went straight to the tender to say hello. Constantine looked to the room at his right, an unpopulated green room with scattered tables and dart boards.
“Let’s sit in there,” Constantine said, pointing to the empty room. “There’s cops in the bar.”
“Cops and liquored-up rednecks,” Randolph added.
“That’s okay by me,” Weiner said, “but hold on just one minute.” Weiner pointed to the bartender, a dark- haired man with a blue bar rag hanging off the side of his jeans. “The bartender-now keep in mind that I’ve never been here, and I’m assuming that neither have you-he looks to me to be a person of Mediterranean descent. If I were to bet on it, I’d say Italian. In fact, a twenty says the man is an Italian.” Weiner paused for effect. “What would you gentlemen say?”
Constantine felt himself check the bartender out, though he was not a betting man. He shrugged. “If you say Italian, Weiner, then he is.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Randolph said. The man could have been Italian. But from where they stood, the man could have been damn near anything. It seemed like a good bet.
“Come on,” Constantine said. “Let’s sit down.”
The men pushed two four-tops together and took seats. Polk entered the room with his arm around Charlotte, the two of them laughing.
“I ordered us a round,” Polk said loudly, limping to the table. “Connie, how about one of them smokes?”
Constantine tossed the deck of Marlboros to the center of the table.
“Hey, Polk,” Randolph said. “You know the man behind the bar?”
“Yeah,” Polk said, lighting a cigarette off the table’s candle. “I’ve seen him around.”
“He’s an Italian,” Weiner said, nervously touching his beret. “Am I right?”
Polk shook his head, let smoke stream from his nose. “He’s a Greek.”
Randolph said, “I’ll take that twenty, Weiner.”
“God- damn it, though,” Weiner said, reaching for his wallet. “I was close.”
A short, young Latino walked into the room carrying a round of drinks balanced on a bar tray. He sorted them out, served them, and left with a careless bow and a gold-toothed smile. The party lifted their drinks to Weiner’s toast. Charlotte and Polk returned to their private conversation.
“Well, anyway,” Weiner said, holding the bill out in his hand, “I can afford the twenty tonight. I hit at the track today. I hit pretty good.”
Randolph took the twenty, folded it neatly, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his sport jacket. “So I guess that means you’re buyin’, too.”
Weiner shook his head. “Actually, I spent half of my winnings already.”
“Spent it on what?” Randolph said.
“A gift for my lady friend,” Weiner said, his eyes reflecting wet from the flame of the candle. “Well, not exactly my lady friend yet. A young lady I met in the record store.” Weiner hit his drink.
Randolph nudged Constantine. “I do believe our man here’s in love.”
Constantine pulled on his vodka, ignoring Randolph. He said to Weiner, “What’s she like?”
Weiner smiled. “Like the girls I used to know, the ones I told you about. The ones who used to hang at Coffee and Confusion. She’s real hip, this one. Not beautiful, exactly, I know that. But she has it.” He looked into his drink, spoke quietly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve known someone this… clean. I’ll give you odds, she barely has a smell to her. I swear to God, if I could just touch that pussy, just touch it one time”-Weiner put his palms together, as if in prayer-“I’d die a happy man.”
The bar’s front door swung in, and a small bell sounded above it. A woman with pale complexion entered, looked around, and bounded down the two steps into the room. She wore a short black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline; her stockings were black, and her black hair had been teased and brought forward like the curl of a wave, frozen in the last quiet seconds before it hits the shore. She moved forward quickly, winking once at Charlotte, her purplish lips twisted into a warm, crooked grin, her arms outstretched.
Randolph looked first at the woman’s eyes, then he checked out her shape. His appraisal stopped at the black pumps on the woman’s feet: seven, maybe seven and a half.
The woman fell into Polk’s arms as he stood to greet her.
“Hello, Polky!” she said.
“Hey, Phil,” he said, kissing her roughly on the edge of her mouth. “How the hell’s it goin’, sweetheart?”
“It’s goin’,” she said, punctuating her two-pack-a-day laugh with a slap on her hip. “I looked in the mirror this morning and saw that it was going fast. So someone better take advantage of it, real quick.” She smiled, her dark eyes lighting on Randolph.
“The name’s Randolph,” he said, extending his hand. Constantine noted the velvet in Randolph’s voice, the same velvet from the sales floor, earlier in the day.
“Phil,” she said. “Short for Phyllis.”
Randolph ran a long finger along his black mustache. “Don’t look like you’re short on a damn thing,” he said.
Phyllis said to Polk, “I like your friends.”
“That’s Constantine,” Polk said. “The man in the cap is Weiner.”
Constantine and Weiner nodded at Phyllis. She tilted her head pleasantly and returned her gaze to Randolph.
“Come on, honey,” Charlotte said, rising to her feet and grabbing Phyllis by the arm. “You’re way behind. Let’s go into the bar, have a coupla shooters. We’ll come back in, join the party.”
“I’m ready,” Phyllis said, thrusting out both fists and doing a brief cha-cha, two steps forward, two steps back. She pointed at Randolph and smiled. “Don’t go anywhere, boys.”
Polk got up, followed Charlotte and Phyllis back into the bar. Weiner stood and said, “I think I’ll join them.” Constantine and Randolph watched him walk away.
“Looks like you got a date tonight,” Constantine said, “if you want it.”
