Isaac’s eyes went to the money, then back up at Jackson. “You ain’t done talkin’.”
“Isaac,” Jackson said. “That your name, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Sounds like a slave name.”
“Talk about the money.”
“I am,” Jackson said. “See, I been in that shop, heard the way that Jewboy with the Rolex and the chains talks to you. The old man too. ‘Isaac, fetch this, Isaac, fetch that’ Thought it might be time for you to get you some, brother.”
Isaac looked away from the man’s eyes, spoke in a low and steady voice. “What’ve I got to do?”
It was done now, easy. Jackson had not figured Isaac to turn so quick, but it proved what he already knew: a man would do anything, when it came down to it, for the green. Especially a raggedy-ass motherfucker like this.
Jackson fanned the stack, stepped up close to Isaac. “There’s ten grand here, Isaac. I’ll be comin’ in tomorrow with an old white man, a little dude. When I get all the money, I want you to step out of the back.”
“And?”
“I want you to doom the white man. Kill him, understand what I’m sayin’?”
Isaac stared at Jackson without emotion. He reached out, took the money.
“You need a gun?” Jackson said.
Isaac shook his head.
“After you kill the white man,” Jackson said, “I’m gonna put a round over your head. Way over, for show. You drop down behind the counter, and that’s when I get out. You be a hero, I take the money, and everything’s clean. We down, Isaac?”
Isaac nodded. Jackson patted the man’s arm, noticed the torn flannel of Isaac’s shirt.
“Eleven-fifteen?” Isaac said.
Jackson said, “Right.”
Isaac did not shake Jackson’s hand. He folded the stack of hundreds and shoved them down into the pocket of his blue work pants. Then he turned and went back through the door, into the stockroom.
Jackson walked slowly out of the garage, putting on his shades as he moved into the light. He got to the T- Bird, sat in the shotgun seat just as Randolph emerged from the front door of Uptown Liquors.
Jackson relaxed, took a deep hit of the cool April air.
From inside, Isaac watched a tall man in a maroon sport jacket leave the store and meet the hustler at the car. There was something familiar about the tall man-something familiar and good. It bothered him, not knowing what it was. But then he heard the sound of the old man’s voice.
“Isaac,” Rosenfeld said, gesturing toward a man in a tweed jacket, standing at the counter. “The gentleman needs a case of Guinness, please.”
Isaac nodded, and headed for the back room.
Chapter 16
Gorman laughed loudly. “Look at that fuckin’ guy,” he said.
Gorman pointed into a brightly painted concrete park at the corner of 14th and Girard, at a man standing, talking, and gesturing on a redwood pedestal. The man wore a fluorescent Gianni Versace jogging outfit, with thick gold chains hung out across the top. Young men dressed in hooded sweatshirts and low-rider jeans stood around the pedestal, listening to the man with the expressive hands.
“See that outfit?” Gorman said.
“Yeah?” Valdez said.
“Black man’s tuxedo,” Gorman said.
“Blind leadin’ the blind,” Valdez said, with a grunt.
Gorman said, “Fuckin’ boofers.”
The street opened up and seemed to brighten at U, at the bottom of a steep hill. It had taken twenty-five years, but the signs of regeneration-new businesses, new bars, theaters, and offices-grew through the ruin, like buds blooming impossibly from the concrete. When Constantine had left town, 14th Street had still been bloodied from the riots of ‘68, long rows of charred storefronts, all plywood and black iron. Constantine could still remember the tension when the city burned, how the smoke hovered over the downtown skyline, the way his parents had sat quietly with jittery eyes and folded hands at the dinner table that night.
“Pull over,” Valdez said, as the car drove by the projects named Frontiers, at S Street.
Gorman slowed, guided the Caddy into a spot in front of a block of shabby rowhouse storefronts on the west side of 14th, and cut the engine. Across the street stood a place called For the Love of Children, its faded wooden sign hung over the pocked door. Next to that was a partially demolished structure, a banner slung loosely across its falling brick facade, announcing the coming of City Center. The mayor’s signature, in black, was scrawled boldly beneath the announcement.
“Liquor store’s just around the corner,” Valdez said, “on R. City’s gonna tear that down, too.”
“Looks like we’re hittin’ it just in time,” Gorman said.
“They’re making room for a new shopping center,” Valdez said. “These people got nothin’ but plenty of time to shop.”
“Be new for maybe a week,” Gorman said. “Then they’ll do to the shopping center what they done to the projects. The spades keep tearin’ them down, and the city keeps rebuildin’ ’em. ‘Your tax dollars at work’-like the sign says.” He added, “I do like that mayor, though.” He looked in the rearview, winked at Constantine in the backseat “How about you, driver? You like to get a piece of our fine mayor?”
Constantine did not look at Gorman and he did not answer.
“He likes ’em more on the blond side,” Valdez said. “Don’t you, Constantine?”
“Let’s get this done,” Constantine said.
Gorman lighted a cigarette off a match, tossed the match out the window. Valdez pointed down the row of storefronts, to a beer market on the end.
“See that door, to the left of the market?” he said.
Constantine could see that the door stood in place, but it was not hung on its hinges.
“I see it” Gorman said. “So what?”
“Come on,” said Valdez.
The three of them got out of the Cadillac, walked down the sidewalk, passed a pawnbroker, a restaurant supply house, and then the Iglesia Pentecostal Onda Hispana, a storefront church with blue lace curtains hung in its windows. A man in a torn jacket walked up to them, asked Gorman for the time. Gorman said, “Fuck off.” Just past the neighborhood beer market they stopped at the door that Valdez had pointed to. Valdez pulled the door back enough to accommodate his wide frame, held it steady for Gorman. Gorman followed Valdez through the door, and Constantine followed Gorman.
They stood at the bottom of a steep flight of stairs, in a garbage-strewn foyer. The air smelled of vermin and human waste. At the top of the stairs darkness played against gray light, and in the grayness Constantine could see a faint veil of smoke. Valdez made a head motion and started up the stairs.
The three of them went up to the second-floor landing, nails, wood, and squares of plaster crunching beneath their feet. Valdez pulled his gun when they reached the landing, looked left down the dark hallway. A rat scurried to the end of it, bumped a door, flipped in the air, ran, and found a patch of darkness.
Valdez looked up the next flight of stairs, to the third floor. “All right!” he yelled. “Come on down, I’m talkin’ about now!”
They heard footsteps above, then saw, through the slats of the banister, ragged pants legs descend the stairs. Four men-young to middle-aged, emaciated, flat-eyed men-shuffled slowly past them on the landing. Valdez held his gun at his side, growled at the men to “move it.” None of them looked at him, or at Gorman or Constantine. They continued slowly, down the stairs, through the door without hinges, out onto the street.
“Pipeheads,” Valdez muttered.
