“What now?” Gorman said.
Valdez said, “Up.”
The third floor was brighter, illuminated from the skylights spaced evenly in the detailed ceiling. The doors in the hall-there were three of them-had all been opened. Constantine followed Valdez and Gorman through the doorway of the room mat fronted the building.
The sour rot of human excrement and the smell of cooked cocaine hit Constantine as he entered the room. The room had no furniture; a moldy mattress sat next to an overturned milk crate in the corner. On the raw wood floor, burnt matches had been tossed and scattered. Above the mattress, sun-faded magazine portraits of Martin Luther King, Jr., John Kennedy, and Jesus Christ were scotch-taped to the wall. Black, watery waste had been splashed and heaped on a newspaper spread open on the floor, and smeared on the room’s four walls. Constantine lighted a cigarette, pulled nicotine into his lungs, gagged up his morning coffee.
Valdez stood by the bay window that gave a view to 14th Street, called for Constantine to join him. Gorman walked to the corner of the room, unzipped his fly, and urinated on the mattress. The urine made a dull sound as it hit the springs.
“When in Rome,” Gorman said, turning to grin at Valdez. Valdez shook his head as he gazed through the large window. The sunlight blew through the window like a torch, illuminating the porcine features of the Mexican.
Constantine exhaled a jet of tobacco smoke that swirled and then hung in the light “What are we doing here?” he said.
“From here,” Valdez said, “it makes more sense.” He pointed below and to the right, the low-rise structures at the intersection of 14th and R laid out like a grid. “There’s EZ Time. We’re going to come in from Thirteenth, down R. You park across from the mission, just away from the liquor store. R’s one-way, heading west. The next two streets to the south, Corcoran and then Q, they’re one-way going east. You got that?”
“Sure,” Constantine said.
“I’m not kidding,” Valdez said, his voice dull and quiet.
Constantine said, “I’m listening.”
Gorman walked across the room, his thick-soled oxfords clomping noisily on the wood floor. He stood next to Valdez, buried his small hands in the pockets of his suit.
Valdez tried again. “There’s a coupla major alleys behind this building, wide enough for two cars. The street vendors keep their carts in a garage back there. One connects R to S, and the other crosses Johnson and continues on to Fifteenth. Fifteenth Street is one-way, heading uptown.”
Valdez looked at the silent Constantine, cleared his throat and sinuses, brought the whole mess together in his mouth. He turned his head back away from the window and hocked a wad of mucus across the room. Valdez wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket.
“You need to know this shit,” Valdez said, “in case the shit falls apart. One time, on one of these jobs-”
“I’ll get myself a map,” Constantine said.
“A map,” Gorman said, chuckling, rocking back on his heels. “This guy’s cute, you know it?”
Valdez stroked the whiskers of his black mustache. He stared out the window to the street below, waited for Constantine to finish his smoke.
Constantine ground the cigarette beneath his shoe, looked over at Valdez.
“That do it?” he said.
Valdez said, “Let’s just go.”
ON the ride uptown, none of them spoke. Constantine sat back, closed his eyes, let the cool air from the open window brush his face. They dropped him sometime after noon in front of the motel on Georgia Avenue.
Constantine said, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” as he climbed from the backseat of the Cadillac. He quickly crossed the street, did not look back or wait for a reply.
Valdez watched Constantine walk through the orange lobby, punch the button for the elevator. The man stood there, waiting, his long black hair falling lazily to his shoulders, his hands hung loosely at his side, cool as a cowboy.
Gorman said, “Shit, Valdez, look at that!”
Valdez turned his attention to the street, to the black Mercedes coupe parked a few spots ahead.
“You see that?” Gorman said.
“I see it.”
“It’s hers, isn’t it?”
Valdez said, “It’s hers.”
“What’s she doin’ here, Valdez?”
Valdez stared at the coupe. “She’s fuckin’ him, you moron.”
Gorman giggled, said through the giggle, “You gonna tell Grimes?”
“I haven’t decided,” Valdez said. He checked his watch. “Come on, let’s get back to the house.”
Gorman engaged the transmission, pulled out onto Georgia, headed north.
Both of them kept their mouths shut for the next five minutes. Near the Beltway, Gorman suddenly whistled through his teeth, laughed, and shook his head.
“You gotta admit,” he said, “the guy’s got balls.”
“Yeah,” Valdez said, “he’s got balls.”
“Might surprise us,” Gorman said. “Make a good driver.”
“I was thinkin’ the same thing.” Valdez shifted in his seat “So maybe I’ll wait till after the job,” he said, “to talk to Mr. Grimes.”
Chapter 17
Constantine turned the key, opened the door. He stood in the doorway, looked at the woman on the bed.
“Hello, Delia,” he said.
She pointed her chin in his direction. “Constantine.”
Constantine stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. He tossed his room key onto the formica top of the varnished dresser.
“How’d you get in?” he said.
“I made friends with the concierge.”
“The concierge?” Constantine said, and laughed.
“Yes,” Delia said. “You know, the guy behind the desk.”
“He likes to read, that guy.”
“Uh-huh. He was reading something called Skank when I walked into the lobby.”
Delia smiled. Constantine knew it was a smile because the corners of her mouth turned up when she did it. On her even a smile looked a little bit sad.
“So you made friends with the genius down in the lobby.”
“With money,” she said, “it’s easy to make friends.”
“I guess so.”
Delia uncrossed her legs, stood up, smoothed out her skirt against her legs as she walked toward Constantine. Constantine traced the muscles on Delia’s back through the silk of her shirt as they embraced. He kissed her on the lips.
After a while, she pulled away, shook her blond hair away from her face with a toss of her head. Constantine touched his finger to the vein in Delia’s neck, felt the drum of her pulse.
“Not in this place,” she said. “Okay?”
“Okay,” said Constantine.
He went to the bathroom, urinated, brushed his teeth, and washed his face. He combed his hair, pushed it behind his ears, and walked back out into the room. Delia stood by the window, looking down onto the street. In the light that came in through the window, Constantine could see the crystalline blue of her eyes from across the
