“Fifteenth,” Constantine said.
“Fifteenth’s one-way goin’ north.”
“I know it,” said Constantine.
Constantine blew out of the alley, fishtailed left, headed south against the traffic on 15th. A cop car sped toward them.
“Goddamn it, Constantine,” Valdez said.
Constantine pushed down on the accelerator, headed straight for the cop car. The front end of the Plymouth went down; Valdez and Gorman pushed back against their seats. Valdez gripped the armrest mounted on his door, his nails digging into the vinyl. Constantine kept the speed, kept the wheel straight. They could see the drawn-back faces of the cops, could see the mouth of the driver screaming.
“Constantine,” Valdez said.
Constantine cut it right, nicked the front end of the cop car, turned the wheel into the body of the cop car. There was a heavy collision of metal, the window on Gorman’s side imploding, and then the blue-and-white was off its wheels, airborne at the Plymouth’s side, rolling twice and landing, then skidding on its roof, stopped by a row of parked cars.
Gorman laughed, screamed “Yeah!”, laughed again, rocked back against his seat. Valdez breathed out through his lips.
Constantine turned right at R, drove against the traffic, cleared cars onto the sidewalk with the Road Runner horn. At 16th he cut north, drove to T, went right. Constantine swung left on 15th, headed north again. In his rearview, he saw the overturned car, smoke rising from its hood, a crowd forming around it.
Constantine accelerated, downshifted as he hit the hill at Malcolm X Park. The 440 sang beneath them as they climbed the hill. The park, the people, and the buildings were a bleeding rush of color at their sides.
“You catch Irving up ahead,” Valdez said, holstering his. 45. “Take that across town, into northeast, catch Michigan Avenue.”
Constantine nodded, expressionless.
“Told you he could drive,” Gorman said, from the backseat.
“Shut the fuck up, Gorman,” said Valdez.
Constantine took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, put it to his lips. He pushed in the lighter on the dash.
Chapter 22
The floor of Mean Feet was filled with customers when Randolph entered a little past one o’clock.
“Thanks for joining us, Randolph,” Mr. Rick said from behind the register, where a line of women had formed. Perspiration was beaded across Mr. Rick’s brow, his two or three hairs plastered down on his beige head.
Mr. Rick handed a woman her change, kept talking at Randolph as he passed: “You do this to me on Friday, payday to boot. I’m not going to forget this, Randolph.”
“I’m here now,” Randolph said, as he walked across the floor, headed to the back. He heard a couple of women greet him on the way, but he did not stop to acknowledge them or anything that was happening on the floor. He passed by the speaker that hung next to one of several full-length mirrors-Jorge was playing some Spanish Joe bullshit on the stereo-and entered the back room.
Randolph hung his sport jacket on a nail, went to the water fountain near the stereo. Next to the fountain, two cigarettes burned down in a ceramic ashtray. The smoke curled into his face as he bent down and drank deeply of the ice-cold water. He lowered his face into the arc of water, kept it there.
He stood up, ripped a paper towel off a nearby roll, wiped his face. Above him, in the center aisle of stock, Antoine straddled two shelves, reaching for a shoebox at the top. Antoine looked down, saw Randolph’s face buried in the towel.
“Man, what the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Antoine said. “You pick a Friday, not to mention a payday, to Stroll on in here at one o’clock? Man, you know these bitches be comin’ in here to get all these shoes out of layaway today, and you know whose shoes they be gettin’ out. I been runnin’ my ass for you all day, man.”
“I’m sorry, Antoine, I really am. It couldn’t be helped.”
Antoine pulled out the box with a deft wrist movement, the boxes above it falling in line. The skinny man jumped down to the worn green carpet. He went to the ashtray, took a drag off the cigarette, exhaled smoke through his nose as he took another. He dropped the cigarette back in the ashtray.
“You owe me, Shoedog.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Yeah, you sorry.” Antoine smiled, let out the last of his smoke. “You be sorrier than a motherfucker when you see the numbers today. Even with all your layaways comin’ out, I’ll be bustin’ a double dot.”
Randolph felt heat enter his face. “Double dot? Any motherfucker’d write a double dot today, all those freaks out there on that floor.” Randolph tossed the paper towel in the trash. “Shit, Spiderman-”
“Don’t call me no Spiderman, man.”
“Luther vandross move faster than you. You can’t run with me, boy, not on my worst day, hear?”
“Uh-huh.” Antoine started walking, his head nodding rapidly. “Well, Shoedog, you just keep on scrubbin’ your face and shit. I got work to do.”
Antoine jetted out onto the sales floor, and Randolph followed.
Antoine went to his customer by the display, laid the shoebox at her feet. Randolph passed a fine woman in a blue skirt holding a shoe-he knew her, knew the woman never stepped up and bought-and walked straight to Jorge, who was trying to help one of Randolph’s regulars.
“You come to get ’em today, darlin’?” Randolph said to the regular.
“Randolph,” Jorge said, “we talkin’ here, man.”
“You talkin’ to my lady, ” Randolph said, giving it some teeth, flashing his smile at the woman. “That’s right isn’t it, darlin’?”
“I always talk to Randolph,” the woman said shortly to Jorge, then looked back at Randolph and smiled. She took an evening shoe off the shelf and held it in her hand.
“It’s an eight,” Randolph said, “isn’t it, baby?”
“Seven and a half,” she said.
Randolph said, “I’ll be right back.”
Jorge followed Randolph toward the back room. He put a hand on Randolph’s shoulder. A woman at the register holding a layaway box called Randolph’s name.
Randolph smiled, stepped away from Jorge’s hand, yelled across the store; “That’s a twenty-nine on that one, Mr. Rick.” He turned to Jorge. “What you want, man?”
“Man, you just took my lady.” Randolph noticed Jorge’s thick eyebrows, his thick lips. Even when this one tried to look hard, he just looked pretty.
“No, that’s my lady.” Randolph softened it. “But look here, amigo. You see that freak over there”-Randolph pointed to the woman in the blue skirt, holding up a shoe-“yeah, that one. Well, that’s one of my ladies, too. But just so there’s no hard feelin’s and shit, I’m gonna let you take her. Okay?”
Jorge looked her over, liked what he looked at. He walked to the woman, tapped her on her shoulder. Randolph gave a last look at the floor, saw Antoine talking to an attorney holding a black pump. He studied the woman’s feet.
“That’s a seven on that pump,” Randolph said loudly across the sales floor, and the attorney’s head turned. “Am I right?”
“That’s right,” the attorney said, giving Randolph a smile.
“I’ll be right back,” said Randolph.
Randolph motored into the back room. He climbed the shelf on the left wall, heard Antoine repeating, “Uh-uh, uh-uh,” heard the “uh-uhs” getting louder as Antoine bolted into the stockroom.
Randolph ignored him, reached for the seven-or had she said eight?
“You’re disrespectin’ me now, Shoedog, you know I don’t play that-”
