doghouse, behind the bars, a black Doberman lay calmly on its belly, its thick head up and tracking the movement of the Dodge. The bars on the cage matched the thickness of those on the front gate.
They stopped the car between a late model Buick and the black Olds, where Polk cut the engine. Constantine retrieved the smokes off the dash and slipped them into his breast pocket. He turned to look at Polk.
“In and out, right Polk?”
“That’s right, Connie. A quick twenty grand, and then we walk.” Polk glanced in the rearview, wet his fingers with his tongue, and ran the fingers through the bristles of his flattop. “You’re going to see some shit in there, and hear a little bit too. It’s smoke, that’s all you gotta remember. They’re nothing but hoods. So keep quiet and don’t sweat it.”
“All right.”
Polk pulled back on the interior latch. “Let’s go.”
They got out of the car and took the three steps up to the front door, Polk grasping the railing for support. He pushed on an oval button set to the left of the door while Constantine studied the brick face of the house. Floodlights hung from the top corners, facing out toward the lawn.
The door opened. Gorman, skinny and gray, stood back in the frame. He nodded at Polk and jerked his head back and up. Constantine marked Gorman as a boozehound, but there was something else-drugs, maybe, and nothing designer-that was eating off the color in his complexion and in his eyes.
They walked behind him through a white marble foyer, past large open rooms done in green leather and dark wood. Two staircases bookended the foyer, leading like bowed legs to the upstairs landing. Gorman chose the left, and they fell in behind him. Constantine ran his hand along the shiny cherry-wood banister as he ascended the marble stairs.
The landing ran square around the second floor, with double doors centered in each wall. Gorman walked them around to the wall situated at the front of the house. He knocked twice on the door, turned the brass knob, and stepped in. Polk and Constantine followed.
Two men sat in armchairs upholstered in green leather, in front of a cherry-wood desk set next to the large bay window that gave a view out onto the lawn. One of the men was Valdez. The other, a lean man with muttonchop sideburns, wore an open-necked lime green shirt tucked into pleated tan slacks. Neither he nor Valdez looked up or acknowledged the entrance. The lean man was using a thin metal file to pick dirt from his thumbnail.
Behind the desk sat a trim older man with short, slicked gray hair. He wore a navy sport blazer over a green polo shirt. His tan face was tight and handsome.
The man fingered a mound of magnetic chips on a black plastic base as he glanced briefly at Constantine and smiled thinly at Polk. It was a smile Constantine had seen on priests and salesmen.
The man said, “Polk.”
Polk nodded. “Grimes.”
Grimes did not get up, and Polk stood with his hands loose in the pockets of his windbreaker. They stared at each other blankly, though in the eyes of Grimes Constantine could see a light, a flicker of history between the two men.
Grimes looked at the lean man and said, “Jackson,” then made a sharp, economical movement of his head. Jackson slipped the file into the pocket of his slacks. He rose without speaking and walked slowly to a bookcase that had a ledge, where he sat with one foot brushing the floor.
“You too, Valdez,” Grimes said.
Valdez got out of his chair and swept a stony glance past Polk and Constantine as he stepped to the far wall. Gorman was there, his arms folded, and Valdez took his place beside him.
Polk walked to the chair directly in front of the desk and took a seat. He folded one leg over the other and crossed his hands in his lap. Constantine settled into the chair where Jackson had been.
Grimes moved the magnetic toy and field glasses from the center of his desk and tented his hands in their place. “You’re back,” he said.
“Yes,” Polk said.
“How long’s it been?”
“I don’t know. A couple, three years.”
“Get into anything interesting while you were out on the road?”
“Some things,” Polk said, and cut it at that.
Jackson had retrieved his file and was digging deeply into the cuticle of his thumb. No one spoke for a minute or so and then Constantine heard the Mexican sigh behind his back. Grimes cleared his throat to break the silence.
“Valdez tells me you stopped by yesterday and inquired about the twenty thousand,” Grimes said. “I thought we had that settled the last time you were in town.”
“You had your muscle throw me out,” Polk said. “That didn’t settle it.”
“Well,” Grimes said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. Because you and me go back. But we’ve been going around on this thing for years now, and I think you know me well enough-”
“And you know me.”
Grimes bit down on the inside of his lip and lowered his voice. “Yes.”
Polk smiled and made an easy wave with one hand. “So, the money, Grimes. Then you don’t see me again.”
Grimes put a finger in the air and said, “Excuse me, one minute.” He turned his desk phone around, picked the receiver out of its cradle, and punched a three-digit extension into the grid. “Hi… bring me a coffee up to the office, will you? Thanks.” He replaced the receiver and looked back at Polk.
Polk patted the inside of his knee. “Back to the money, Grimes.”
“Right. Well, I’m going to be honest with you, Polk. This whole discussion-it’s all irrelevant now.”
“Why’s that?”
Grimes showed some teeth. “I just don’t have it, old buddy. I simply haven’t got it.”
Polk laughed loudly, a short, cynical eruption. “You haven’t got it? That’s rich, Grimes. That’s really rich.”
Grimes’s grin widened. “Listen, I won’t bullshit you. Of course I can get it. But the way I have my funds tied up, to maximize return, it would take a few days to get you the cash. So this is what I’m thinking: since you’re going to be hanging around for a couple of days, why not cut you in on something… extra we’ve got going on. Something big.”
Constantine felt a tic, a weakness in the knees, and a brief rush of power. His thumb dented the leather arm of the chair.
Polk leaned forward. “Like what?”
Grimes shifted his gaze to Constantine and back to Polk. “We haven’t been introduced.”
“His name’s Constantine.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Grimes said.
Polk said, “He’s a driver.”
Constantine heard a grumble and some movement behind him-the unfolding of arms. Jackson looked up from his surgery and dropped the file into the side pocket of his slacks.
“A driver?” Grimes said. “It happens that we could use a driver.”
Polk said. “What’s the game?”
Grimes moved the magnetic toy back in front of him on the desk and ran his fingers through the chips. “The briefing’s two-thirty this afternoon. All the details will be handled then, by Weiner.”
“Condense it for us, Grimes. You can do that.”
“Of course I can. But if you turn it down, how can I let you and your friend walk?”
“Because you know me,” Polk said, making a head movement toward Constantine. “And I’m vouching for him.”
“I don’t like it,” Valdez said, behind their backs.
Polk and Grimes kept their eyes on each other, ignoring Valdez. It was as if the Mexican were not standing in the room.
Grimes played with the magnetic chips, making a mound of them before he pushed the toy away. “All right,”
