was still called “Jewlidge” by Stewart and Hess, but its student body was now primarily black.
Across the street, an A amp;P grocery was the largest store of the bunch. Also on the strip sat a drugstore, a dry cleaner, and a speed shop, and, on the corner, a bank. Stewart and Martini were looking at the bank.
“What they call a savings and loan,” said Stewart.
“You been inside?”
“Once. Shorty’s been in there, too. We seen everything we needed to see. A single armed guard, guy’s older than dirt. We ain’t gonna fuck with no safe. Gotta be thousands behind that counter alone. It’s a cakewalk, Dom. I shit you not.”
Martini stared at the bank, openmouthed. “What now?”
“We’re meetin’ Shorty for lunch up at the Shepherd. We’ll talk about it then.”
Stewart put the Belvedere in gear, pulled off the curb, and swung a U in the middle of Georgia. He turned up the Mary and Marvin; he’d seen Wells and Gaye sing this one together onstage at the Howard, back in ’64, and the song made him smile, remembering how happy he’d felt that night. He goosed the gas. It wasn’t but a short hop to the Shepherd Park Restaurant, but Stewart liked to hear his Plymouth run. They parked in the side lot, next to Hess’s mother’s car, a three-on-the-tree pea green ’64 Rambler Ambassador, which Walter Hess had been driving the past two days.
The familiarity of the Shepherd hit Martini as they came through the front doors. He’d come here with his family in the ’50s, when Angelo was his shadow and his old man was still occasionally sober. Back then, the place was owned and run by brothers George and John Glekas. Its signature was its burgers and steaks, and a waitress with a shrieking laugh. Prominent Maryland politicians shared the dining room with families and local eccentrics. Mrs. Glekas, George’s wife, could often be seen at one of the tables, typing menus with one finger while she gave emotional orders to her daughter Angie. The restaurant had since been sold to three other Greeks, but the pleasant smell of grilled beef and the sound of that waitress, laughing at something back in the kitchen, told Martini that little here had changed.
The tables and wall booths were half full. A bar separated by a load-bearing post ran along the back wall, its stools occupied by workingmen. It was a no-tablecloth, no-linen eat house, with basic service and good food, common in Greek ownership. Soon it would become one of the most notorious, raucous strip bars in the area. But for now it was frozen in time.
Hess was seated at one of the dining-room tables, wearing his blue uniform shirt with “Shorty” stitched to a patch.
“That your hot rod out front?” said Stewart, pulling a wooden chair out from under the table and resting his huge frame upon it.
“Knock it off,” said Hess.
“Rambler makes a real quality vehicle. Fast, too. That the Am-
“I said knock it off. I’m gonna be drivin’ my Ford any day now.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Stewart. “And we got another problem, too.”
Stewart told them about his phone call from Pat Millikin, which he had taken at the Esso station just before he and Martini had gone on break. The Galaxie was going to be in the shop a few more days. Also, Millikin claimed that he had not been able to find them a rental. Stewart had pressed him on it, but Millikin had assured him there was nothing to be had.
“What’s goin’ on with him?” said Hess.
“I don’t know. He says the market’s dried up.”
“Dried up, huh? He needs to remember that back in the joint, I shanked some coon who was white-eyein’ his brother. Man owes me big. You tell him that?”
“I did. And I got the same answer he gave me the first time.” Stewart looked at Martini. “We’re gonna have to use your car.”
“Well, we can’t use mine. Way it looks, bright red, with the wedge and all, everyone around this part of town recognizes that car. Hell, you hardly even drive that Nova anymore.”
“What about my plates?”
“Shorty’s gonna provide us with some new ones.”
“A car’ll come up soon,” said Martini. “Why can’t we wait a few days?”
“’Cause we can’t,” said Stewart. “That little accident we had the other night kinda changed everything. Me and Shorty been talkin’. We ain’t stickin’ around to find out if that comes back on us, see? We’re leaving town, soon as we score that money. Myrtle Beach. Daytona, maybe. Someplace down South.”
“I’m out,” said Martini with a small wave of his hands, as if he were trying to push them away.
“Pretty Boy don’t get it, Buzz. Boy is thick.”
“Shut up, Shorty.”
“Nah, see, he just don’t get it.” Hess pushed his face close to Martini’s. “You’re in,
“Look at me, Dom,” said Stewart. “
Martini met Stewart’s eyes.
“All’s we need is a driver. Me and Shorty’ll do the rest. We get gone, you go on about your life. Hear?”
“When?” said Martini.
“I’m off tomorrow. You can just call in sick. We’ll go before they close the bank, late in the afternoon.”
A waitress, flame-red hair and wide of hip, arrived at their four-top, a small pad and pencil in her hand. The men, who had been grouped tightly around the table, leaned back in their seats.
“Three cheeseburger platters, all the way around,” said Stewart. “Three Cokes.”
“How you want those burgers cooked?”
“Medium,” said Stewart.
“The same way,” said Martini.
“I like mine warm and pink inside,” said Hess, smiling at the waitress, winking one of his crossed eyes.
“That would be medium rare,” said the waitress, writing on her pad, not looking once at Hess. She walked back to the kitchen, fatigue in her step.
“She thinks I’m the most,” said Hess.
“The most repulsive,” said Stewart.
Stewart and Hess laughed.
When the waitress brought the Cokes, Stewart tapped his glass against Martini’s.
“All for one,” said Stewart.
Martini looked away.
ALVIN JONES HAD thrown the gloves he’d worn down a sewer hole in Shaw, then driven to another street a few blocks away and lost the straight razor the same way. He’d boosted the gloves from the D. J. Kaufman’s near 10th and Penn, so there wasn’t any loss there, and you could always get your hands on a knife. Anyway, it wasn’t like he was naked; he still had his gun.
After getting rid of the evidence, Jones had driven over to Lula Bacon’s place, woke her and her baby up, got his favorite hat and the few other things he owned out the closet, put them in a duffel bag, and left. Bitch asked him where he was going as he headed out the door, but he felt no need to answer. Wasn’t none of her business, anyway. He’d slept on the couch at his cousin’s place, over off 7th. Had to wake him up, too, to get inside.
