Shoedog (12 page)

“But you do something,” Constantine said, looking into the pinkish white of Randolph’s eyes.

R
ANDOLPH
grinned. “I do like my herb, now and again”

“You holdin’?”

“Sure am. Shit I got’ll make your dick hard. You wanna get high?”

“That would be good,” Constantine said.

The two of them excused themselves and headed for the bathroom in the back of the lounge. Constantine went in first, motoring quickly to one of two urinals. Randolph had a look around the blue-tiled bathroom, then leaned back against the wall, next to a casement window. He pulled a manila coin envelope and some papers from his maroon sport jacket.

Constantine urinated while Randolph shook a line of pot into two papers he had glued together. He twisted a tight one, passed it through his lips, then ran a flame beneath the number to dry it, give it a seal. Constantine washed his hands in the sink as Randolph flicked his lighter and burned one end of the joint.

Randolph hit the weed, closed his eyes, held it in. He cranked open the window, looked through the crack, saw a barely lit alley, and blew the smoke out into the night. Randolph passed the joint to Constantine. Constantine blew the ash off the end, took a hit. He paused, felt the smooth warmth in his lungs, exhaled.

“Nice taste,” Constantine said.

Randolph formed an “okay” sign with his thumb and forefinger. “Sens.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“The bartender ran with this lady I used to know,” Randolph said. “Homeboy’s cool.”

Constantine passed the joint back to Randolph just as the bathroom door swung open.

“Gentlemen!” Weiner said, marching in. His floral print shirt had been buttoned to the neck, the tails tucked into his brown Sansabelt slacks. A beret, the same shade of brown as the slacks, sat cocked on his head.

Randolph reproduced the joint that he had cupped when the door had opened. He put it to his mouth, hit it once more, and passed it to Weiner. Weiner smelled the sweet wisp coming off the burning end, smiled, hit it, and talked as the smoke passed through his lips.

“Nice tea,” Weiner said.

“Sens,” said Randolph.

“What about Polk?” Constantine said. “He comin’ in too?”

“Not his bag,” Weiner said. “He knows what’s going on, though. Said you guys were in here doing one of two things—fucking each other or smoking grass.” Weiner grinned as he handed the number to Constantine. “It made Charlotte blush. And it takes something to make her blush.”

Constantine drew on the joint, then turned it around in his hand. He felt himself smile stupidly. “Hey, Randolph. Come on over here, man, let’s get serious.”

Constantine blew the ash off, put the lit end in his mouth, felt it singe his tongue. Randolph stepped up, cupped his hands around his mouth, and took the shotgun from Constantine.

“If you don’t mind,” Weiner said, “I’ll have some of that.” Constantine turned, blowing a great jet of smoke into Weiner’s face.

The bathroom was filled now with the heavy smoke of marijuana. Constantine took another pull, handed the joint to Randolph.

The door opened. A middle aged man wearing a loosely knotted tie stepped inside. He stopped walking, had a look at the three men, and went to the head to urinate. When he was done, he zipped up his fly and faced Randolph.

“How ‘bout a hit off that stick?” he said.

“Why not?” Randolph said. “Everyone else in this motherfucker’s had some.”

The man hit it, kept hitting it until Randolph plucked the joint from his mouth. The four men stood in the bathroom and laughed.

Constantine lighted a cigarette, savored the good taste of the tobacco in his lungs. He patted Randolph on the shoulder and said, “Let’s get out of here, man.”

The four of them were still laughing as they walked out into the lounge.

The stranger waved them off and returned to his seat at the bar. The Isley Brothers’ “What It Comes Down To” played now in the lounge. Constantine heard himself singing it as they walked to the table. The ground felt soft beneath his feet; the room and the people in it glowed faintly in the barroom light.

Constantine sat, noticing that Polk had ordered him another drink. He killed the rest of the watered-down vodka and quickly had a sip of the new, toasting Polk with the glass. Polk, his arm around Charlotte, winked back. Constantine dragged on his cigarette, blew a smoke ring in the direction of Randolph.

Randolph said, “Heard you singin’ that song.”

Constantine smiled. “The Isleys, man. ‘Three Plus Three.’ Ernie
wailed
on that one.”

“ ‘Who’s That Lady,’ ‘Summer Breeze’—shit, Constantine, he wailed on that whole motherfucker. Boy
played
some guitar.”

“I wore the grooves out on the disc. I had the original—”

“On T-Neck,” Randolph said, giving Constantine skin.

“Nineteen seventy-three,” Constantine said. “I had just got my license, bought this Dodge—a sixty-six Coronet Five Hundred. Yellow, with black buckets, a swivel tach.” He closed his eyes, had a taste of his drink. “I had this girlfriend then, girl by the name of Katherine. I used to drive her in that car through Rock Creek Park, on Saturday afternoons. The Mighty Burner was the deejay on WOL, remember?”

“You know I do,” Randolph said. “I had just moved up here, from North Carolina.”

“When I’d ride with Katherine in that car, I practically used to pray the Burner would play that song.”

Randolph said, “Yeah, well, you older than a motherfucker now. So you might as well forget all about your first nut, hear?”

Constantine thought of Katherine, what he had done the night before. He thought of Delia, in the barn. He took a drag, stubbed out his smoke in the ashtray.

“I guess you’re right,” he said.

Weiner had been looking around the bar, moving his head to the music. He signaled the waitress, ordered a Brandy Alexander. Randolph asked for a cognac. The rest of them held.

“How about you, Weiner?” Randolph said mockingly. “This tune remind you of anything?”

Weiner pursed his lips, shook his head broadly. “If it’s after Phil Ochs, I can’t identify it The Beatles ended it for me, gentlemen.”

“Who the fuck is Phil Ochs?” Randolph said.

Weiner waved his hand. “Never mind. Suffice it to say that there was a scene in this town that you two can’t even imagine—Constantine, you in particular were kicking the slats out of your crib in the era I’m talking about.”

The waitress returned with the drinks, served them clumsily. Constantine ordered another vodka.

The waitress said, “Why didn’t you order your drink when I was here before?”

“Because I didn’t,” Constantine said.

The waitress rolled her eyes and slouch-walked away.

“Anyway,” Weiner said, raising his Brandy Alexander. “Ladies and gentlemen? To success.” The five of them tapped glasses in the middle of the table. Polk and Charlotte returned to their private conversation.

“Like I was saying,” Weiner said. “There was this scene in D.C. A real Beat scene, an underground. I used to go to this one club, Coffee and Confusion was the name of it, over on Tenth and K.”

“That was your bar?” Randolph said.

“Oh, there were other joints. The Java Jungle, the Ontario Place—but Coffee and Confusion, that was it for me. Guys playing guitars, bongos, wearing shades inside the club. A real scene. And the chicks there”—Weiner’s eyes, already glazed, deepened at the memory—“my God, you should have seen them. Long, straight hair, parted in the middle. Heavy makeup, black around the eyes. Their breasts, their young breasts—the whole package, I’ve got to tell you, was terrifically sexy. Totally and terrifically sexy.”

“Sounds like a winner,” Randolph said.

Weiner smiled wryly. “Well, of course, you’re patronizing me. But you’ve got to agree, Randolph, everyone has their time. And everyone knows that their time was the best. Do you agree?”

Randolph thought of the Zanzibar, in the Seventies. “Yes,” he said.

The waitress returned, served Constantine. He nodded to her, hit the drink. “After this round,” he said to Randolph, “let’s get out of here.”

“I’m down with it.”

Polk broke away from Charlotte. “We’ll head downtown,” he said. “Charlotte’s got a friend, wants to hook up with us. That okay by you guys?”

Constantine nodded. Randolph watched the feet of a woman who walked past their table.

“Hey, Weiner,” Randolph said, nudging him with his elbow, nodding towards the woman’s feet. “What you figure her shoe size is?”

“I have no idea,” Weiner said.

“I’ll bet you ten bucks she’s a nine.”

“You make your living selling shoes.” Weiner shook his head. “That’s a sucker’s bet.”

“Anyway,” Randolph said, “she would have told you she’s an eight and a half. But believe me—the freak
is
a nine.”

A
FTER
a while they got their tab and left eight on thirty-three for the waitress with the bandy legs and the scarred chin. Despite her attitude, Constantine had argued for the heavy tip. He had known many waitresses in his life, and he liked even the bad ones.

Out on Georgia Avenue, the five of them walked to Polk’s Super Bee. Polk limped alongside Charlotte, Randolph at their side. Constantine stayed with Weiner, smiling fondly at the little man’s march. Something had loosened in Constantine; he could not tell now if it was the marijuana or the alcohol that had unscrewed his head. But he’d forgotten about the things that were behind him. He’d forgotten, just then, about the thing that he’d agreed to do.

Chapter
12

P
OLK
drove the Dodge downtown, Charlotte at his side, her thigh touching his. Randolph and Constantine flanked Weiner in the backseat. A cool April mist cut the air, came through the open windows.

Constantine let the mist and wind bite his face as he stared out the window at the neon life of Georgia Avenue. Small bars, Caribbean nightspots, athleticshoe stores, funeral parlors, independent insurers, Korean beer markets, and liquor stores blurred by. On every block there seemed to be an easel set on the sidewalk, advertising beepers and answering services. Constantine noticed the cursive, neon sign for Posin’s, the Hebrew grocery store where his mother had taken him weekly as a child, to shop for meat. It was the only business on Georgia that Constantine could recognize.

Constantine said, “What’s with the beepers?”

“Man, you
have
been away,” Randolph said. “The beepers are for all these young entrepreneurs and shit.”

A young man in a hooded jacket and baggy jeans stood on the corner of Georgia and Buchanan, watching the Dodge and its occupants pass. He formed his hand into the shape of a pistol, pulled the trigger on Constantine. Constantine looked away.

“The thing I noticed,” Constantine said, “since I been back in D.C. The young people—none of them smile. It’s like they don’t know how to smile.” He rubbed at his beard. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“Simple, man,” Randolph said. “It’s the end of the motherfuckin’ world.”

Weiner squirmed between the two men. “Polk, put on some music, will you?”

Polk clicked the radio on to an easy-listening station. A string version of “When Doves Cry” came through the trebly dash speaker.

Randolph groaned. “Come on, man, turn this Geritol bullshit off.”

Polk notched the volume down. “Hey, Connie, how about passing me up a smoke.”

Constantine put the pack on Polk’s shoulder. Charlotte turned, took the pack, smiled at Constantine. She put a cigarette to her lips, pushed in the dashboard lighter, and handed the pack back over the seat. Constantine slipped the deck into the pocket of his denim shirt.

“Where we headed?” Constantine asked.

“Place in southeast,” Polk said. “A joint where cops hang out, believe it or not. Charlotte’s friend wants to meet us there.”

“That’s that joint on Eighth and G,” Randolph said. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Polk said, taking the lit cigarette from Charlotte’s hand, wedging it between his teeth. “Place called The Spot.”

T
HE
Spot was a windowless, cinder-block establishment set on a dark corner of the city, east of the Hill. Its transom, a dirty piece of rectangular glass framed above the door, functioned as the only source of natural light. As the group walked to the front door, Constantine noticed the rag-swathed feet of a man protruding from a nearby alley.

The six of them stepped inside, stood on a two-step landing. To the left, a mahogany bar ran along the wall, lit by hanging conical lamps. A handful of men, some alone and some in groups, sat on barstools, their drinks and ashtrays set in front of them. One of the men who sat alone, a bearish man with short, dirty blond hair, talked quietly to the bartender. A bulge in the shape of a gun butt protruded from the back of the man’s tweed jacket. Three other men sat grouped at the end of the bar under a large Redskins poster, arguing loudly over the results of a fifteen-year-old playoff game. Bluesy slide guitar played loudly through the house stereo, but none of the patrons seemed to notice.

Polk and Charlotte stepped down into the bar area, went straight to the tender to say hello. Constantine looked to the room at his right, an unpopulated green room with scattered tables and dart boards.

“Let’s sit in there,” Constantine said, pointing to the empty room. “There’s cops in the bar.”

“Cops and liquored-up rednecks,” Randolph added.

“That’s okay by me,” Weiner said, “but hold on just one minute.” Weiner pointed to the bartender, a dark-haired man with a blue bar rag hanging off the side of his jeans. “The bartender—now keep in mind that I’ve never been here, and I’m assuming that neither have you—he looks to me to be a person of Mediterranean descent. If I were to bet on it, I’d say Italian. In fact, a twenty says the man
is
an Italian.” Weiner paused for effect. “What would you gentlemen say?”

Constantine felt himself check the bartender out, though he was not a betting man. He shrugged. “If you say Italian, Weiner, then he is.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Randolph said. The man could have been Italian. But from where they stood, the man
could
have been damn near anything. It seemed like a good bet.