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  Isaac looked away from the man’s eyes, spoke in a low and steady voice. “What’ve I got to do?”

  It was done now, easy. Jackson had not figured Isaac to turn so quick, but it proved what he already knew: a man would do anything, when it came down to it, for the green. Especially a raggedy-ass motherfucker like this.

  Jackson fanned the stack, stepped up close to Isaac. “There’s ten grand here, Isaac. I’ll be comin’ in tomorrow with an old white man, a little dude. When I get all the money, I want you to step out of the back.”

  “And?”

  “I want you to doom the white man. Kill him, understand what I’m sayin’?”

  Isaac stared at Jackson without emotion. He reached out, took the money.

  “You need a gun?” Jackson said.

  Isaac shook his head.

  “After you kill the white man,” Jackson said, “I’m gonna put a round over your head. Way over, for show. You drop down behind the counter, and that’s when I get out. You be a hero, I take the money, and everything’s clean. We down, Isaac?”

  Isaac nodded. Jackson patted the man’s arm, noticed the torn flannel of Isaac’s shirt.

  “Eleven-fifteen?” Isaac said.

  Jackson said, “Right.”

  Isaac did not shake Jackson’s hand. He folded the stack of hundreds and shoved them down into the pocket of his blue work pants. Then he turned and went back through the door, into the stockroom.

  Jackson walked slowly out of the garage, putting on his shades as he moved into the light. He got to the T-Bird, sat in the shotgun seat just as Randolph emerged from the front door of Uptown Liquors.

  Jackson relaxed, took a deep hit of the cool April air.

  From inside, Isaac watched a tall man in a maroon sport jacket leave the store and meet the hustler at the car. There was something familiar about the tall man—something familiar and good. It bothered him, not knowing what it was. But then he heard the sound of the old man’s voice.

  “Isaac,” Rosenfeld said, gesturing toward a man in a tweed jacket, standing at the counter. “The gentleman needs a case of Guinness, please.”

  Isaac nodded, and headed for the back room.

  Chapter

  16

  GORMAN laughed loudly. “Look at that fuckin’ guy,” he said.

  Gorman pointed into a brightly painted concrete park at the corner of 14th and Girard, at a man standing, talking, and gesturing on a redwood pedestal. The man wore a fluorescent Gianni Versace jogging outfit, with thick gold chains hung out across the top. Young men dressed in hooded sweatshirts and low-rider jeans stood around the pedestal, listening to the man with the expressive hands.

  “See that outfit?” Gorman said.

  “Yeah?” Valdez said.

  “Black man’s tuxedo,” Gorman said.

  “Blind leadin’ the blind,” Valdez said, with a grunt.

  Gorman said, “Fuckin’ boofers.”

  The street opened up and seemed to brighten at U, at the bottom of a steep hill. It had taken twenty-five years, but the signs of regeneration—new businesses, new bars, theaters, and offices—grew through the ruin, like buds blooming impossibly from the concrete. When Constantine had left town, 14th Street had still been bloodied from the riots of ‘68, long rows of charred storefronts, all plywood and black iron. Constantine could still remember the tension when the city burned, how the smoke hovered over the downtown skyline, the way his parents had sat quietly with jittery eyes and folded hands at the dinner table that night.

  “Pull over,” Valdez said, as the car drove by the projects named Frontiers, at S Street.

  Gorman slowed, guided the Caddy into a spot in front of a block of shabby rowhouse storefronts on the west side of 14th, and cut the engine. Across the street stood a place called For the Love of Children, its faded wooden sign hung over the pocked door. Next to that was a partially demolished structure, a banner slung loosely across its falling brick facade, announcing the coming of City Center. The mayor’s signature, in black, was scrawled boldly beneath the announcement.

  “Liquor store’s just around the corner,” Valdez said, “on R. City’s gonna tear that down, too.”

  “Looks like we’re hittin’ it just in time,” Gorman said.

  “They’re making room for a new shopping center,” Valdez said. “These people got nothin’ but plenty of time to shop.”

  “Be new for maybe a week,” Gorman said. “Then they’ll do to the shopping center what they done to the projects. The spades keep tearin’ them down, and the city keeps rebuildin’ ’em. ‘Your tax dollars at work’—like the sign says.” He added, “I do like that mayor, though.” He looked in the rearview, winked at Constantine in the backseat “How about you, driver? You like to get a piece of our fine mayor?”

  Constantine did not look at Gorman and he did not answer.

  “He likes ’em more on the blond side,” Valdez said. “Don’t you, Constantine?”

  “Let’s get this done,” Constantine said.

  Gorman lighted a cigarette off a match, tossed the match out the window. Valdez pointed down the row of storefronts, to a beer market on the end.

  “See that door, to the left of the market?” he said.

  Constantine could see that the door stood in place, but it was not hung on its hinges.

  “I see it” Gorman said. “So what?”

  “Come on,” said Valdez.

  The three of them got out of the Cadillac, walked down the sidewalk, passed a pawnbroker, a restaurant supply house, and then the Iglesia Pentecostal Onda Hispana, a storefront church with blue lace curtains hung in its windows. A man in a torn jacket walked up to them, asked Gorman for the time. Gorman said, “Fuck off.” Just past the neighborhood beer market they stopped at the door that Valdez had pointed to. Valdez pulled the door back enough to accommodate his wide frame, held it steady for Gorman. Gorman followed Valdez through the door, and Constantine followed Gorman.

  They stood at the bottom of a steep flight of stairs, in a garbage-strewn foyer. The air smelled of vermin and human waste. At the top of the stairs darkness played against gray light, and in the grayness Constantine could see a faint veil of smoke. Valdez made a head motion and started up the stairs.

  The three of them went up to the second-floor landing, nails, wood, and squares of plaster crunching beneath their feet. Valdez pulled his gun when they reached the landing, looked left down the dark hallway. A rat scurried to the end of it, bumped a door, flipped in the air, ran, and found a patch of darkness.

  Valdez looked up the next flight of stairs, to the third floor. “All right!” he yelled. “Come on down, I’m talkin’ about now!”

  They heard footsteps above, then saw, through the slats of the banister, ragged pants legs descend the stairs. Four men—young to middle-aged, emaciated, flat-eyed men—shuffled slowly past them on the landing. Valdez held his gun at his side, growled at the men to “move it.” None of them looked at him, or at Gorman or Constantine. They continued slowly, down the stairs, through the door without hinges, out onto the street.

  “Pipeheads,” Valdez muttered.

  “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 room.

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “You hungry?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m hungry.”

  “Come on,” Constantine said. “Let’s grab somethin’ to eat.”

  CONSTANTINE and Delia ate lunch in a small Italian restaurant on Sligo Avenue, a few blocks north of the District line in downtown Silver Spring. The place had been thoughtlessly decorated, one square dining room with clown-face prints hung carelessly on salmon-colored walls. But the food was both reasonable and good, and the tables had turned over twice during their visit. Their waiter, a deeply lined guy with the manners of a two-day drunk, had been properly surly throughout the meal. Constantine gave the place high marks.

  Constantine finished the rest of his anchovies and peppers, took the heel of the loaf from the bread basket, sopped the heel in the olive oil that remained pooled in the dish. He ate that and poured house red from the carafe into his glass. He topped off Delia’s glass and set the carafe back on the table. Delia swallowed the last of her white pizza, wiped her mouth on the checkered cloth napkin that had been folded in her lap. Constantine watched the cloth move across her lips as he sipped the red.

  During lunch he had told her much of what he had done in the last seventeen years. His story sounded romantic, even to him, as if the telling of it had altered the reality. Delia was a good listener, and she was beautiful, and it was easy to have lunch with her, sit across from her and talk.

  “In all of that,” Delia said, when Constantine was finished, “you never mentioned your family.”

  Constantine took the Marlboros from his pocket, shook the pack in Delia’s direction. She refused, and he lighted one for himself.

  “My folks are dead,” Constantine said, the words coming easily. “You?
”

  Delia looked into her plate, back at Constantine. “My mother died a few years back. I don’t know if my father’s alive. I don’t know anything about him. He left when I was an infant.”

  Constantine thought of Grimes, the substitute for the father she had not known. With the money added to the quotient, that explained the relationship. He kept his mouth shut, smiled thoughtfully at Delia.

  “Ready to go?” he said.

  “Sure,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Delia signaled the waiter. He came, took her credit card, muttered something under his breath about credit cards, and walked away. Constantine dragged on his cigarette, watched the little waiter run the card through the machine, standing there in his tight pants and crooked bow tie, still mumbling hatefully under his breath. The guy looked like the dark side of Vegas, one scotch away from a ruptured aorta.

  “Where we headed?” Constantine said.

  “My mother’s place,” Delia said. “I still keep it, you know … in case I want to get away.”

  Constantine nodded as he stubbed out his smoke, killed the rest of his wine. The waiter returned, dropped the voucher on the table. Delia signed it, added ten percent for the tip, and the two of them got up to leave.

  Constantine pinned a five under his wineglass before heading for the door.

  THEY picked up a bottle of dago red from an Indian market on Fenton Street, then drove a mile to a group of garden condos at 16th Street and East-West Highway. The buildings had been whitewashed, their shutters painted a forest green.

  Delia parked the Mercedes next to a brown dumpster in the lot. On the way to the apartment Constantine watched two Vietnamese boys chase each other across the lawn. The chaser, a skinny boy no older than eight, screamed, “I get you, muthafucka!” to his friend. They disappeared over a rise behind the building, their laughter fading in the air.

  Constantine and Delia entered a bleak stairwell, took the stairs down to a door marked 11. Delia used her key, pushed on the door, and Constantine followed her inside. She switched on a light.