01 The Big Blowdown Read online

  They took the steps up to the row house door. Like several corner row houses scattered around D.C., this one was topped with a castlelike battlement. A crenellated wall crowned its turret. Recevo pointed it out to Karras.

  “What, is Burke splittin’ the rent with King Arthur, or somethin’?”

  “Yeah,” said Recevo. “And there’s Basil Rathbone. He’s up there, thread-in’ an arrow’s got your name on it.”

  Karras laughed. While he was laughing, he looked down at Recevo’s feet.

  “New brogues?”

  “Flagg Brothers, four dollars and ninety-five. You like?”

  “Yeah,” said Karras. “They’ll do.”

  Recevo knocked on the front door. He took off his hat, smoothed back his hair, flicked at the dent of the fedora, replaced it on his head. He ran a thumb and forefinger along the brim. A shutter opened on the door, a large pair of blood-rimmed eyes appearing in the space.

  Recevo moved his face into the light. “Karras and Recevo, here to see Mr. Burke.”

  “Hold on.”

  The shutter closed, and then the door swung open to a huge ugly man standing in the frame. Karras looked him over, thinking, the only way to drop him is to hit him low. Cut him down like a big tree.

  “Come on,” said the man, who everyone called Face.

  They went into a small foyer which introduced a banistered staircase on the left. To the right, an open set of French doors gave to a large living room where three men in suits and a woman in a bolero jacket and slacks sat around in cushioned furniture sipping highballs and huffing cigarettes. The woman looked brittle and cheap; Karras smiled at her anyway, from habit. Her shoeless, stockinged feet rested on top of a kidney-shaped marble table. Next to her feet, a blue-black revolver lay on its side.

  “Hey, Face,” said Karras, “how’s the family?”

  “They’re good, Karras. Thanks for askin’.”

  Recevo said, “Your kids look like you or your wife?”

  Face thought it over. “My wife, I guess.”

  Recevo grinned. “They oughta thank God.”

  “Go on up,” said Face, jerking a thumb thick as a divot toward the ceiling.

  Recevo and Karras took the stairs. Karras ran his hand along the stained oak of the banister.

  “Face just called you a pussy behind your back,” said Karras. “I heard him clear as day. You gonna take him on when we’re done with Burke?”

  “Yeah,” said Recevo. “And right after that, I’m gonna wrastle Mighty Joe Young.”

  They reached the landing at the top of the stairs, turned right and went through an open door into a large area that had been a couple of bedrooms before Burke’s men had knocked out the walls. Burke, sitting behind a clean oak desk, did not look up as they entered. Karras noted the locked gun case against the wall, a Thompson gun racked behind the glass.

  A woman, an unremarkable brunette, sat at the end of a divan pushed against the wall. The wood of the divan was scraped and chipped—Face had knocked it around, most likely, carrying it up the stairs on his back. The rest of the divan was taken up by Gearhart, Burke’s brain and counsel, all three hundred hawk-nosed pounds of him. He strained a smile at Recevo, showing more gum than teeth, his fingers playing with a watch chain that ran from vest to trouser pocket, pushed out in the middle at the bulge of his lap. Karras could see the usual two-toned, brown and white gibsons on Gearhart’s pudgy feet. A dandy all the way, and a fat one at that—the worst kind.

  A plain, heavy dining table stood in the middle of the room, four high-backed chairs grouped around it. Reed, Burke’s top muscle, sat at the head of the table, rolling an unlit Fatima around in his fingers, sizing up Karras as he crossed the room. Recevo and Karras each took a chair away from the table, pulled them over to in front of Burke’s desk. They had their seats. Recevo removed his hat, smoothed back his hair, placed the hat in his lap.

  Burke laced his fingers together, rested his hands on the desk. “How’s it going, Joe?”

  “Things are all right, I guess.”

  “Karras,” said Burke. “Glad you could come.”

  Karras nodded and smiled. He forgot which one he had agreed to do first.

  “You boys going to the fights tonight?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Recevo, glancing at his watch.

  “Got money on Moore?”

  “Not worth the time it takes to place the bet,” said Recevo. “I just don’t think Parks is gonna give him much of an argument. I got a little cash on the undercard, though. Morales against Russell.”

  “You took Morales, I hope.”

  “Yeah.”

  Burke said, “Smart boy.”

  Karras, fidgety as a kid in church, looked around the room. His eyes landed on the brunette. He followed her legs down to her shoes, platform slingbacks with silver nailheads along the sides of the soles. He had seen them in the window at I. Miller’s on F, when he was looking around for a little something for Eleni. He wondered idly who the woman was with, if anyone, or if she was just around for decoration. Twelve dollars and ninety-five cents for those shoes. He wondered if she was worth the price.

  “We gonna talk business, or what?” said Reed, in that too-loud way of his, like talking loud would make someone care about what he had to say. Karras had known guys like him in the service. Not that Reed had ever been in uniform; the word was that he had flunked the psychiatric. He was just a mean one, with the small eyes of a pig and the shoulders of a fullback. As a kid, he had done reform time for pouring gasoline on a neighbor’s cat. Later, as an adult, he had pulled a year’s stretch for slapping a girl on a bus.

  “Yes,” said Burke, “we need to talk. Don’t want you two to be late for the main event.”

  “If it’s business,” Reed said, “then maybe the twist ought to leave the room.”

  The twist. Karras grinned. Reed hadn’t gone to the pictures since 1939. The Roaring Twenties had been the last one he’d seen.

  Burke nodded at the woman, who rose quickly but with some dignity. She threw a hurt look at Burke and flicked her eyes over Karras as she walked across the room. The slingbacks made a clapping sound on the hardwood floor, then were muted as she hit the carpet of the stairs.

  “So,” said Recevo, “what’ve we got?”

  “A fellow named George Georgakos owes me a few bucks. Old bird paid me the principle, but we’re having a little disagreement over the interest. He claims he’s going to get around to it, but so far, nothing. I thought you and Karras would go see him tonight, collect some of my money. It might convince me that he’s sincere.”

  George Georgakos—a gypsy type from the ghettos of Athens via Smyrna. Karras knew him vaguely as a guy who hung out late at night at the Greek clubs in Southeast, playing cards and drinking mastica with his old man. Hanging out at the clubs, after his bus shift at the Hotel Washington, where he took home fifteen, maybe twenty bucks a week. Karras looked at Burke’s hands, tented on the desk. On the outside, Burke seemed fit, his posture always ramrod straight, his stomach flat beneath the vest of his suit. But the hands were soft, the grip lazy and without character. Karras remembered wanting to wash off, the last time he shook Burke’s hand.

  “How much do you want us to collect?” said Recevo.

  “Forty ought to do it for now. We had a little communication problem in the past. Maybe he was kidding me, but I couldn’t understand much of what the old guy said. Typical, with these immigrants—they don’t even bother to learn the language.”

  That’s because they’ve been too busy workin’, tryin’ to feed their families. Workin’ like dogs, as if a dog could ever work that hard. Not that any of you snow-white bastards would understand the meaning of the word—

  “…That’s why I thought it might be a good idea for Karras here to go along. That sound good to you, Karras?”

  Karras smiled and nodded. He thought he’d mix things up this time.

  “Yeah,” said Reed. “Karras and this Georgakos bird, they speak the
same language. The two of them can just sit around together all night and grunt.”

  Gearhart snorted, issued a gassy grin. Karras heard Reed strike a match to the Fatima behind his back. The smoke from it crawled across the room.

  “Forty dollars,” said Recevo, trying to cut the chill. “That should be a walk in the park, right, Pete?”

  “Not a problem,” said Karras.

  “Hey, Karras,” said Reed. “Be a good little colored girl and fetch me that ashtray offa Mr. Burke’s desk.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Recevo, but Karras held him back with his arm.

  “I asked Karras to get it for me,” said Reed.

  Karras pointed his chin in the direction of Gearhart. “Ask Laird Cregar over there to get it for you. Reed. He’s a little closer.”

  Gearhart’s grin turned down. He didn’t make a move for the ashtray, and neither did Reed.

  Recevo drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. He shifted in his seat. “Mr. Burke, what should we do if this Georgakos gives us an argument?”

  “He won’t give you an argument,” said Burke, keeping his eyes locked on Karras. “He wouldn’t give an argument to a couple of boys who’ve seen the action you’ve seen. Would he?”

  Burke himself had seen no “action,” as he was on the brown side of thirty. But he had a brother who had fought in the European theatre, and being a veteran meant something to Burke. There were points to be had there, Karras figured, and some degree of slack.

  “We’ll take care of it,” said Recevo, and he and Karras rose from their seats.

  “Hey,” said Reed. “I got an idea. Maybe you ought to wear your uniforms over to the Greek’s place. Wear your medals, too. Maybe that would help.”

  “Maybe you’d like to go with them,” said Burke, with a touch of acid in his voice.

  “Reed might have a little problem there,” said Karras. “He’d need a uniform, too. And the last time I checked, they weren’t handin’ out uniforms to Section Eights.”

  Reed stood from his chair, blood coloring his face.

  “Hold it,” said Burke. “You two can play if you want, but not in here.”

  “Guy kills a few Japs,” muttered Reed, “he thinks his asshole squirts perfume.”

  Burke raised his voice. “Shut your mouth. Reed, and sit down. You can thank me later.”

  Reed sat, dragged deeply on his cigarette. Recevo placed his hat back on his head, cocked it just right. Karras shifted his shoulders to comfort beneath his topcoat.

  “You’ve got an address for us, Mr. Burke?” said Recevo.

  “Yes, I’m going to give it to you now.” Burke looked at Karras. “Will you excuse us a minute, Pete? I’ve got a private matter to discuss with Joe here.”

  “I’ll meet you down in the foyer, Joe.”

  Karras turned and went through the open door, a kind of spring in his step. Reed smiled at him, followed his movements with narrowed eyes. Karras’s heavy footsteps faded as Burke jotted down the address on a slip of paper.

  “Here,” said Burke, passing the paper to Recevo across the desk. “There’s not going to be any trouble tonight, is there?”

  “No,” said Recevo. “No trouble.”

  “Because I’m remembering the screwup with Mr. Weinberg. That tailor who owed me protection money, over on Seventh.”

  “That was just a special case,” said Recevo. “The thing of that was, Pete knew the guy, from the neighborhood. He outfitted a lot of Greeks on credit in the old days. I think he even sold a suit to Pete’s old man—a dollar a week, for fifteen weeks, no interest, something like that. Altered the suit for him on a handshake. So Pete had a personal connection there—”

  “I’m not interested in your boyhood connections. This Weinberg character, we lost him right after you gave him breathing room.”

  “The Jew bastard skipped,” said Reed.

  “We lost him because you allowed Karras to turn soft,” said Burke. “And you can’t allow anyone to be soft when you’re trying to build this type of business.”

  “I understand, Mr. Burke.”

  “Listen. I’m giving you another chance because the two of you did your part overseas, and you know with me that means something. And because I see promise in you, Joe. The people who start off with me are going to go all the way. Understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Enjoy the fights. Phone me later and let me know how things went. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  Recevo tipped his hat to Burke, walked toward the door, gave nothing, not even an eye-sweep, to Reed. The way to hurt Reed was to not give up a thing. You held the steak outside the cage with that one, but you never slipped it through the bars.

  Recevo left the room and no one said a thing. In a minute or two they heard the door close from the front of the house.

  Reed dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it beneath his shoe. “Greeks and Italians,” he said. “I’m tellin’ you, we don’t need any part of ‘em. The next thing you know, we’ll be walkin’ around here in tuxedos, servin’ dinner to niggers.”

  Gearhart fingered his watch chain, moved his turtle eyes curiously beneath their lids. “The Greek’s going to stumble,” he said. “It’s in his nature. You know that, don’t you?”

  Burke nodded. “Of course. But this isn’t his test. It’s Recevo’s.”

  Gearhart raised an eyebrow. “What about the Greek, then?”

  Burke exhaled heavily. “The Greek’s done.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Recevo stopped under a streetlight to strike a match to a cigarette. He blew smoke in the direction of Karras, who stood beside him, looking up at the starless sky.

  “Pete, Pete, Pete,” said Recevo. “What the hell am I gonna do with you?”

  “What?”

  “I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes, Joe. It was a laugh, wasn’t it? I mean, don’t take those guys so seriously. Anyhow, I wasn’t so out of line, was I?”

  “Calling Reed a Section Eight? And then that Laird Cregar crack with Gearhart.”

  “Relax.” Karras pulled on Recevo’s arm. “Come on, we’re gonna miss the undercards.”

  They walked to the coupe and climbed inside. Karras found a station on the radio while Recevo turned the ignition and revved the engine.

  “Gearhart,” said Karras. “You gotta admit, that fat sonofabitch does look a little like Laird Cregar, doesn’t he?”

  “Cregar’s better lookin’,” said Recevo.

  They were laughing as the coupe pulled away from the curb.

  Chapter 11

  Karras rolled his window down a quarter turn, aimed the exhale from his cigarette in the direction of the crack. The radio played “The Frim Fram Sauce” by the King Cole Trio. Karras had seen Nat Cole at the Casino Royal late one night. He had really liked Cole’s style.

  “I don’t want to bring this up again—” said Recevo.

  “Then don’t.”

  “But your attitude back there—it just wasn’t right.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The thing is, you gotta take this work we’re gettin’ with Burke a little more serious.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Because we’re gettin’ in on the ground floor here, Pete, that’s why. Burke’s got plans to expand his organization.”

  Karras dragged on his cigarette. “He gets too big, he’s gonna get crushed. The rackets are already sewed up. Snags Lewis runs the wire service, and Pete Gianaris controls the numbers game. Meyers is dice. All of it flows to Jimmy La Fontaine. And a wire runs from La Fontaine to Frank Costello in New York. You think the New York mob’s gonna let a bunch of rogues take a piece of the action?”

  “You miss my point. Burke’s not interested in numbers, or dice, and he ain’t interested in the ponies. His grift is protection, high-interest loans. There’s a whole lot of people out there, they want to start a business, whatever—”

  “Immigrants,
you mean.”

  “Immigrants, yeah, and some others, too. The banks won’t give ‘em a second look. It’s a kind of service Burke is providing.”

  “Burke and his men, they’re not going to last. I’m tellin’ you, you’re put-tin’ your chips on the wrong color. He’s gonna get crushed.”

  “There’s a hole out there, and Burke is filling it. Pete, this town is wide open. Somebody’s going to come along and pick up the money that’s just lyin’ in the street. We could be a part of it, you and me.”

  “I don’t want to fall in with those guys,” said Karras. “I’m tellin’ you, I just don’t.”

  “Sure you do. And if you keep it up with this attitude, Burke’s gonna think twice about moving us up.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what he thinks.”

  “Okay. But what the hell are you going to do if you don’t do this?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll find something. Maybe I’ll take the civil service exam.”

  “A government man,” said Recevo. “That’s a laugh. You’d have to get up before noon, you ever think of that?”

  “I could do that.”

  “Sure you could. Listen, you and me, we’re Washingtonians. Real Washingtonians, born and raised. We got nothin’ to do with those government types. Tourists is what they are. Anyway, you never gave two shits about it before. You never even voted. I mean, you ever visited the Capitol? Ever taken the White House tour?”

  “I went to the Lincoln Memorial one night.”

  “That was to neck with some broad.”

  “I went, is all I’m sayin’.”

  “And all I’m saying is, you got to stop bein’ so cocky, Pete. You got a kid on the way, don’t forget.”

  “I know it,” said Karras. “But I’m gonna work it out myself. I don’t want to be falling in with someone like Burke.”

  “Do me a favor, then. Play things straight tonight. Help me out with this Georgakos character, all right? You’re gonna see, things’ll fall into place after that.”