Shoedog by George P. Pelecanos Page A

afford the charges, or they don’t trust the primarily white banking institutions. So the liquor store is where they cash their checks, get money orders to pay their bills. On the morning of the second Friday of each month—which is this Friday—EZ Time Liquors brings in a hundred and fifty grand via Brinks just to fill those orders. Combine that with the fifty they’ve got stashed, and you’re looking at a possible two hundred, if you hit it just before the noon rush. It’s payday in the ghetto, and the liquor store’s the bank. Only this time, gentlemen, the payday is ours.”
    Gorman put his hands together, clapped three times. It was just like Weiner to make a political speech in the middle of a business meeting. So the spades in the ghetto couldn’t get no credit, couldn’t get no jobs, didn’t trust whitey’s banks, blah, blah, blah. Fuck ’em all, anyway.
    Valdez stroked the whiskers of his mustache and said, “Now the teams, Weiner.”
    “Right.” Weiner used his pointer. “On the Uptown job: Jackson, Polk, and Randolph. On EZ Time: Valdez, Gorman, and Constantine.”
    Valdez stood out of his chair, pointed his finger at Constantine’s back. “That green sonofabitch is not gonna be my driver, understand?”
    Grimes spoke calmly. “Sit down, Valdez. I picked the teams. You can drop out or you can do it the way I say. Those are your options.”
    Valdez sat, lowered his head, shook it slowly from side to side.
    “The rest of it’s standard,” Weiner said. “I’d like you gentlemen to drop in on your respective targets between now and Friday, get a feel for the place. We meet here at ten A.M . on Friday morning, pass out guns and ammunition for those not already carrying.”
    “I won’t need a gun,” Constantine said.
    “Everyone carries,” Weiner said. “Equal responsibilities, equal risks, equal rewards.” Weiner turned to Randolph. “You and Constantine pick out your vehicles, tomorrow morning, nine A.M .”
    “Rego?” Randolph said.
    “Right. He’ll explain the procedure on the drop.” Weiner cradled the pointer. “Any other questions?”
    The room went silent except for the long, heavy exhales of cigarette smokers and the creak of hinged metal chairs. Grimes stood, said, “That’s all, then. Good luck, all of you. Constantine—see me in my office, right after this.” Grimes turned and exited the room.
    When the door slammed shut behind him, the men relaxed. Valdez stood once again and kicked his chair back with his heel. Constantine did not look back, knowing that the gesture was meant for him.
    Polk put his hand on Constantine’s arm. “I’m sorry, partner. I thought the two of us could ride together on this one.”
    “I’ll be all right,” Constantine said, thumb-flicking some ash off his cigarette, noticing the unsteadiness in his hand.
    “I’ll meet you downstairs,” Polk said.
    “Right.”
    Constantine sat in the chair and finished his cigarette, waiting for the others to leave the room. Weiner left last, putting his notebooks and pencils into a battered briefcase, patting Constantine’s shoulder on the way to the door. Eventually, Constantine was alone. He heard their voices out in the hallway—Valdez and Gorman’s anger, Jackson’s simple laughter—and then their heavy footsteps on the marble stairs.
    Constantine ground the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray, rubbed his face around with his hand. The gray smoke of the meeting hovered in the center of the room, turning slowly in the light. Constantine got out of his seat and moved through the cloud.

Chapter

10
    G RIMES put his hand to his temple and smoothed back his steel gray hair. He had a seat behind his desk, then randomly rearranged the accessories that sat on the blotter of the desk. He placed his cigar in the lip of his crystal ashtray. His hand came to rest on the mound of magnetic chips piled on the black plastic base. He fingered the chips, listened to the footsteps of the men descending