Shoedog by George P. Pelecanos Page A

take? I put it at three hundred Gs.”
    “How many men?”
    “Six, not counting Weiner.”
    “The split?”
    “The usual,” Grimes said. “A hundred to me, inclusive of my bankroll—guns, automobiles, anything else. Twenty to Weiner, for logistics. The rest to the six who pull the job. That’s thirty each, for you and your friend.” Grimes grinned. “And something else.”
    “Keep talking.”
    “The extra twenty. It’s yours when you complete the job.”
    “Why so generous?”
    “I need you, Polk. I’ve looked at this closely, and it’s as near to a sure thing as you can get. But it’s never all cake.” Grimes pointed over the desk. “You’re good. I want to hedge my bet.”
    Polk let it settle. “What if I pass, just take the original twenty?”
    Grimes said, “That’s not an option.”
    Polk chewed on that for a while. He said, “If I decide to come on board—and I haven’t decided—there’s one more thing.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “If something goes down—if I don’t make it—Constantine here gets my share. My thirty, and his,
and
the extra twenty. Agreed?”
    “Yes,” Grimes said, against the tightness in the room.
    There was a knock on the door, and an entrance. A woman carrying a cup and saucer walked through the room and stopped at the desk.
    Constantine took her in: a thirtyish blonde, natural from the looks of her—pale, unblemished complexion and blue, blue eyes. She wore riding jeans and low-heeled calfskin boots, with a chambray shirt tucked into the jeans and a red scarf tucked into the neck of the shirt. The scarf hid most of the neck, but not the best of it, the long swannish curve mat ended at the chiseled chin. There was a freshness in her like newly printed money. Constantine could smell it from his chair, as if a window had been opened in the room.
    The woman placed the setup in front of Grimes and ran one slender finger along the edge of the blotter. “Is that all?” she said. “Because I’m about ready for my ride.”
    “Yes, sweetheart,” Grimes said, looking suddenly small and boyish behind the desk. “I’m about done here.” He moved his eyes to his guests. “You remember Mr. Polk, don’t you, Delia?”
    The woman named Delia gave Polk a polite but disinterested smile. “Of course. Nice to see you again.”
    Polk nodded, his eyes fixed on the woman.
    Constantine spoke for the first time. “My name’s Constantine,” he said, no longer wishing to remain invisible.
    He stood and walked to the desk, where he stretched out his hand. Delia shook it, held on a second longer than necessary, looking him over before she released her grip. Constantine thought he saw something familiar in her eyes, but the sensation passed. The only thing familiar, he decided, was his own desire.
    Delia turned and walked from the room. Jackson chuckled under his breath, stroking his sparsely goateed chin as he eyeballed Constantine. The door shut behind the woman, and Constantine returned to his seat.
    Grimes had a sip of coffee. He placed the cup back on the saucer, staring once meaningfully at Constantine before he spoke to Polk. “Well,” he said. “What do you think?”
    Constantine thought of the money. He pictured it in tightly banded stacks. In the picture, next to the stacks of money, stood the woman. He looked at Polk, and he nodded.
    Polk said, “We’ll come to the meeting this afternoon. See what this thing’s all about. I’ll give you my answer then.”
    Grimes took a pen from a leather cup and wrote some words down on a green pad. He tore the top sheet off the pad and held it out to Polk. Polk got out of the chair, limped to the desk, and took the paper from Grimes’s hand.
    “I’d like you to take care of this,” Grimes said, “before the meeting. Okay?”
    Polk read the note, said, “Right,” folded the paper, and put it into his windbreaker. “Let’s go, Connie.”
    Constantine joined Polk and the two of them walked from the room. When the door was