Kondrasin is the size and shape of a walrus, but in motion he possesses a kind of physical elegance that makes him seem almost delicate. Partly, it’s his clothing — expensive but understated. Today, he’s wearing black linen pants, a silk shirt the color of Pinot Noir, red socks, soft-leather sandals.
A little dog, a wire-haired fox terrier, attached to a leash, pops out of the car behind the big man.
“Look at the Guy,” Kondrasin says, as if he’s explaining something to the dog. “Sipping his latte. Sprouting a goatee.” He gives an ambiguous chuckle. “The neighborhood viscount.” Pronouncing it viz-count, which cracks Jones up because he knows Kondrasin knows the correct pronunciation.
“Bowser looks happy.” Jones recently gave the dog to Kondrasin as a gift.
“Mimi,” Kondrasin says, holding the leash high so the dog will pick up its head. “I named her Mimi.”
Jones stands up. “You want a cup of coffee?”
“Make it a double.” Jones knows he means espresso.
Kondrasin and Jones go back to the early seventies. Kondrasin was making a move to expand in Buffalo and asked an acquaintance from Cleveland for help. The acquaintance recommended this guy from... He didn’t know where the guy was from. Just that he was new and effective and reliable, went by the name Jones.
That job, which started on New Year’s Day of ’71 and lasted until June of ’73 solidified both Kondrasin’s position and Jones’s reputation. Since then, Kondrasin has called on Jones repeatedly for anything messy or tricky or overly difficult. Several times, Kondrasin has offered Jones permanent job status, but Jones turned down each offer, preferring freelance, preferring non-involvement.
Neither would say the other was a friend, but it’s possible each is the other’s oldest and most trusted, perhaps most respected, acquaintance. This is the first time that Jones has initiated contact to ask a favor from Kondrasin.
Jones comes back with two espressos, a fresh one for Kondrasin, a refill for himself. Kondrasin is sitting on the chair, slightly cockeyed, as if a nudge would topple him. Not, Jones thinks, one of the things he does gracefully, sit in straight-backed chairs. The dog is perched on his knee.
“The doctor’s on his way,” Kondrasin says, and touches the handle of his coffee cup, waiting for Jones to explain why he needed Kondrasin to arrange a house call.
“Thanks,” Jones says. “Guy I know got banged up.”
Kondrasin sips his drink, sets down his cup, tickles the dog’s neck. “What’s wrong with the ER?”
“He also got a small cut.”
Kondrasin looks at Jones and makes a question mark with his gaze.
This meeting with Kondrasin is a formality, a protocol, a politeness. Jones could go see L’vonte’s neighbors without Kondrasin’s permission, especially now that he’s retired. But, you never know, something could come up which would get the wrong people asking questions, lead them back to Jones. Unlikely, but possible. And why create situations that require after-the-fact explaining? And anyhow he isn’t exactly sure what he’s going to do. But mostly, no matter what else he might be — or might have become in his budding retirement — Jones is a cross the t’s and dot the i’s sort of fellow. Buffalo is Konnie Kondrasin’s town, keep him posted.
He tells Kondrasin the story as L’vonte told it to him, adding details about L’vonte’s personality, her work ethic, making it clear that this is a private thing, not work, not for profit. Going on longer than he usually would, his retirement talkativeness.
“I never knew you was such a voluble talker,” Kondrasin says. They both laugh. It’s one of the things Jones likes about Kondrasin, throwing in a word like voluble. Then Kondrasin says, “Sounds like you got the hots for your cleaning lady.” And snickers himself into a coughing fit.
Jones chuckles, but he feels a twinge of embarrassment. Not because he has the hots for L’vonte — which, no, he definitely does not, at least not in any way on which he might act, and even if he did it would be none of Kondrasin’s business — but because he has involved Kondrasin in a personal matter.
When the big guy settles down, catches his breath, Jones says, “I thought I might go have a chat with these fellows.”
Kondrasin is thinking, looking out at the boulevard. He finishes his coffee, sets the cup down, turns his eyes on Jones. “Get us another cup.”
When Jones returns, Kondrasin is on the phone, listening. He disconnects, holds the phone in his hand, thinks for a minute before picking up the conversation.
“This part of town you’re talking about,” Kondrasin says, “it can be unruly.”
That’s an understatement, Jones knows.
“Disorganized,” Kondrasin says. “Even if somebody tries to organize it, things flare up. Street level disputatiousness. This block against that block. Sometimes this few houses and that few houses.” Kondrasin holds up his phone, letting Jones know that’s what the call was, trying to find out something about the neighborhood. “Can be perilous.”
Disputatiousness, perilous — Jones laughs. “I just wanted to let you know ahead of time that I’m going to drive over there, pay a visit. Make sure I wouldn’t be stepping on any toes.”
“I appreciate that.” He says predate. “Let me give you a driver. Somebody who can back you up. A car that will send a message.”
Jones thinks about the offer.
Kondrasin says, “Yeah, yeah.” Waving off Jones’s thinking. “I decided already. It’s sagacious.”
Sagacious. Jones laughs out loud.
At one A.M. Jones is sitting in the passenger seat of a black BMW. Not the same one Kondrasin showed up in at the coffee shop. This one, Jones knows, has untraceable plates, bulletproof glass, reinforced door panels, a steel plate behind the grill to protect the engine.
The driver is a black guy, not much more than a kid, and not particularly big, maybe six-one, but well proportioned, fit looking. He’s been told to pay attention, learn something from the man he’s driving.
Jones knows this because he’s been chattering away at the kid, asking a million questions — about his family, his education, his goals in life.
The kid is unusually polite, answers every one of Jones’s questions. Finally says, “I was told to pay attention, learn something from you.” He glances sideways at Jones. “But, man, you ask a lot of questions.”
Jones laughs... at himself.
They’re parked on Pansy Place, across from L’vonte’s house. Jones phoned earlier to check on Russell, who the doctor said was going to be fine, except for the knee which might be seriously injured (re-injured — it’s the same knee he hurt playing ball in college), but they have to wait a couple days for the swelling to diminish, then take some X-rays, see what’s what.
Jones tried, without sounding too conspicuous, to ask questions about the neighbors. What kind of car? L’vonte had to ask Russell. A big ass black Land Rover LRX, looks like it has two rows of sparkling teeth in front. The guys? Three skinny dudes, one of them, the one seems to be the leader, always wears a do-rag, different colors, one’s got this spiky hair, the other’s got some shaved or braided design looks like a tight hat with a maze woven into it, all three wear low-rider pants, baggy blue jeans or sometimes cargo shorts, different kinds of shirts.
She wanted to know why Jones was asking. He told her he was just trying to get a picture in his head.
She said, “Yeah, well, they’re a bunch a stereotypes.” And gave Jones her best laugh over the phone. This he could picture, throwing her head back, making herself seem about six feet tall, happy as a clam.