I moved to the stereo and hit the STOP button on the deck. After that I filled two rocks glasses with ice and free-poured the whiskey. I topped it with a spurt of water from the gun, and set both glasses down in front of the cops. Then I drained my Grand-Dad and kept my eyes on Wallace as I did it. I grabbed my bottle of Bud off the bar, walked around to their side, and stood behind them. They swiveled their stools around to face me.
“What can I do for you?” I said.
Wallace blew some smoke in my direction, and Goloria sipped whiskey while we looked each other over. He was on the low side of forty, but his long narrow face had a cancerous gauntness. His mouth hung open and his lids drooped as he studied me. He looked somewhat like a hound.
“Ste-fa-nos.”
“That’s right.”
“Greek?”
“Yeah.”
Goloria rubbed a bony finger along his ten o’clock shadow and grinned. The rubbing made a scraping noise in the bar. He looked at Wallace. “Wallace, I’ve known a few Greeks in my years on the force. Hardworking people. Restaurant people, mostly. A few professionals, here and there. But never a Greek detective. That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Wallace deadpanned. “It’s strange.”
“Well, maybe not so strange,” Goloria said quickly, “when you think about it. I mean, the Greeks never did mind taking on the dirtiest jobs-not if there was a buck in it for ’em. Hell, you can’t even get niggers to do restaurant work anymore.”
“What’s your point?” I said.
“My point is, being a detective-a private detective that is-it’s dirty work. And it’s usually work where you can pick up a quick dirty buck. So I figure it’s not too different for a guy like you to be in the private detective business.”
“’Cause it’s dirty,” Wallace said.
“I figured that out,” I said. “You two practice this before you walked in?”
“Shut up,” Goloria said, and then flashed me a smile of sharp carnivorous teeth. “Okay?”
I swigged from the neck of my beer, swallowed, and sighed. “What do you want?”
Goloria said, “You’ve been out in my district asking questions about a woman named April Goodrich.”
“What district is that?”
“The Third.”
“I’m looking for her,” I admitted.
“Well, now you can stop. I’ve got that covered, understand?”
I said, “Let’s skip all the bullshit. What we’re really talking about here is the reward money that Joey DiGeordano put out on the street. Am I right?”
Goloria said, “Say that again?”
Wallace eased herself down off the stool and stood on the wooden floor under the smoky light of the conical lamp. She opened the clasp of her vinyl handbag. Goloria set down his drink, rose, and slowly straightened out his raincoat against his chest with both hands. I backed up a step. The Spot was quiet and suddenly very small.
I looked at Goloria. “I’m not in it for the reward money. So I’m saying that I’m not in your way. That solve our problem?”
“I don’t know a Joey DiGeordano,” Goloria said.
“I thought maybe you did,” I said, watching Wallace knead something inside her handbag.
“What else you think?” Goloria said.
“I thought for a second, maybe you were just a little bit Greek.” My eyes narrowed as I felt the warmth of the Grand-Dad. “You know. Dirty.”
“He told you to shut up,” Wallace said unemotionally.
“Sorry,” I said. “Detective Gloria?”
“It’s Go-loria,” he said, taking a step toward me.
“Right. Anyway, I apologize. But you two have just got me a little confused. Being with you here, see, I just can’t figure out”-I scratched my forehead-“I just can’t figure out which one of you two’s got the swingin’ dick.”
“I do,” Wa“ jusllace said, and there was a metallic flash as her brass-knuckled fist swung and connected across my jaw. On the slow trip down I felt a dull ache and after that a jolt of pain. I landed on my elbows as cold beer emptied out across my chest, and I looked up. The two of them stood there, silhouetted against the light of the conical lamp. Their figures glided across a backdrop of smoke and white stars. I rubbed my jaw and squinted up in their direction. A small puddle of blood washed around in my mouth. I swallowed it and coughed.
“Now I think you get it, right, Stefanos?” It was Goloria’s calm voice. I kept my mouth shut. He waited and spoke again. “Well, here it is anyway, for the record: I don’t want you playing detective anymore in my district. You got nothing to do with the Goodrich girl anymore. You got nothing to do with anything in my district anymore, understand?”
Wallace chuckled and kicked my foot. “He understands. Sure, he does.”
Goloria made a head movement toward the door. “Let’s go, Wallace.” They began to turn.
I stopped them with my voice. “Hey,” I said weakly. “You forgot to pay for your drinks.”
Goloria withdrew a wallet from the seat of his polyester slacks and balled up a few one-dollar bills. Then he walked back and stood over me and dropped them on my chest. They bounced off and fell beside me to the floor.
“Merry Christmas,” he said.
I stayed on the wooden floor and listened to their shuffling footsteps and to the opening and closing of the front door. I remained there in that position for another ten minutes of silence. When I stopped feeling dizzy I got up on one knee and jiggled my jaw and wiped nausea-sweat from my forehead.
Five minutes later I was in Darnell’s kitchen with my head in the washbasin, a steady stream of water running down my face. I stared into the blackness of the drain and thought things over for a long while.
Afterward I dried off with a towel and walked back to the service bar. I poured a shot of whiskey and threw it back, then picked up the telephone and got Mai’s number from information. I dialed that number and Mai picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hallo.”
“Mai, it’s Nick.”
“Nick, that you? It doesn’t sound like you. You drunk?”
“Drunk? Yeah, just a little.” I coughed and cleared my throat. “Listen, Mai, I need you to do me a favor.”
“A favor. Shit, Nicky, don’t ask me to take your shift tomorrow. It’s Christmas Eve.” Mai whispered into the phone. “I promised my soldier boy we’d spend all day together. He’s here right now.”
“This is the last time, Mai, I promise. I’ve got to go out of town for the day. Believe me, it can’t wait.”
“You don’t sound so good, Nicky, honest to God.” She thought things over. “If it’s really important-”
“It is. Listen, I owe you.”
“You’re damn right you do,” she said rapidly, but the edge was out of her voice. “Anyway, maybe if I come in tomorrow, Phil will remember to hand me my Christmas bonus. Fat chance, huh?” She laughed broadly. “By the way, where you going, back down to the country?”
“Southern Maryland.” I dabbed blood off the side of my mouth with a bar rag.
“Got a girl down there?” she said demurely.
“A girl?” I said, lighting a cigarette. “I’ll find out. Tomorrow.”
NINETEEN
The next morning I packed my nine-millimeter Browning and a full clip into the trunk of my Dart and drove south on 301 in the direction of Cobb Island. The temperature was in the teens, but there was no wind and my Dart cruised effortlessly down the highway beneath a steel sheet of clouds. At Waldorf I cracked a window and huffed a Camel, and in La Plata I stopped for a burger and a Coke. A half hour later I was on the Island and sitting on a brown Leatherette stool in a nearly empty Formica-floored room that doubled as the dining area and bar of Polanski’s.
The bartender’s name was Andy. Andy had a brush cut and wore a green V-necked sweater over a white T-shirt that was exposed both at the neck and at the base of his great belly. His double-knit pants were chocolate brown and cinched with a wide black belt. Black work boots covered his long feet.
Andy shook my hand and said, “Now we’ve been introduced. What can I get you?”