“Well,” said Donna, “I guess that takes care of the concert.”
“Look, we’ll call Eddie in a little while, find out what happened. With that crash so close to him, he probably got spooked is all. Maybe you guys can still make the show. Anyway, if you ask me, he did you a favor, taking off with those tickets.”
“Aw, come on, the Bunnymen rock.”
“The Bunnymen suck.”
“Okay. What were you going to do tonight?”
“I don’t know. Check out some music, I guess.”
“You know,” said Donna, “if Eddie doesn’t turn up, I got nothin’ to do.”
“Eddie doesn’t show,” said Karras, “it’s you and me.”
Donna stifled a smile. The situation couldn’t be better. She had a virgin gram in the pocket of her skirt, and she was riding in a new Beamer with a good-looking man behind the wheel.
Karras was a sprinter, and Eddie went long distance. She figured, whatever happened tonight, Eddie would be around in the morning. She hoped Eddie wouldn’t post tonight.
“Mr. Karras?”
“Huh?”
“If we goin’ out, I’m gonna need some cigarettes.”
Karras cut up 34th, hooked a left onto P Street, found a parking space up near Wisconsin. Karras and Donna had a couple of quick spoons, left the car. Donna stopped in Neam’s market for two packs of Marlboro Lights — she could go through two decks easy behind a night of cocaine — and then the two of them walked south on Wisconsin Avenue toward the store.
They passed a Mean Feet, the city’s premier shoe boutique. A salesman named Randolph stood outside, leaning against the display window, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, man,” said Karras, “what’s goin’ on?”
“Ain’t nothin’ to it,” said Randolph. “Just tryin’ to make a livin’ out here. How those Zodiacs treatin’ you?”
Karras looked down at the black leather lace-ups on his feet, rubber soled, utilitarian. Randolph had sold them to Karras, and they were his favorite pair of kicks.
“Treatin’ me good.”
“Got some Zodiac boots, too, nice low heels, got your name on ’em.”
“I’ll be in soon.”
“You, too, girlfriend,” said Randolph to Donna. “Time for you to come on in and see the footdiatrist.”
Donna laughed. “Okay. Thanks.”
“I’m serious, baby. Not that those shorties you got on don’t look good on them legs of yours. Mm-mm-mm.”
“We’ll be back,” said Karras.
“I know you will. And when you do, don’t forget to ask for Shoedog.”
They kept walking. They passed Commander Salamander, where rich kids from Potomac and McLean came downtown to get their hair dyed pink and buy their bondage “punk” look from the middle-aged proprietors. Well, thought Karras, at least the kids are having fun. Everyone these days is having big fun.
Karras could deal with Georgetown: the lack of parking, the panhandlers, the gimmick bars serving shitty draft beer to Northern Virginia kids on weekend nights, the suburbanites and the crowds, the Iranian and Iraqi merchants selling off-brand clothing and shoes, the “jewelers” pushing gold chains to the drug kids driving in from across town. Marcus Clay couldn’t deal with Georgetown, so this had become Karras’s turf by default. You needed a record store in this part of town if you wanted to be in the business in D.C.
The demand for music was big down here. Two years earlier, a monstrous crowd had pushed through the plate glass window of Kemp Mill Records during an in-store appearance of Frankie Goes to Hollywood. That same year, when a rumor surfaced that Prince had been seen window-shopping on M Street, scores of purple-clad kids had descended on Georgetown in hopes of spotting His Royal Badness. Yeah, Marcus hated G-town, but Karras never tired of reminding him that Wisconsin and O was his top-volume store.
Karras went into the store. Donna Morgan stayed out front, lit up a smoke.
The store was narrow and deep, generally unclean and dimly lit. The new Falco, “Rock Me Amadeus,” boomed from the stereo and pumped the house. The manager, Scott, greeted Karras right away with a handshake and a smile.
“Hey, Dimitri. What’s the word?”
“Johannesburg.”
Scott was on the heavy side, his face acned from junk food. He wore his shoe polish — black hair short except for a thick lock that fell in front of his face. Marcus had complained about the look, and Karras had shrugged it off, saying it was “a Flock of Seagulls thing.” Marcus had said, “A flock of douche bags, maybe. Tell him to get his hair the fuck on out of his face.”
But Scott was a good manager, steady and into it, and Marcus soon forgot about the hair. Karras knew that protecting the good employees from Marcus’s sometimes grumpy moods was part of his job. Marcus was under a shitload of pressure these days, and Karras understood.
Karras had a quick look around. Scott was ringing a two-person line at the register. Other customers roved the store, suburban white kids with money to spend. Karras transferred the new Bananarama and the new Miami Sound Machine to the front display. He said hello to a clerk named Mary, a dark-haired Brit with whom he had tongue-wrestled at last year’s Christmas party. No regrets.
The coke was good. Karras was moving fast, he could feel the tick-tick-tick of blood through his veins; he five-slapped Mary’s palm as he passed her in the aisle.
When Scott had finished, Karras asked him to get a reading off the register. Scott did it, handed Karras the cutoff tape. The numbers were typical for a Friday. Karras dialed the U Street store, asked Cootch for Marcus.
“Marcus drove Tate home,” said Cootch.
“Marcus calls in, tell him I phoned from G-town, hear?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“Any business over there?”
“Nothin’. They’re still out there, blockin’ the street.”
“All right, man. You take care.”
“You, too.”
Karras cradled the receiver. He clapped Scott a little too hard on the arm.
“Okay, Scott, I’m outta here. And don’t bother calling the other stores.”
“Calling the other stores?”
“Yeah, you know, like you managers always do, to warn them that I’m making the rounds. ’Cause I am gone for the day.”
“Okay, Dimitri. See you, man.”
Karras gave Mary a nice smile — you never knew — and left the store. Donna was out front, working on her second smoke.
“Come on,” said Karras.
“Where to?”
“My place. I need a quick shower. Then we’re gone.”
“Gonna have fun tonight,” said Donna.
“Gonna Wang Chung tonight,” said Karras. “Let’s go.”
Marcus Clay parked the Peugeot near Karras’s apartment, walked over to the Metro entrance north of Dupont Circle, picked up a Post on the way in, and caught a Red Line train down to Judiciary Square. Clay took a seat next to a thin guy reading a thick novel, its cover illustration depicting a submarine, an aircraft carrier, an American flag, and a hammer and sickle, all about to collide.
Clay scanned the Post’s front page: CIA Director William Casey was pushing hard for the upcoming House vote allotting $100 million in aid to the “freedom fighters” of Nicaragua. Casey had been the key architect in promoting the Reagan Doctrine, covert paramilitary operations in Afghanistan, Cambodia, and Angola. Clay shook his head. All it took was a hostage situation in Iran for a whole generation to get gung-ho and forget the horror of Vietnam. Techno-war books, written by those who had never witnessed the violent, useless death of young men, were all the rage. Kids stood in line at the Uptown for tickets to Top Gun. Action in foreign lands, the threat of communism, it stirred the blood. Military buildup spurred the stock market and strengthened the economy. Strong economies opened the door for reelections.