40
Peter Karras stopped to put fire to a cigarette. He cupped his hands around the match until it took. He drew in smoke and sulfur, kept it in his lungs, savored the pleasure of it, let it out slowly and watched it fade in the icy, biting wind. He walked on.
He cut southeast onto Mass Avenue. Massachusetts, he felt, was a good Washington street. It was wide and it was orderly and the houses were kept with care. Karras had always liked the width of D.C.’s streets, the quad-grid layout, the circles and the lines. The buildings were not so high, restricted so by law, and on clear nights and standing on certain spots you could see much of the city just by looking straight out. Tonight was such a night: The moon shone bright and cast a pale and immaculate light through the cloudless, starred sky. Karras thought the city looked especially fine tonight.
He pitched his cigarette and went down Massachusetts and angled off onto New Jersey Avenue, passing into a mostly Negro neighborhood of darkened row houses whose residents had long ago gone to sleep. He was a block away from North Capitol now, around 1st, between E and F. The lighted Capitol dome loomed up ahead. Karras looked at the dome, unmoved by its majesty. He looked around the street. He saw some familiar cars parked along the curb, two or three coupes and a luxury sedan. Then he was on the corner in front of the turreted row house crowned with the crenellated battlement. And then he was going along the walk there, and up the steps, and he was standing at the front door. It occurred to him then that he had walked a dozen city blocks; oddly, he had not given his leg a passing thought.
Karras knocked on the door. The slot on the door opened, and a blood-rimmed set of eyes appeared in the space. Then the door itself swung open.
“Face.”
“Karras.”
“How’s the family?”
Face issued a gassy grin. “They’re good, Karras. Thanks for askin’.”
“I’m expected.”
“C’mon in.”
Karras stepped into the grand foyer. He looked through the open French doors to the right, where several suited men were sitting on the sofa and in chairs sipping highballs and shooting the breeze. The Welshman and Medium were among the men. A blue steel pistol lay on the kidney-shaped marble table in front of the sofa. Karras caught Medium’s eye; Medium looked away.
“I oughta frisk you, Karras,” said Face.
“Yeah. And right after that why don’t you just sock me on the jaw and hang me on a meat hook.”
“Christ, Karras, you don’t have to get so cute about it. I was just sayin’ what I oughta do. I didn’t say I was gonna do it.”
“Face, you don’t have to do anything but stand around and be big.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Well, go on up.”
Karras went up the stairs, running his hand along the veneered oak banister. Then he was on the landing, cutting right, and standing in front of Burke’s closed door. He raised his hand to knock on the door but did not. Instead he stood there for a good two minutes without moving, listening to the muted voices behind the door. He went back down the stairs.
Face sat in the foyer chair, his thick fingers intertwined, his forearms coming out of his suit jacket like hairy beams of pine. He stared through the French doors into the living room, smiling at something wise someone had said from in there, his eyes heavy and dull. He looked to his left at the sound of Karras’s feet hitting the bottom of the stairs.
“What,” said Face, “you all done already?”
“Uh-uh. Burke sent me back down here to have you run an errand for him.”
“Normally he sends Reed.”
“He sent me.”
“Yeah? What’s Mr. Burke want me to do?”
“He wants you to run out and buy a box of cigars.”
“Mr. Burke don’t smoke no ceegars.”
“He’s gonna smoke one tonight. We all are. You know, Face, like a celebration. On account of I’m coming back in.”
Face’s jaw opened, stayed slack while he tried to think. “Any particular brand?”
“People’s has those Dutch Masters Belvederes on special this week. A box of fifty for five and change.”
“I gotta go all the way to People’s?”
“That’s what Mr. Burke said. Anyway, what else you doin’?”
“All right, I’m on my way.”
“And Face — there ain’t nothin’ serious goin’ on here tonight. So don’t break your neck gettin’ back.”
Face dragged his weight out of his chair, went to the front door. His hand enveloped the knob.
“Hey, Face.”
“Yeah?”
“Just in case I’m gone when you get back — give my best to your lovely wife.”
“Okay, Karras, I will.” Face grinned sheepishly. “Take it easy, hear?”
“You too, chum.”
Karras watched him leave. He gave Face a minute or so to get to his car, and then he went back up the stairs. Then he was in front of Burke’s office door. He rapped his knuckles against the wood.
A pillowed voice came through the door. “Yeah.”
“Pete Karras.”
“Come on in.”
Karras turned the knob, stepped into the room.
Burke sat slumped behind his desk, one hand on a tumbler of whiskey, his eyes waxed and unfocused. Recevo was at the big table, a lighted Raleigh between his fingers, his fedora situated casually atop his head. Reed stopped pacing, shifted his shoulders beneath the sharkskin fabric of his suit, leaned against the gun case as Karras came in.
“Pete!” said Burke with a shaky smile.
“Mr. Burke.”
“You’re looking well.”
Karras ran a hand along the lapel of his topcoat. “I’m doin’ all right.”
“Last time I saw you,” said Reed, “you was in an apron.” Reed laughed at his own joke.
Burke kept his eyes on Karras. “He’s not in any apron now, are you, Pete?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, no hard feelings, and all that.” Burke raised his tumbler. “To better days ahead.”
Karras watched Burke drink his bourbon dry. A drop or two spilled out of the glass and fell to the desk. Burke reached for the fifth, poured another couple of ounces into the tumbler. He turned his wrist, squinted so he could read his watch.
“You’re right on time,” said Burke.
“That’s me,” said Karras. “Johnny-on-the-Spot.”
“Funny,” said Recevo. “I didn’t hear no car pull up to the house, Pete.”
“The truth is,” said Karras, “I walked over.”
“I don’t care if you fell out of the Hindenburg and crashed through the roof. I’m askin’ about my car.”
“Never mind the car,” said Burke, making a limp and awkward wave of his hand. “Where’s the girl, down in the foyer?”
Karras looked over at Recevo. He gave Recevo a small smile.
Reed took his hands from his pockets. “Mr. Burke asked you a question, Karras.”
Karras stood still and expressionless in the center of the room.
“Frisk him,” said Burke.
Reed smiled, made a step toward Karras. Karras put his palm out in a halting gesture.
“I’m not gonna let him touch me,” said Karras, speaking to Burke. “He gets near me, I walk right now.”
Burke sighed heavily, pointed his chin toward Recevo. “You brought him back in, Joe. He’s your responsibility. You frisk him.”
Recevo got up from his seat, went to Karras, patted him down. His eyes made contact with Karras’s as he ran his hands over the front of the topcoat.
“Where’s my car?” muttered Recevo.
“Sorry, Joe,” said Karras.
Recevo abruptly stopped what he was doing. He stepped back and stood straight. “He’s okay, Mr. Burke.”
Recevo went back to his seat, picked his cigarette up from the ashtray, dragged on it, exhaled slowly. He shook his head, staring off somewhere past Burke through the office window. His jacket opened as he reached over to flick off some ash. As it opened, Karras caught the curve of the checkered grip on Recevo’s .38.