Shame the Devil

by George Pelecanos

Otis studied the detail map he had lifted from the office. “You ain’t thinkin’ of doin’ that cop today, right?”

  “Just want to say hello to his sons if they’re around.”

  “That’s what you got in mind,” said Otis, “you want to be makin’ a left at the corner up ahead.”

  “Mr. Lynch,” said Nick Stefanos. “If you could just give me a minute here —”

  “Keep talkin’,” said Lynch. “I can listen to you while I’m workin’.”

  Lynch had his head in the engine of a ’71 Torino. The engine was a 351 Cleveland; the car was green with a white roof. Lynch turned a wrench with a thick, scaly hand.

  “I’m trying to locate a red Torino,” said Stefanos.

  “I know, I know, you already —”

  “A Twister, special edition. Red.”

  Lynch backed up and stood to his full five-feet-two. He was a pink-faced, froggish man with a hops belly and a comb-over of blond-gray hair.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” said Lynch. “For God’s sake, you could have saved me all this talk.”

  “You know the car?”

  “Ain’t but one like it in the area. And yeah, I know it. I restored the sonofabitch myself.”

  Stefanos felt a tick in his blood. “You have the name and address of the person who owns it?”

  “I have the name. Have an address and a phone number, too, but both of them are worthless. I’m tellin’ you the truth ’cause I found out the hard way, see? This black bastard, he stiffed me for two grand. He’s the reason I got that sign posted over there.”

  Lynch pointed to a “No Checks, Cash and Charges Only” notice posted by the register.

  “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Forjay. Sean Forjay. Young buck with one of those big Afros they all used to wear.” Lynch regarded Stefanos strangely. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” said Stefanos, thinking of Forjay, the top-of-the-heap dealer down on Kennedy.

  “Yeah,” said Lynch, “Forjay’s one of those niggers, you never want to see him again, just loan him some money. Hey, where you goin’ so fast, buddy?”

  Stefanos walked quickly through the open bay door. On the way to his car he lit a smoke.

  “Who was the man in the leather jacket?” said Manuel Ruiz.

  “Friend of a friend,” said Thomas Wilson. “An investigator for the public defender’s office, downtown.”

  “He knows nothing about us?”

  “No. He’s only looking for a car. Thanks for covering me there.”

  “We need no more trouble with Frank.”

  “That’s right. We all want to get out from under Farrow. We’re together on that, right?”

  Manuel glanced at Jaime. “That is right. I prayed that we would never see Frank again after what happened at the pizza parlor. He killed your friend, those other people… that child. Now he has killed a man of God. We are thieves but not murderers. And we have children of our own.”

  “Maybe he’ll just go away,” said Wilson.

  “And maybe,” said Manuel, “we can help him to go away.”

  Jaime patted his breast pocket for his pack of cigarettes. The pocket was empty, and he frowned.

  “What’d you do, Manny?” said Wilson.

  “The tags on that Mustang. I stole them myself last night, from a luxury car in Forest Heights. You can be sure that the owner was outraged. The tags are on the hot sheet, I am certain, as we speak.”

  “Red muscle car with hot tags,” said Wilson. “Man could get pulled over real fast, drivin’ one of those.”

  Manuel nodded at Jaime and said, “That is not all.”

  Wilson said, “What else?”

  “Jaime is an expert brake man. He fixed the master cylinder on the Mustang so that the brake fluid would leak out. The brakes will fail on that car for sure. I would say in the next four or five days, they will fail altogether.”

  “What about the idiot lights?” said Wilson. “That’ll tip Frank off.”

  “I fix the idiot light,” said Jaime.

  “Aren’t you two afraid?” said Wilson.

  “Yes,” said Manuel, “we are afraid. The way men in war are afraid.”

  Wilson said nothing, staring at Manuel. Then he looked at his watch. “I better be goin’. Meeting my uncle Lindo down at his warehouse.”

  “You go,” said Manuel.

  “I’ll keep you two up on things,” said Wilson.

  “Please,” said Manuel.

  They shook hands with Wilson and watched him walk from the garage.

  “Will he give us up?” said Jaime.

  “I don’t think so,” said Manuel. “He is stronger than he knows.”

  “What about the man in the leather jacket?”

  “What Wilson said was true. He was only looking for a car.”

  “I hope we are right,” said Jaime, “to try and cross Frank.”

  “He is a devil,” said Manuel. “So we have to try.”

  Jaime reached into his pocket, remembered that he was out of cigarettes.

  “I need to buy smokes,” said Jaime.

  “You have a fresh pack in the offi,” said Manuel.

  “You said ‘offi,’” said Jaime with a tight smile. “But you meant ‘office,’ right?”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ROMAN OTIS TURNED up the volume on the radio. WHUR was playing the Floaters’ “Float On,” and the hypnotic instrumental intro was filling the car.

  “Aw, shit, Frank,” said Otis. “They’re playin’ the long version, too. If I lived in this town I’d have my radio dial locked on this station right here.”

  They were parked on Hamlin, a few houses down from the house of William Jonas. Farrow looked through the windshield at the bay window of the detective’s split. He could see vague outlines moving behind the window. Well, that couldn’t be Jonas; Jonas was a cripple confined to a chair.

  Farrow tried to block out Roman’s voice. He didn’t care for music, especially when he was working, but Roman did, and he let him listen to it, and sing, to his content.

  “Libra,” said Otis, “and my name is Charles. Now, I like a woman that’s quiet…”

  As Otis mimicked the spoken verse, he noticed the dash of the car. Usually, when you were listening to the radio with the ignition off, a red light came on in the dash. Otis figured maybe this old model didn’t have that feature. Or maybe it did and the light was broke. The truth was, Otis knew dog shit about the workings of cars.

  Farrow turned the volume on the radio down a notch.

  “How do you think Gus is gonna work out with us?” said Farrow, keeping his eyes on the house.

  “I don’t know. Gus is all heartsick over my sister, you want to know the truth.”

  “Will he pull his weight when the time comes?”

  “Gus has a temper, that’s a fact. My cousin Booker needs to get with that.”

  “But will Gus kill if he has to?”

  “As far as unnecessary mayhem goes, uh-uh, I don’t think he’d go for that.”

  Farrow squinted. “You think this is unnecessary, Roman?”

  Otis thought carefully before he spoke. He was about as close to Frank as any man could be, but he didn’t want to get on his wrong side, just the same. Long as he’d known him, Frank had been a violent man. No conscience, either, which could be a positive in their profession. That no-conscience thing was what often kept men like them alive. But the way he’d run over that kid after the pizza parlor kill, that had been extra cold, even for Frank. And killing that churchman out in the country? Otis could not see where that had been justified. Frank had always been ice. Lately, though, it seemed like he was enjoying the bloodletting a little too much.

  “I wouldn’t say it’s unnecessary,” said Otis. “Only thing I’m askin’ is, let’s be smart about it, right? I mean, we’re sittin’ out here in the broad daylight and shit. We were lucky to get out of this town the first time around, Frank. I just don’t think we ought to be so
fast about temptin’ the gods of fate, man. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  “It was you who said we could come back here for this. Remember?”

  “I remember.” Otis sighed. “I’m with you, man. You don’t have to doubt that, hear?”

  “That’s all I wanted to know.”

  A tall young man with a leather book bag slung over his shoulder came from the Jonas house and walked toward a Toyota parked on the street.

  “There’s one of his sons,” said Farrow. “Looks like the one from the photograph we sent to Jonas. Christopher is his name.”

  Christopher Jonas got into the Toyota, started it, and drove down Hamlin. Farrow ignitioned the Mustang.

  “Here we go,” said Farrow, pulling off the curb.

  Otis kicked the volume up on the radio to where it had been.

  “Cancer,” said Otis. “And my name is Larry. And I like a woman that likes everythang and everybody…”

  They followed Christopher Jonas across town and southwest, over to Georgia and down New Hampshire for a long stretch, around one of D.C.’s many circles, past a hospital, to where students walked the sidewalks along dormitory-style brick buildings.

  “George Washington University,” said Otis, studying the detail map. “Boy must have a brain in his head.”

  The Toyota went into a garage. Farrow did not want to be trapped inside the structure, so he went around the block and found a spot on the street. The meter where they parked was without a head, as were most of the meters they’d seen since they’d been in town. They sat in the car, waiting. A cop car sat idling at a red light ahead. The light turned green, and as the cop car prepared to accelerate, another car ran the opposing red, blowing through the intersection. The cop car did not pursue the offender.

  “That’s not the first time I’ve seen that,” said Otis.

  “Yeah,” said Farrow. “Man could get the crazy idea that there’s no police presence in this town.”

  “Our kind of place,” said Otis. “Right?”

  Christopher Jonas emerged from the garage and crossed the street.

  “Wait here,” said Farrow.

  He stepped out of the car and followed Christopher on foot. Otis reached over, turned the ignition key, and hit the power button on the radio. Otis decided to let the car run while he listened to music. Frank wouldn’t like it if he put a drain on the battery.

  Christopher Jonas went into an eat-house called D.J.’s. Farrow hung outside and looked through the plate glass window. He watched the Jonas kid greet a couple of his friends, two white kids and a Paki-looking girl, at a long table. Jonas kissed the girl and had a seat by her side.

  Farrow went around the corner to a bank of pay phones and dropped thirty-five cents in one of the change slots. He punched in the number he read off a slip of notepaper he had pulled from his coat.

  “Jonas residence,” said a female voice on the other end of the line.

  “Afternoon,” said Farrow. “Would it be possible to have a word with Bill?”

  Roman Otis watched Farrow go around the front entrance of the carryout shop up ahead. He could see a sliver of Frank, lifting the receiver off a pay phone. He wondered what Frank was up to now.

  Watching Farrow, he sang along softly to that Manhattans single “Kiss and Say Goodbye.” This was one of those special classics that Otis did so well.

  A campus cop car slowed down as it passed the Mustang, then accelerated and took a right at the next corner.

  “‘Understand me,’” sang Otis, “‘won’t you try-yi-yi; let’s just kiss and say good bye.…’”

  Otis was on the last verse when he looked in the rearview and saw the campus cop. The car had circled the block and was slowing to a stop and double-parking behind him. Otis took his shades from his breast pocket and put them on. Without leaning forward, he reached down and touched the butt of the .45 he had slipped beneath the bucket. He pushed it back an inch or so and let himself relax.

  The cop got out of his car and walked to the driver’s side of the Mustang. He made a motion for Otis to roll down the window. Otis reached across the bucket and did it. He looked up at the cop: white boy, wearin’ his first mustache, couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or so.

  “Officer,” said Otis with a wide smile.

  “Afternoon. Something wrong?”

  “No, sir, not a thing.”

  “I noticed the car was idling without a driver.”

  “Waitin’ on my friend. Was trying to keep the heater running, cold as it is.”

  “It’s not all that cold today.”

  “Is for me. I’m up here from Florida.”

  “Where’s your friend?”

  “Makin’ a call on the corner there. He should be right along.”

  The cop shuffled his feet. He looked at the Korean place called D.J.’s on the corner and back at Otis.

  “Excuse me a minute,” said the cop. “I’ll be right back.”

  Otis saw the cop go and get into the driver’s seat of his car, the door open, one foot out planted on the street. He watched the cop lift the radio mic, speak into it as he read the plate numbers off the car.

  “C’mon, Frank,” said Otis, more annoyed than anything else. “You fuckin’ around too much now.”

  Dee Jonas handed her husband their cordless phone.

  “Jonas here.”

  “Bill?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Who is this?”

  “An old friend. I’m back in town for a few days. Thought I’d say hello.”

  “Who is this?” repeated Jonas.

  “You have a good-looking family, Bill. I’m looking at your son Chris right now, and he’s a very handsome boy. Got a lot of friends, too. He’s sweet on an Indian girl, Bill. You know that?”

  Jonas looked over his shoulder. His wife was back in the kitchen. He lowered his voice and said, “I’m going to ask you again —”

  “Chris is tall. He drives a Toyota and he carries a leather book bag.”

  “Coward.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re good at keeping your distance. You sent me a photograph. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right. I’m the man who put you in that chair.”

  “What kind of rock did you crawl out from under?” growled Jonas.

  “All kinds of rocks. Reformatories, state prisons, federal joints… I’ve been under all sorts of rocks my whole life, Bill.”

  “Keep talking. Tell me more.”

  “You killed my brother Richard, and now I’m going to have to kill your son. That’s all you need to know. Good bye, Bill.”

  “Damnit!” yelled Jonas.

  Bill Jonas heard a click on the other end of the line. Then he heard a dial tone and threw the phone onto the couch.

  Dee Jonas had come from the kitchen. She was standing by its entrance, wringing her hands on a towel.

  “What is it, Bill?” she said.

  “It’s nothing,” said Jonas. “I lost my temper at a salesman, is all. Shoulda taken my number out of the book years ago.”

  Jonas wheeled himself to the bay window. He rubbed his knuckle against his teeth and felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder. He looked down at his skinny, useless legs lying crookedly in the seat of the chair.

  “Richard,” said Jonas under his breath.

  “What?” said Dee.

  “Pack your bags. Pack bags for our sons, too. I want you all to go down to Tidewater, to your mother’s place. It’ll only be for a few days.”

  “Why, Bill?”

  “Don’t ask me why.”

  “You can’t stay here by yourself.”

  “I can get from my chair to my walker. I can get in and out of the bathroom, and I can cook. So don’t tell me I can’t.”

  Dee lowered her voice. “But the boys aren’t going to want to go.”

  “Tell them that aunt of yours wants to see them. The one been in that nursing home for ten year
s? Tell them she’s dying and she wants to say good bye.”

  “But Aunt Carla’s not dying. She’s gonna outlive us all.”

  “Tell them anything you want to, then,” said Jonas, staring out the window at the street. “Whatever you tell them, I want y’all out of here by tonight.”

  Frank Farrow racked the receiver. He walked around the corner of D.J.’s and saw the campus cop car parked behind the ’Stang. He crossed the street with his head down, staring at his feet. He heard a siren coming from somewhere behind him, and as he walked the siren grew louder.

  As he approached the Mustang, he looked briefly at the cop, sitting behind the wheel of the car, one foot out on the street. The cop was young, nothing more than a boy. There was fear on the cop’s face, and something close to panic. He couldn’t even meet Farrow’s eyes.

  The siren grew louder.

  “Goddamnit all,” muttered Farrow.

  He reached the Mach 1 and got behind the wheel.

  “Put your seat belt on, Roman.”

  Otis nodded. The metal-to-metal seat belt connection was made with a soft click. Farrow pulled the shifter back to D and hit the gas.

  The Mach 1 left rubber on the street, fishtailed on 22nd, and then straightened, clipping the door of a black Camry parked at the curb. They passed Christopher Jonas and his friends, who were walking out of the carryout on the corner and staring at the speeding car.

  “We got Johnny Law at twelve o’clock high,” said Otis. “That’s a real one, too.”

  “I see him.”

  Farrow turned sharp left on G, pumped the brakes, and then punched the gas to bring them out of the skid. The D.C. cop followed, the overhead lights spinning, the siren on full.

  “Watch it, man,” said Otis, as a female student ran across the street into their path. Then they were nearing the girl and almost on her.

  Otis said, “Frank.”

  Otis leaned over and pushed the wheel in a counterclockwise direction. The Mustang swerved around the girl. For a second Otis saw her stretched-back, gray-as-death face.

  “Where?” said Farrow.

  “Left on Twentieth,” said Otis.

  Farrow cut it hard. They sideswiped a parked Amigo before getting back on course. The cop car made the turn fifty yards behind them.