Shame the Devil (11 page)

“Johnson’s cool. But I think I’ll pass on the Wilson Boulevard crawl.”

“Afraid to go into Virginia?”

“Yes.”

Stefanos had another round while Alicia nursed her beer. The booze was working, and he liked the feel of her next to him.
He didn’t want her to go. But Alicia and a partner ran a small record label in town, and much of her work was done at night.

“I gotta run,” she said.

“Meet me at my place later?”

“Want me to?”

“Damn straight.”

She kissed him and said, “Bye.”

He watched her go toward the door. She had a spring in her step, and strangers were smiling at her as she passed. Stefanos
felt lucky as hell.

Stefanos downed his third shot and took his beer bottle with him to the pay phone in the back of the house. Robert Plant was
coming back in after the glorious Page solo on “Ten Years Gone,” and Stefanos sang along. Some college guys playing a drinking
game at a table smirked at him — an old-school guy with a load on, singing a seventies number — as he passed. He found the
note Elaine Clay had handed him, dropped thirty cents in the slot, and punched some numbers into the grid.

He got an answering machine that simply said, “Leave a message.”

After the tone Stefanos said, “Hey, Dimitri. Dimitri Karras. I hope I’ve got the right number. This is Nick Stefanos. I don’t
know if you remember me. Your father used to work for my
papou
down on Fourteenth Street back in the forties. You and me met a couple of times. My
papou
had you talk to me once when he thought I was getting off the track. Back in, like, seventy-six. Like I said, you might not
remember. Anyway, I was talking to Elaine Clay today, and she said you might be interested in some part-time work. Well, it
happens we’ve got an opening down at this little bar I work in, down in Southeast? Place called the Spot. On Eighth Street,
about a block from the marine barracks. I was thinkin’, I’m working a shift tomorrow, why don’t you stop by after lunch and
we could talk. I’ll show you around, introduce you to the crew, like that.… If you’re interested, I mean. If not, no sweat.
I mean, it’s up to you. Well, here’s my phone number, too, if you want to talk…”

Stefanos left his number and hung up the phone.

“Shit,” he said, realizing then that he was half lit, wondering what kind of cockeyed message he had just left on the machine.

He went back to the stick and settled his tab. He bought a go-beer from the tender, slipped the bottle in the inside pocket
of his leather, and left the bar.

Stefanos ignitioned his car and turned on the radio while he looked in the ashtray for the tail end of a joint he had placed
there a few nights back. There was a news brief on the radio: A local middleweight contender who had been in and out of trouble
with the law over the years had been gunned down in the lobby of the cancer institute of the Washington Hospital Center, where
he had been receiving treatment for a malignant tumor. The assassin had stood over him and emptied his gun into him after
he had fallen. Five bystanders were injured by wild shots. The boxer was dead.

Stefanos had seen Simon Brown fight the boxer at the Pikesville Armory in Baltimore County when the boxer was coming up through
the ranks. The boxer had taken himself out in the fifth round with an alleged broken hand. Even with that loss, the middleweight
had been talked about then as a fighter with a future.

“A murder in a hospital, where people be goin’ to get well,” said the announcer. “Look, I’ll say it again for y’all who haven’t
been listening. Black-on-black violence is wrong. We are killing our own people. This madness has got to stop. Don’t smoke
the brothers. Peace.”

Stefanos found the joint, fired it up. He took in what was left of it and dropped the roach out the window. He opened his
beer, took a swig, and placed the bottle between his legs. He pushed a Steve Wynn into the tape deck and pulled out of his
spot.

Stefanos drove east on U, cut up 15th to Irving, and took that east, passing the hospital where the boxer had been killed.
He liked to drive the city at night when he had a buzz, and he had one now. He found himself on North Capitol, and he took
it north for a couple of miles, cutting a left onto Kennedy Street before the New Hampshire Avenue turnoff.

He knew all along he’d come here tonight. He turned the volume down on the deck and cruised slowly down the dark street.

He passed boxy apartment buildings, barber shops, braid parlors, hair and nail salons, a variety store, a Laundromat, a CVS
chain pharmacy, two bars, a barbecue joint, and several houses of worship, including a storefront
iglesia
and the Faith Mission Temple, whose parking lot was fenced and topped by concertina wire. He passed the Brightwood Market,
which seemed to be the center of the neighborhood; several young and not-so-young men stood outside, their shoulders hunched,
their hands deep in their parkas and Starter coats. A couple of men were boxing playfully, feinting and dodging under a dim
street lamp.

One of the men outside the market yelled something at Stefanos as he drove by. Stefanos went along.

He pulled over past the 1st Street intersection, in front of the Hunan Delite, a place that advertised “Fried Chicken, Fried
Fish, Chinese, Steak and Cheese.” The carryout was the last of several businesses on that particular hundred-block of Kennedy.
A Lexus with custom wheels and spoiler sat parked in the six-space side lot.

Through the plate glass window Stefanos could see a kind of lobby and a wall-to-wall Plexiglas shield that separated, and
protected, the employees from the clientele. A revolving Plexiglas tray, like a commercial lazy Susan, had been screwed into
the middle of the shield. The tray took money in and was large enough to put food orders out. There was a printed menu posted
above the shield that was normally lit but had been turned off. A young Asian guy, clean-cut in a turtleneck and slacks, swept
the lobby behind a locked front door.

In his rearview, Stefanos saw a couple of the men from outside the Brightwood Market walking down the sidewalk toward his
car.

Stefanos no longer worked at night. He wouldn’t even think of getting out of his car here after dark. It wasn’t paranoia.
It was real.

He drove west.

Nick Stefanos parked on Colorado at 14th and walked around the corner to Slim’s, a small jazz club run by Ethiopians. Live
music hit him as he went through the door into the nearly packed house. He wove around tables of middle-class, middle-aged
blacks and one interracial couple. There was one empty deuce, and he took it, his back to the wall. He shook out a cigarette
from his deck of Camels and put fire to tobacco. He dragged deeply as the waitress set a shot of Beam Black and a cold bottle
of beer down in front of him.

“Thanks, Cissy.”

She was tall and lovely, with clear reddish-brown skin. “You want to run a tab tonight, Nick?”

“I better.”

Applause filled the room. The leader of the quartet, Marlon Jordon, took a small bow, his trumpet in both hands. The band
had a hot rhythm section, and Jordon could blow. They launched into “Two Bass Hit” as Stefanos downed his shot. Heads were
bobbing. Some of the patrons were keeping time with their feet, their palms slapping at the tabletops. Stefanos dragged on
his cigarette and closed his eyes.

Beautiful. When it’s this good it’s fucking beautiful. I’ll never stop drinking. It just feels too fucking good.

He was drunk by the time he made it home. It was only a couple of blocks from Slim’s, but he had driven it with a hand over
one eye.

He walked around the back of the house to his apartment. Inside the door, on a small cherry-wood table, he saw the day’s mail.
Atop the stack sat an unstamped manila envelope, labeled with his name and address. He opened the envelope and examined its
contents: the folder on the Randy Weston case. Elaine Clay had messengered it over earlier in the day.

Stefanos dropped the folder on the table and went into his bedroom. He could see Alicia’s form beneath the blankets of the
bed.

“Hey,” said Stefanos.

“Hi,” she said.

He got out of his shirt, removed his wristwatch, and dropped it shy of the dresser top. He bent down, picked up the watch,
and put it in place. He unzipped his jeans and stumbled getting out of them.

“You all right?” said Alicia.

“Yeah. I, uh, had a few. I didn’t realize…”

“Come to bed. Come on.”

He got under the sheets. She was naked and warm. He turned on his side, and she pressed herself against him, kissing him behind
his ear. He could feel her sex and her hard nipples against his back.

“Alicia?”

“Ssh.”

She rubbed his back, and after a while he fell to sleep.

LEE TOOMEY LIVED
on eight acres of woodland ten miles south of Edwardtown, on Old Church Road off the interstate. The old church, hugged by
a stand of oak, had been gutted and rebuilt and now carried a new facade of white aluminum siding. Farrow passed the New Rock
Church and a half mile later made the turnoff onto Toomey’s gravel drive.

Toomey’s utility truck, boldly lettered with the company name of Toomey Electric, was parked before his house alongside Toomey’s
black El Camino. Farrow parked the SHO on the other side of the truck, walked around a bicycle carelessly dropped in the yard,
and knocked on the front door of Toomey’s brick rambler.

Viola, Toomey’s wife, answered the door. She had mousy brown hair, a nothing chest, a flat ass, and a buckshot of acne on
her chin. Farrow didn’t know how Toomey could stand to fuck her. Viola carried Ashley — a white-trash name for a kid if Farrow
had ever heard one — their two-year-old daughter, in her arms.

“Hi… Larry.”

“Viola. Lee asked me to come on out.”

“He’s back in the den.”

She stepped aside, bumping her back on the wall. Viola was afraid of Farrow, and that was good.

Farrow went through a hall to an open kitchen, which led to a den with sliding glass doors giving to a view of thick, gnarled
woods. Toomey, short gone dumpy with long hair and a full, red-tinged beard, sat in a recliner, staring through the glass.
His chubby, featureless son, Martin, sat in front of the television set, his hand furiously manipulating a joystick as two
armor-clad men fought onscreen.

Toomey had been a bad motherfucker up at Lewisburg when Farrow first met him, one of the Aryan Brotherhood who took shit from
no one. He was the enemy of Roman Otis then, as well as Manuel and Jaime and T. W., but since he had found Jesus, his racial
outlook, and general demeanor, had changed. He had not forgotten the con’s code, though, and when Farrow had first called,
he reluctantly told him to come down to the Eastern Shore, where he would introduce Farrow to a straight job and, it was implied,
put him on the path to righteousness.

Toomey knew Farrow had been coming off some sort of heist. It was only later, when Farrow told him, that he learned about
the extreme brand of heat that Farrow and the others had drawn. Farrow wasn’t much worried that Toomey would rat him out;
there was the code, and the penalty for breaking it would always be in the back of Toomey’s mind. Toomey had a family now.
Surely Toomey understood.

Jesus was the wild card. Religion was an irrational concept and it bred irrational acts. Toomey had been trying to get Farrow
to join the New Rock Church for months now, and Farrow suspected that this was the reason Toomey had summoned him, once again,
today. Toomey had gone all the way over for that full-of-shit new Reverend Bob, who had taken over the reins of the church
one year back.

“Lee,” said Farrow.

Toomey turned his head. “Larry.”

Farrow stood over him, watched Toomey’s fingers drum the arm of the recliner. “You wanted to see me?”

Toomey looked at his son. “Martin, why don’t you go on out and ride your bike some, give Larry and me a little privacy.”

Martin’s eyes did not move from the television screen. “Chain slipped on my bike, Dad. Can’t ride it.”

“Just give us a few minutes here, son.”

“I’m in the middle of my game.”

Farrow went to the electronic box that sat atop the set and ripped the wires out of its back. Martin stood up, his hands wiggling
at his side, and looked at his father.

“Go on, Martin,” said Toomey.

Martin left the room. Farrow had a seat on the couch across from Toomey.

Toomey sighed and forced a smile. “Thanks for coming out, Larry.”

“You can quit all that Larry bullshit, Lee. Call me by my given name. It’s just you and me.”

“Okay.”

“What do you want?”

Toomey clapped his hands together. “Well, the Reverend Bob would like to see you. He’s been asking after you for some time.”

Farrow reached inside his jacket for a cigarette, lit it, shook out the match, tossed the spent match on a glass table set
before the couch. The match made a yellow-black mark on the glass.

“What’s he want with me?”

“Wants to bring you into the flock, Frank.”

“He’s a man of the cloth. That means he wants something.” Farrow dragged on his cigarette. “What’s he
want?
”

Toomey looked away. “He knows.”

Farrow flicked ash to the carpet. “Knows what?”

“He’s a smart man, Frank. Got all sorts of degrees. He worked at Rikers for a while when he was younger, as some sort of counselor.
He picked me out of the crowd the first week he came to town.”

“You telling me he’s blackmailing you?”

“
No,
sir. I donate my labor to the church because I want to. I rewired that entire structure, and I’m proud to say it didn’t cost
the church a penny. I’d do more if I could.”

“That’s nice. But how did he connect you to me?”

“He’s seen us together this past year, once or twice in town. Seen you goin’ in and out of the liquor store, too, the one
on the interstate stocks those fancy wines?”

“So?”

“Like I say, he picked me out as an ex-con. I figure he picked you out, too.”