Shame the Devil (19 page)

“I’d sure like that,” said Walters, his eyes going to Karras. “Any objections?”

Karras didn’t mind, any more than he’d mind using a Ouija board for grins or having his palm read at a party. If it made the
rest of them happy, it was okay by him.

Stephanie mouthed the words “thank you,” and Karras smiled.

They joined hands, all of them, in the circle, and bowed their heads. William Jonas began to pray: “Father in heaven, thank
you for the gift of friendship we are receiving here tonight. And for our many blessings.…”

Karras closed his eyes, gripping the hands of the ones to the right and left of him. It was crazy; for a moment, he thought
he felt his son’s touch.

NICK STEFANOS SCREWED
a cigarette between his lips and dropped thirty-five cents into a pay phone. He turned up the collar of his leather. Outside
the Mobil station at 22nd and P the wind blew cold across the open lot. He dialed Elaine Clay’s home number, struck a match,
cupped it until the flame touched tobacco, and took in a deep draw of smoke.

“Elaine, it’s Nick. Bad time?”

“I’m sitting down to dinner. What’s up?”

“Working the Randy Weston case. I met with Jerry Sun today, the Chinese guy who saw the red Torino. And I talked with Randy’s
brother Ronald.”

“And?”

“Ronald told me that Erika Mitchell could alibi Randy for that night, but now she’s got a sudden loss of memory.”

“What she said was, they did go to a picture together, but she can’t remember for sure what night it was.”

“I checked the movie schedule in the morgue materials at the MLK library. The late shows at Union Station started at around
nine-thirty that night. Jerry Sun said he heard gunshots just after nine-thirty. The girl could get Randy off if she’d say
they were together at one of those shows. Why won’t she?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about her father? Supposedly he keeps her on a short leash.”

“He’s a former D.C. beat cop, and he doesn’t remember anything, either. Funny, a cop who doesn’t remember details. Right?”

“I’m going to try and interview both of them.”

“Good.”

“Ronald Weston is certain his brother didn’t kill Donnel Lawton. Weston says his brother’s no killer, that he wouldn’t own
a gun to begin with. You gonna put Ronald up on the stand?”

“You saw him. He might be a sweet kid for all I know, but he refuses to come off that way. And he’s got juvenile priors. Besides,
he only knows what his brother told him, and that won’t hold water. The prosecutor will take him apart up there. He’d just
be another ineffective character witness with nothing concrete to say.”

“Okay. Let me keep working on it.”

“Great. And Nick, thanks for hooking Dimitri up with that job. He’s talked to Marcus and he thinks it’s done him good.”

“I think so, too. I just left him, as a matter of fact.”

“You two Greek boys are bonding, huh?”

“Yeah, we just slaughtered a lamb in the alley. It’s really good when it’s fresh, you know? Hold on a second while I wipe
this blood off my chin.”

“Nick, I just wanted you to know, Marcus and I appreciate it.”

“Glad to help. Listen, I gotta bolt.”

“My family’s waiting as well. Take care, Nick.”

“You too.”

Stefanos met Alicia Weisman at a gallery on the south end of 7th Street. She was standing in front of a large piece, one of
a series of Fred Folsom paintings depicting the characters inhabiting the old Shepherd Park strip club on a typical night.
Alicia wore a black corduroy zippered shirt over black tights and utilitarian black boots. A black leather jacket was draped
over her arm.

“Hey, baby,” said Stefanos, kissing her neck. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Where you been?”

“I’ll tell you later.” He looked the painting over and chuckled. “Well, he captured it, all right.”

“You used to go to that place?”

“All the time.” Stefanos tugged at the triangle of T-shirt showing beneath Alicia’s corduroy. “Hey, I don’t want to be the
one to point this out, but —”

“I know. I wore a little white by mistake.”

They went downstairs to another gallery and took in the Jim Saah photographs on display. Stefanos studied Saah’s portrait
of three very Greek women sitting on a Kárpathos stoop. He smiled and marked the number of the photograph on a sheet he had
picked up by the door.

“Hungry?” said Stefanos.

Alicia said, “I’m starved.”

They had dinner at a restaurant without signage at 5th and H in Chinatown. Except for Stefanos and Alicia, the patrons were
all Chinese. This was the most inconspicuous restaurant on the strip and, for Stefanos’s money, the best. Stefanos ordered
shrimp dumpling– noodle soup and Alicia asked for plain roast duck over rice.

“So what do you think of the art on this one right here?” asked Alicia, pushing a CD booklet across the table.

“Looks like one of those numbered Prestige jazz jackets. An Eddie Lockjaw Davis record, something like that.”

“You’re right. How’d you
know
that?”

“My grandfather used to buy hot records from his customers down on Fourteenth. We had crates of them down in our basement
on Irving Street. He didn’t listen to jazz, but he thought I’d get something out of it. He was right.”

“Well, what do you think of this? The group’s going for that fifties bop look.”

“Are they jazz?”

“They’re more on the soul-punk side.”

“Whatever they are, I think the cover art looks hot.” Stefanos sipped his tea. “You’re doing a good job, you know it?”

“I’m having fun.” Alicia had a swig of Tsing Tao. “Feel like seeing some music tonight?”

“Sure.”

“The Black Cat’s got a good bill.”

“You comped?”

“You got it, Daddy-O.”

“Let’s check it out.”

The Black Cat was on 14th Street, spartan like the old 9:30 but without the new 9:30’s frat-boy crowd. The club had an all-ages
policy and good sight lines, helped by a couple of rows of stadium seats against the wall, so that every kid in the place,
even the short ones, could check out the band.

There was a genial guy who always stood outside the club politely asking for donations, and Stefanos gave him a buck. The
opening band, an excellent local outfit called Last Train Home, was in midset, covering Manifesto’s “Sugar,” as Stefanos and
Alicia entered the club. Stefanos went to the bar, bought a couple bottles of Bud, and brought them over to Alicia, who had
situated herself in the center of the crowd. The Brace brothers were in harmony onstage against a tight rhythm section as
Stefanos tapped Alicia’s bottle. Stefanos was glad he had stopped drinking earlier; taking a sip, it was like hitting his
first of the night and it tasted damn good.

The Silos, the night’s headliners, came out a half hour later. Walter Salas-Humara took center stage and ripped through a
set from
Heater,
his group’s latest album, as Stefanos downed two more beers. He was sweating beneath his leather by the time Alicia got close
to his ear and suggested they go.

They made love next to an open window in Alicia’s Mount Pleasant apartment. She was narrow shouldered, with small, red-nippled
breasts and full, round hips. Stefanos loved her hips. He tasted the salt of her sweat and kissed the insides of her thighs
as he slowly made his way to her sex. Burying his mouth in her, he took her there like that.

Afterward, Stefanos looked at the curtains hanging still on either side of the open window.

“Aren’t those curtains supposed to be billowing?” he said. “There’s no wind, silly.”

“’Cause I saw that in a movie once. One of those erotic thrillers on cable.”

“Come up here and kiss me.”

“Maybe I ought to brush my teeth first. As a courtesy, I mean.”

“Come here.”

Bernie Walters signaled the waitress for another beer.

“Me, too, Helga,” said Thomas Wilson as she arrived.

Walters pointed at Stephanie Maroulis. She put her hand over her glass and shook her head.

“So what’s up with your friend?” said Wilson.

“Nick?” said Dimitri Karras.

“Yeah.”

“What do you mean, what’s up with him?”

“When we were all walking over here, before we split up, that Nick character was really checkin’ out my car on the street
there.”

“You drive a Dodge, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Nick’s a Dodge freak, man. He’s got an old Mopar from the sixties that he babies.”

“Gearhead, huh?”

“I liked having him there,” said Walters, shaking a cigarette from his deck. “With another smoker in the room, I didn’t feel
like a leper and all that.”

“Well,” said Wilson, “it was a different night for us, I’ll say that much.”

They were all avoiding looking at Stephanie. She had broken down in the meeting, talking about her husband, Steve. It wasn’t
like her to do that. Her role was the Cheerful One, and it had taken them by surprise. She still had the tracks from the tears
that had fallen down her face.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then the waitress returned and served Walters and Wilson their beers.

“Thanks, Helga,” said Wilson.

“It’s Helen,” said the waitress tiredly, pointing to her name tag. “Why they go to all the trouble makin’ you dress up like
Oktoberfest gals,” said Wilson, “then go and let you use your American names?”

“I don’t know. I’ll bring it up at the next board meeting.” The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away.

“Just tryin’ to make the girl smile, is all,” explained Wilson.

“They’re probably not allowed to laugh on duty,” said Karras, “seein’ as how they’re supposed to be Germans and all that.”

Wilson laughed, reached across the round-top and gave Karras finger-skin.

Stephanie cleared her throat. “It was different tonight, Thomas, you were right. And better, I think.”

Walters pushed his Orioles cap back on his head. “That Bill Jonas is a good guy.”

“There was something about him,” said Stephanie. “It just felt easy, talking around him. Look, I’m sorry if I lost it back
there —”

“That’s all right,” said Karras, reaching for her hand, taking it and stroking it, not caring that the others were there.

Wilson looked away. Walters pretended to study his burning cigarette.

“We better get going,” said Karras.

Stephanie opened her wallet and left money on the table.

“We on this weekend, Dimitri?” said Walters. “Gonna be a little cold down there on the property, but the weather should be
clear.”

“Sure, Bernie. Saturday’s good for me.”

“We got to take two cars, buddy. It’s my vacation, and I’m staying down for the week.”

“Okay. I’ll follow you down.”

Stephanie and Karras said good bye and left the bar.

Wilson cleared his throat. “Guess I was right about those two, eh, Bern?”

“Oh, I always knew the two of them were together,” said Walters with a wink. “I was just letting you go on.”

“Whatever makes them happy,” said Wilson softly.

“The Lord’s brought them together, Thomas. I been watching the way they look at each other. They don’t know it yet, but to
me it’s plain.”

“What is?”

“You ask me, it looks like those two are falling in love.”

Nick Stefanos pulled the blankets up over his shoulder. “We gonna leave that window open all night?”

“I like to hear the city sounds,” said Alicia Weisman.

“Well, it’s warm enough under these blankets. And there’s you.”

His arm was beneath her. She shifted so that her chest was pressed against his.

“I had a good time with you tonight,” said Stefanos.

“And me with you.”

“I wasn’t my usual sloppy self, right?”

“I wouldn’t ever call you on that. You told me who you were when we hooked up. I’m not looking to be your mother. I just want
to hang out with you, Nick. I like being your friend, and I like making love to you. Let’s enjoy it and not get too far ahead
of ourselves.”

“Well, it was Dimitri Karras who said that you and me’d have a better time if I showed up sober. He dragged me out of the
bar and to that meeting.”

“Who was there?”

“The cop who was crippled at the crime scene. Family members of the victims and one of the victim’s friends. I’ve been through
that before. I had to deal with this woman whose son was murdered down by the Anacostia River a few years back. It’s one of
the reasons I cut back on picking up those kinds of jobs.”

“I can’t imagine how awful it must be for those people.”

“The woman who was married to the bartender, she kind of broke down tonight. I felt like walking out when she was telling
her story. But I stayed. It would have been disrespectful to leave, you know?”

Alicia stroked Stefanos’s hair. “You’re not going to go back there, are you? I mean, there’s nothing you can do for them,
Nick.”

“That’s right,” he said. “There’s nothing anyone can do for them now.”

Thomas Wilson drove his Dodge across town and parked it on Georgia. He entered a supper club down near Kenyon. Neighborhood
folks, a couple of guys in suits who looked like they had been there since coming off their nine-to-fives, a few workingmen
with just enough for a draft high, and a skinny, pipehead-lookin’ sucker sat at the bar. Wilson had a seat on the end, all
by himself.

He ordered a Courvoisier up with a side of Coke, and had a look around the bar.

There were some round-the-way girls in the place, but they appeared to be taken. The ones who weren’t didn’t have that look
he liked. Shit, who was he kidding? Those women hadn’t so much as turned their heads in his direction when he’d walked into
the joint.

He could smell a sweet hint of reefer coming from the bathrooms down along the supper club’s back hall. Rick James was doing
“Mary Jane” on the house system. He found this funny, but there was no one there to share the joke.

He looked at his reflection in the bar mirror. He saw a tired man with tired threads and a third-rate Arsenio Hall fade. The
eyes in his face stared back at a stone dead end.