Shame the Devil (2 page)

The waiter, who was named Vance Walters, entered the kitchen with Greene behind him. At the sight of the men and their guns,
Walters nearly turned to run, then swallowed and breathed out slowly. The moment had passed, and now it was too late. He wondered,
as he always did, what his father would have done in a situation such as this one. He raised his hands without a prompt. If
he’d just cooperate, they wouldn’t hurt him, whoever they were.

“What’s your name?” said Frank.

“Vance,” said the waiter.

“Over there against the wall with your boss,” said Frank.

Otis watched the waiter with the perfect springy haircut hurry around the prep table. One of those light-steppin’ mugs. Vance
with the tight-ass pants. Otis knew the look straight away. Marys like Vance got snatched up on the cell block right quick.

“I’ll get the bartender,” said Frank to Otis.

Frank Farrow left the kitchen. Otis pointed the shotgun at each of the three men against the wall in turn. He began to sing
“One in a Million You” under his breath. As he sang, he smiled at Mr. Carl.

Detective William Jonas cruised up Wisconsin in his unmarked and made the turn up 39th. The cold air felt good blowing against
his torso, and for a change he was fairly relaxed. It wasn’t often that he rolled on the clean, white-bread streets of upper
Northwest’s Ward 3. Most of his action was in neighborhoods like Trinidad, Pet-worth, LeDroit Park, and Columbia Heights.
But this morning he had an interview with a teenage kid who worked at the chain video store over near Wilson High. The kid
lived in Shaw, and he had grown up with a couple of young citizens charged with beating a pipehead to death outside a plywood-door
house east of 14th and Irving. Jonas hated to roust the kid at work, but the young man had been uncooperative on his home
turf. Jonas figured that the kid would talk, and talk quick, at his place of employment.

William Jonas had two sons at Wilson himself. They took the bus across town from Jonas’s house on Hamlin Street, over in Brookland.

It wouldn’t be too long before he had his boys in college and could retire his shield. The money was already put away for
their schooling. He’d been saving on an automatic-withdrawal plan since they were boys. Thank the good Lord for blue chips.
With his pension and the house damn near 75 percent paid off, he and Dee could enjoy themselves for real. He’d be in his middle
fifties by then — retired and still a relatively young man. But it was a little early to be dreaming on it. He had a few years
left to go.

As he went slowly up 39th, Jonas noticed a parked car on his right, looked almost like an old cop car, with a man behind the
wheel, sitting there with all four windows rolled down. The man was pockmarked and sweating something awful; his sunglasses
slipped down to the end of his nose as he bent forward, trying to put a match to a cigarette. Looked like his hand was shaking,
too, and… damn if he wasn’t wearing some kind of rubber gloves. As Jonas passed, the man glanced out the window and quickly
averted his eyes. In the rearview Jonas saw Virginia plates on the front of the car — a Merc, maybe. No, he could see the
familiar blue oval on the grillwork: a Ford.

Veazy Street, Warren, Windom… Now that had to be the only car he’d seen all morning with the windows down on a hotter-than-the-devil
day like today. Everyone else had their air-conditioning on full, and what car didn’t have air-conditioning these days? And
the man behind the wheel, white like everyone in this neighborhood but still
not
like them, had seemed kind of nervous. Like he didn’t belong there. Wearing those gloves, too. Twenty-five years on the force
and Bill Jonas
knew
.

He had a few minutes before his interview with the video-store kid. Maybe he’d cruise around the block, give that Ford another
pass.

Richard Farrow hotboxed his smoke while watching the black car hang a left a few blocks up 39th. Any high school kid with
an ounce of weed in his glove box would have spotted the unmarked car. And the driver, some kind of cop, had given him the
fish-eye as he passed.

The question was, Was the black cop in the black car going to come around the block and check him out again?

Richard touched the grip of the nine millimeter tucked between his legs. The way he had it, snug up against his rocks and
pressing on his blue jeans, it had felt good. But now the sensation faded. He grabbed the Beretta and tapped the barrel against
his thigh. He dragged hard on his cigarette and flicked the butt out to the street.

God, it was hot.

What the fuck was he doing here, anyway? Sure, he’d done his share of small-time boosts — car thefts, smash-and-grabs, like
that — with his older brother when they were in their teens. Back between Frank’s reform school years and his first four-year
jolt. Then Frank got sent up for another eight, and during that time Richard went from one useless job to the next, fighting
his various addictions — alcohol, crystal meth, coke, and married women — along the way. The funny thing was, when Frank got
out of the joint the last time, he was smarter, tougher, and more connected than Richard would ever be. Yeah, crime and prison
had been good to Frank. So when Frank had phoned and asked his little brother if he would be interested in a quick and easy
score that he and Otis were about to pull off, Richard had said yes. He saw it as a last chance to turn his life around. And
to be on a level playing field — to be a success, for once — with Frank.

Richard looked in the rearview. The black car had circled and was coming up behind him on 39th.

Richard turned the key in the ignition. A natural reaction, that’s all. He realized Frank had told him not to, but…
fuck
it, it wouldn’t do any good to get himself down about it now. He’d done it.

The cop car was slowing down. It was crawling.

“Come on, Frank,” said Richard. He heard the high pitch of his own voice and was ashamed.

Richard stared straight ahead as the cop car accelerated and passed. Richard exhaled, removed his glasses, wiped at the sweat
that stung his eyes.

The cop car stopped at the next corner, pulled over, and idled beside a fire hydrant.

Richard steadied the Beretta, pulled back on the receiver, eased a round into the chamber. What was he doing? What was he
going to do now, shoot a cop? This was crazy. He’d never shot anything, not even an animal in the woods. Frank had told him
to carry the gun.
Frank
had made him bring the gun.

Richard Farrow looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He saw a pale, wet mask of fear.

Frank Farrow pressed the flat of his palm against the bartender’s shoulder. He pushed him firmly through the open door into
the kitchen. The bartender, heavy and broad of back with a friendly pie-plate face, stared at the three men against the wall.
A long-haired, sharply dressed black guy was holding a shotgun and singing to himself on the other side of the prep table.
He stopped singing as Frank entered the room.

Frank said to the bartender, “What’s your name?”

“Steve Maroulis.”

“All right, Steve. You’re going to be smart, right?”

Maroulis nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Is there any rope here?”

Maroulis looked at the pizza chef, tried to make a casual gesture that played clumsy. “I don’t know.”

“
Who
knows?” said Frank.

“Got some clothesline rope over in that utility closet,” said Charles Greene. “That there’s the onlyest rope we got.”

“Get it, Steve,” said Frank.

“Gonna have to tie you gentlemen up,” said Otis. “Give us time to, uh,
effect
our getaway.”

Maroulis went to the closet on the opposite wall and opened its hinged gate.

Mr. Carl watched the black guy with the funny hair. The joker was holding the shotgun loosely, barrel-down against his thigh.
How long would it take to raise a sawed-off and pull the trigger? Two seconds? He could draw the .32 quicker than that. He
did have that element of surprise. Hell, not even his own employees knew he carried a piece. He could wait until the gray-haired
one got distracted. Shoot the spade first, the gray-haired sonofabitch next. Then, after it was over, find the one who tipped
these two to the pickup.

Mr. Carl hitched up his slacks, kept his hands on his belt line.

Go ahead, Maroulis,
Mr. Carl thought.
Just keep ratfucking through that closet.

Frank turned around. “How’s it coming, Steve?”

“I don’t see the rope.”

“It’s on the bottom shelf, man,” offered Greene.

Vance Walters felt his knees weaken. He willed himself to stand straight.

Now,
thought Mr. Carl.

I’ll do it now, while gray-hair’s got his back turned. These two are nothing. Lettuce-pickers. I’ll shoot the spade first
and then the gray-haired bastard. Someone will pin a fucking medal on me —

“Let’s go, Steve,” said Frank. He looked up at the wall: A stainless steel paper-towel dispenser hung there, shiny and clean.
He could see the reflection of the men behind him in its surface.

Otis glanced at his wristwatch, turned his head to the side. “C’mon with that rope!”

Carl Lewin’s hand inched inside his jacket.

Now. Nigger, you are going to die now.

In the towel dispenser’s reflection Frank Farrow watched Mr. Carl reach into his jacket. He saw Mr. Carl’s hand on the grip
of a gun.

Frank spun around and leveled his gun at Mr. Carl. Their eyes met and locked. Mr. Carl’s finger jerked in spasm. Frank squeezed
the trigger of the .38 three times.

Mr. Carl took two rounds in the chest. The third blew tiling off the wall behind him. Mr. Carl winced, spit the cigar and
a spray of blood onto the prep table. His hands flopped comically at the wrists as he dropped to the floor.

Frank went to Mr. Carl. He stood over him and kicked him in the stomach. He stepped back and shot him again. The corpse jumped
and came to rest.

A sliver of tile had cut into Vance Walters’s cheek. His hand flew to the spot as tears welled in his eyes. But he didn’t
let the tears go. He swore to himself then that he wouldn’t cry.

Charles Greene was silent, stunned, openmouthed. Steve Maroulis stood still, the clothesline slack in his shaking hands.

A look passed between Frank and Otis. Otis took the clothesline from Maroulis’s hand and tossed it over the prep table to
Charles Greene.

“Okay, bartender,” said Otis. “You and the waiter: Lie down on your bellies.”

“You,” said Frank, pointing the .38 at Greene. “Tie them up. Feet to hands.”

Detective William Jonas thought he heard something. Muffled, like. Couldn’t be gunshots, not in this neighborhood. Kids lighting
off a string of firecrackers or ladyfingers, most likely — it
was
July. Or a car or Metrobus backfiring on Wisconsin. Hard to tell with the air blower on full and the crackle coming from
the mic.

He had called in the plate numbers of the Ford, and now he was waiting to see if the car was on the hot sheet. He’d have word
on that momentarily, and then he’d be gone. He didn’t know why he was wasting his time messing with this one, anyway. He was
Homicide, not a beat cop. He had done his beat time, and he had worked hard to get his shield. Still, there was definitely
something wrong about that sweaty white man wearing those gloves back in the white car.

Jonas got the negative response. He ordered in a cruiser anyway to check out the suspicious vehicle and its driver, and thanked
the dispatcher. He replaced the mic in its cradle and pulled away from the curb.

He drove up toward Nebraska Avenue, took Albemarle Street over to Wisconsin, and parked his car in front of the big video
store. He looked at his watch: a little early to take the kid off his shift. He had, what, ten, fifteen minutes to kill? Maybe
he’d go on back and see what was up with that guy on 39th. By now the uniforms would have arrived. By
now
they’d be talking to the guy, checking him out. He was awful curious to hear what the guy had to say.

William Jonas pulled out of his spot and swung his vehicle around on the main drag. He headed south on Wisconsin.

“Put your heads down,” said Frank to the three men lying bound on the floor behind the prep table. The pizza chef, Greene,
had tied Maroulis and Walters. Otis had tied Greene. Frank Farrow had dragged Mr. Carl’s body next to a drain set in the center
of the room. His blood ran slowly down a slight grade in the floor and dripped through the grates of the drain.

Greene and Walters had lowered their heads. Maroulis had kept his head up; the carotid artery swelled in his neck.

“Please,” said Maroulis. “We haven’t seen anything. None of us will remember you. I’m speaking for all of us —”

“Put your forehead on the tiles.”

“Please.” Maroulis’s eyes were pleading, wild and red. He looked at Frank. “Don’t make me put my head down. Please.”

“Do what I say and you won’t get hurt.”

Maroulis put his head down slowly. In a low voice he began to pray:
“Pateri mon…”

Otis listened to the bartender, chanting some kind of bullshit in a tongue he had never heard. Well, the bartender was the
smart one of the bunch. He knew his bossman had gone and done them all by making that play.

Frank looked at Otis. Frank holstered the .38 and drew the .22 Woodsman with his right hand. He stepped quickly to Maroulis
and shot him in the back of the head.

Greene began to scream. Frank waved gun smoke out of his face as he walked over to Vance Walters.

Walters felt the cool touch of metal behind his ear. Frank shielded his face from the blow-back and put his finger to the
trigger.

“Dad,” said Walters. He yelled, “Daddy!”

His last moment felt like fire and confusion.

“Naw, man,” said Greene, tears rolling one after the other down his cheeks. “Not me, man, I hooked you up!” He sobbed and
begged and screamed as he writhed violently against the rope. A line of saliva dripped from his mouth to the floor.