Shame the Devil (29 page)

“What’s wrong?” said Christopher, dropping his day pack by the door.

“You all right, son?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Come here.”

Christopher went up the foyer steps to the living room and hugged his father. It was awkward, bending down like that, but
he didn’t break away. His father held him tight and didn’t seem to want to let go. He finally did release him and Christopher
stood.

“Everything okay, Dad?”

“Yes.” William Jonas wiped tears from his face. “Go on back to your mother’s bedroom, now. Your brother’s back there with
her. She wants to talk to the both of you, hear?”

“Sure you don’t want me to stay with you for a while?”

“Go on, boy. Do as I say.”

Jonas watched his son, tall as a weed, disappear into the hall. He turned the chair and wheeled himself to the couch, where
he found the phone and dialed the police. He considered the man’s threats as he listened to the phone ring on the other end.
He cut the connection before the call was answered and tossed the phone back on the couch.

THOMAS WILSON TOOK
Route 4 east of the Beltway, through the old town of Upper Marlboro and onto a long asphalt road that dipped down and ended
at a small industrial park set back along a creek that drained into the Patuxant River. He drove his Intrepid past squat,
one-story garages and storage facilities, and then past a large green Dumpster, turning into a very narrow alley set between
two sets of warehouses. The alley ran for a hundred yards and opened to a deep parking area and another set of warehouses
that bordered the wooded area fronting the creek. Wilson parked beside his uncle Lindo’s flat-bed, wood-railed truck. He used
his key and entered an unmarked warehouse set in the middle of the strip.

Lindo was heavy in the middle and wore red suspenders over a navy blue shirt. He had a neat gray mustache and kept his gray
hair closely trimmed. Lindo looked up from the paperwork he was doing at his particleboard desk as Wilson entered. The room
was bright with dozens of fluorescent lights mounted in its drop ceiling.

“Been waitin’ on you,” said Lindo. “You asked for two hours today, and I agreed. But what you took was more like three.”

“I apologize, Uncle L. Somethin’ came up.”

“Well, we best get goin’ before we get behind. Got to make the park run before we do our run in the District.”

Lindo got free rent in the warehouse in exchange for once-a-week hauls for the industrial park’s tenants. Wilson didn’t know
for sure why his uncle needed the warehouse — three thousand square feet of space, housing a bathroom and an old, beat-up
desk — but he suspected that having it made Lindo feel like a businessman rather than just the junkman that he was.

“The tenants been complainin’?”

Lindo reached behind him and lowered the volume on his box. Lindo liked that old-time, street corner–harmony jive from when
he was comin’ up in the fifties and early sixties.

“Naw, the tenants are all right. That fellow owns that carpet warehouse, down past the alleyway? He came over earlier, asked
when we was gonna haul those remnants of his. But I expect he was havin’ a slow day and really only came up here for some
company. He had a look at all this empty space and told me we ought to hold a card game here on Friday nights. Said we’d never
get caught, as nary a soul comes into this industrial park weekend nights. Said we could do it right, too. Have a bar, music,
a couple of good-lookin’ women to dress it all up. A real after-hours thing. I didn’t know if he was serious or not, so I
had to tell him that I gave up gambling, liquor, and women over twenty years ago.”

“You did?” said Wilson.

“Well, I gave up gambling, anyway.”

“Excuse me, Uncle L.,” said Wilson. “I better change into my work clothes so we can get it on.”

Wilson walked back to the bathroom, where his coveralls were hung behind the door.

He chuckled under his breath, thinking of that fool rug man. Imagine, a high-stakes, after-hours card game, back in this industrial
park, on a dead-ass Friday night. And then he thought, maybe it wasn’t so foolish after all.

You planned it right, it could work.

Dimitri Karras sat the bar of the Spot, eating Darnell’s special, a tomato-based cod stew with onions, garlic, oregano, and
potatoes. Anna Wang sat beside him, smoking one of Mai’s cigarettes. Mai stood behind the bar, her arms crossed, a smoke dangling
between her chubby fingers.

“The special didn’t go so well today,” said Anna.

“It should have,” said Karras, scooping up the juices with a heel of French bread.

“A little too esoteric for this place,” said Anna, loud enough for Happy, seated two stools to her left, to hear. But Happy
just brought his cigarette slowly to his lips and gave it a loving drag.

“The man can cook,” said Karras. “He needs the right vehicle, is what it is.”

Maria Juarez came from the kitchen, went behind the bar, grabbed a can of pineapple juice from the shelf, and shook the can.
A welt had risen on her cheek, and her eyes were red from crying. She managed to smile at the group before returning to the
kitchen.

“Fucking bastard,” said Anna.

Karras saw James Posten give Maria a hug at the entrance to the kitchen, and then James came out and headed for the basement
steps. He stopped to say a few words to Ramon, who cradled a full bus tray. Ramon set the bus tray down and followed James
down to the basement.

“Where’s Nick today?” said Karras.

“He gave me his shift again,” said Mai. “Must be busy with one of those cases. I like when he’s busy. I need the work.”

“Yeah, but no time for sergeants,” said Anna.

“Andy Griffith,” said Karras.

“Huh?”

“You’re too young.”

“I have plenty of time for my Sergeant DeLaughter,” said Mai coyly. “You have to make the time, and honey, the night time
is the right time.” She wiggled her eyebrows at Anna.

A drunk on the end of the bar began to sing loudly to the song coming from the house stereo.

“‘Gypsies, tramps, and thieves,’” sang the drunk, “‘we’d hear it from the people of the town, they’d call us…’”

Karras winced.

Mai laughed and said, “What, Dimitri? You don’t like my music?”

“Put it this way,” said Karras. “If I was Phil and I walked in right now, I’d have to let you go.”

“Just for playing this song?”

“If there was any justice,” said Karras, “it would be a firing offense.”

Nick Stefanos picked up the developed photographs he had taken of Erika Mitchell and her boyfriend and drove south on Blair
Road. Night had fallen, and the streets were slick with a brief shower of cold rain.

Stefanos pulled into the Blair Liquors lot and went to the outdoor pay phone. He phoned Ronald Weston, Randy Weston’s brother.
He described Erika Mitchell’s new boyfriend to Weston, asked him a question, and got a quick response.

“One more thing,” said Stefanos. “Did Erika have a key to your brother’s crib?”

“Sure, man. She was hangin’ at that joint, goin’ in and out all the time while he was workin.’”

Stefanos thanked Weston and next dialed Jerry Sun at Hunan Delite. He asked him a question and got another quick response.
Stefanos thanked Sun, cut the line, and dropped another set of coins in the slot.

“Elaine,” said Stefanos. “Glad I caught you in. I’m running out of change here.”

“You know I never get out of here before seven or eight. What’s up?”

“I’m close to breaking the Weston case.”

“Talk about it, Nick.”

“Got a question for you first. You run those plate numbers I gave you the other day?”

“I have it right here.”

Elaine read the name of the ice green Acura’s owner to Stefanos. He wasn’t happy, but there was the satisfaction of having
done a job and done it well.

“You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“Tomorrow. I’m going to let you buy me lunch. Say, one o’clock? I’ll meet you at Scholl’s.”

“I’ll be there. Look, Nick, have everything ready for me then. No more secrets, okay? The trial starts in a couple of days.”

“Right. See you at Scholl’s.”

Stefanos got back in his car. He swung the Dodge out of the lot, went a couple of blocks, turned off Blair onto Rittenhouse,
and parked halfway down the street.

He pulled a full-size black Maglite from his glove box and stepped out of the car. He was breaking his own rule about working
outside at night. This wasn’t necessary; he was nearly sure he had the answers now. He told himself this as he walked down
the sidewalk toward Sean Forjay’s house.

The green Acura was not in the driveway. There was a light on in the house, but the light meant nothing. Stefanos looked around
quickly and stepped past the empty gravel driveway to the locked-down garage. Along the top of the garage doors was a series
of small rectangular windows. Stefanos got a log from a nearby stack of wood and set the log on its end. He balanced himself
atop the log, pushed the rubber button on the shaft of the metal flashlight, and engaged the bulb. He pointed the light through
one of the rectangular windows. He knew what he’d find.

The red Torino was parked in the garage.

Stefanos was grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground.

He rolled and came up standing, the flashlight still in his hand. He had landed wrong on his neck, and for a moment he fought
dizziness. He squinted to make out the young man standing before him in a crouch. It was the low-slung young man he had bumped
into, the one with the stoved-in nose.

“Hold up a minute, man,” said Stefanos.

The young man smiled. He charged Stefanos, his head down. Stefanos swung the Maglite up, connecting it to the young man’s
jaw. He heard a crack and breaking glass, saw the young man leave his feet, his eyes fluttering up in the last flash of light.

Stefanos turned and ran, the head of the Maglite gone, its cracked shaft still in his grip. His feet grazed the sidewalk as
he booked. He thought of the days he had run from the cops as a child and beaten them, thought of the first time he had won
a fight, and he laughed.

He reached his car. He was still laughing as he turned onto Blair Road and gave the Dodge gas.

Nick Stefanos poured three fingers of Grand-Dad into a rocks glass and took it and a cold beer out to his living room, where
he had lit a fire. He stood before the fireplace, listening to a Circus Lupus LP called
Super Genius
. The cut was “Breaking Point”; the rhythm section kicked, and the guitars made it rock. Stefanos drank deeply of the bourbon
and set the glass on the mantel. He looked down at his fingers playing air guitar below his waist and he smiled.

Alicia Weisman arrived a little while later. He kissed her on the lips as she removed her coat. She went to walk away, and
he drew her back to him and kissed her again.

“What’s up with you?” she said, not unhappily.

“Nothing. Can we just stay in tonight?”

“Damn straight. Let me get a drink.”

“Bring another beer for me, too. Okay?”

Stefanos built the fire up and got down to his T-shirt. Alicia played
Soda Pop * Rip Off
, by Slant 6, and Stefanos played
13-Point Program to Destroy America
, by Nation of Ulysses. He called it “the greatest punk-rock record of all time.”

She laughed at his hyperbole as she looked into his unsteady eyes. “You’re not gonna get too drunk tonight, are you, Nick?”

“Not if you don’t let me.”

She pulled her black shirt over her head and tossed it aside.

“That’s a start,” said Stefanos. He kissed her, running his hand down her bare arm. “Your skin is soft. You smell good, too.
I ever tell you that?” He smiled.

“Why so happy?” she said.

“I can’t explain it. Adrenalin. I had a good day today. What happened today wouldn’t be good to someone else, but it was for
me. And now there’s you.”

They embraced. The room was warm, and they stripped naked. Stefanos put a Stan Getz on the platter. He came back and held
her, and they joked and talked. They made it on the couch and they woke in the morning in each other’s arms.

NICK STEFANOS HANDED
a stack of photographs to Terrence Mitchell. Stefanos sat in the morning light that streamed through the front window of
Mitchell’s house and looked at the passing traffic out on Chillum Road. He looked at a squirrel running up the trunk of a
dogwood tree. He didn’t want to look at Mitchell.

When Mitchell was done he straightened the stack as he would a deck of cards, straightened it again as he struggled with what
he had just seen. His shoulders sagged, and he leaned back into the couch.

“Who is that with Erika?” asked Mitchell.

“A drug dealer by the name of Sean Forjay,” said Stefanos. “Your daughter’s seeing him regularly.”

Mitchell looked away. “Are they tight?”

“After you drop her off at Fort Totten, he picks her up at the P. G. Plaza station every morning and returns her there early
in the evening.”

“So Erika has no job.”

“I don’t know that, Mr. Mitchell.”

“But she
has
been lying to me.”

“I would say so, yes.”

“This world,” muttered Mitchell. He stood, went to the window, and stared out into his front yard, the fence that surrounded
it, its barbed-wire cap. With his back to Stefanos he said, “You can’t stop it from reaching you. You can try, but it doesn’t
work.”

“Mr. Mitchell —”

“Isn’t that right.”

“I suppose it is.”

Mitchell touched his hand to the glass. “I know you think I’m some kind of stiff. But there was a time… Let me tell you, I
knew how to have fun. The house parties we’d have in the basements, with those blue lights, dancing with the young ladies
to the Motown sound. The concerts at the Howard, back in the early sixties? You could check out six bands for a buck-fifty,
man. Hell, I saw James Brown and the Flames at the Howard when J. B. was the boss for real. Yeah, I knew how to have fun.
And the city was alive.