Shame the Devil (30 page)

“But the city changed. And then my wife left me, and it was just Erika and me. So I moved us out here… to this. A brown patch
of grass and a pile of bricks under the power lines. I wanted to protect her, see? But I couldn’t protect her, Stefanos. You
can’t stop it from reaching you. No, you can’t.”

“This is the world we’ve got,” said Stefanos.

Mitchell continued to stare through the window for another minute and then he stood straight. “Go ahead and give me the rest
of it. I know there’s more.”

“Okay. Here’s what I think. Forjay is the top dog down around First and Kennedy. Randy Weston and Donnel Lawton were small-change
dealers compared to him, but he still wanted them out. He also wanted Erika, who was tight with Weston, all to himself. He
figured out a way to get everything he wanted at once.”

“What puts Forjay at the crime scene?”

“A tricked-out red Torino was spotted leaving the crime scene just after gunshots were heard around the time of death. I found
that Torino last night, parked in Forjay’s garage.”

“So Forjay framed up Weston.”

“Yeah. He got ahold of the key to Weston’s apartment. It would have been easy for him to plant the gun. An anonymous call
tipped the police to the whereabouts of the murder weapon. They made the arrest.”

Mitchell nodded slowly as he put it together. Stefanos didn’t feel the need to go the rest of the way: that it was Erika who
had the key to Weston’s crib. That Erika, most likely, had made the anonymous call.

Mitchell said, “What’s going to happen to my little girl?”

“I don’t know,” said Stefanos. “But I still need you to alibi Randy Weston.”

Mitchell turned, his eyes rimmed red. “Randy Weston could not have killed Donnel Lawton. He was here in this living room when
that boy was killed.”

“You’ll testify to that?”

“Yes.” Mitchell looked down at Stefanos. “What you said to me the other day, about me bein’ no better than those criminals
out there… You were wrong.”

“I know it. The truth is, I knew it then.”

“You try to keep Erika out of this,” said Mitchell.

“I’m going to meet with Weston’s defense counsel this afternoon.” Stefanos stood and shook Mitchell’s hand. “I’ll do the best
I can.”

“You’re a cheap date,” said Elaine Clay, watching Stefanos chew his food.

“Look at this,” he said, excitedly pointing the knife at his plate. “Chopped steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, tossed salad,
and biscuits. The whole thing was, what, four and change?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How’s yours?”

“A little bland, to tell you the truth.”

“The food is good, but you have to spice it up yourself. They don’t salt it on account of all the potential heart attacks
in this place. They keep the A-1 and soy sauce behind the register. You have to ask for it when you pass through.”

“You’re the Scholl’s expert, huh?”

“I’ve been coming here my whole life. Well, not
here
. My grandfather used to take me to the old Scholl’s at Vermont and K.”

Stefanos looked around the cafeteria, filled with old folks, working stiffs, and bus tourists, and a diligent multiethnic
staff. Religious sayings and Christian icons hung on the walls. He nodded to an ancient geezer with a flowing gray beard,
reading a newspaper with the aid of a magnifying glass.

“See that guy? He eats here the same time every day.”

“That’s great, Nick. Can we get back to the case?”

“You’re just upset because there’s no lawyers in this place.” “Yeah, I’m really feeling naked around all these common folk.”
Elaine had a bite of chicken à la king and laid down her fork. “So Terrence Mitchell is definitely going to testify.”

“That’s right. You going to get Sean Forjay charged with the murder?”

“It’s not my job to get anybody charged with murder, you know that. I’ll feed the information you dug up to the D.A.’s office
as a courtesy. Other than that, when Weston gets acquitted, I’m out.”

“The cops should have nailed this one to begin with.”

“They made what they thought was an easy and clean arrest. There’s too many unsolved homicides out there for them to overcomplicate
the ones that fall into their laps solved.”

Stefanos swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Sean Forjay’s gonna walk, isn’t he?”

“The car proves nothing. The murder weapon had no prints. There
are
no witnesses. From where I sit, I don’t think they even have enough to charge him.”

“Unless they put Erika Mitchell on the stand.”

“They’re not going to know a thing about Erika Mitchell. I need Terrence Mitchell’s testimony. If he gets angry or fearful
for his daughter and decides not to testify, Randy Weston goes to prison. I’m not going to jeopardize Weston’s acquittal for
some vague concept of justice.”

“What’s justice got to do with any of this?”

“Nothing. You need to get past all that. If you want justice —”

“I know, I know.” Stefanos pushed his empty plate to the side and sat back in his chair. “Anyway, it’s a job.”

“You did a
good
job, Nick. Randy Weston is not a hard kid. You know what would have happened to him in prison? What he would have become?
You saved his life.”

“I hear you. Thanks.”

“I owe you for this one.”

“There is something you can do.”

He asked Elaine to run a background check on Manuel Ruiz and Jaime Gutierrez. He gave her the address of their garage. The
lease records would have their home addresses. Knowing this would prevent Elaine from confusing them with anyone else.

“Here’s one more name while you’re running those checks,” said Stefanos. “A guy named Thomas Wilson.”

Elaine hesitated for a moment. “What’s going on? You taking side jobs again?”

“No.”

“Okay, go ahead and play it like that if you want to. Anything else?”

“Well, yes. You could reimburse me for a flashlight.”

“Why would I do that?” said Elaine.

“I broke it on the job,” said Stefanos. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll just go ahead and send you the bill.”

WILLIAM JONAS PICKED
up his phone and punched a number into its grid. While he listened to the phone ring, he rubbed his finger on the checkered
grip of the service revolver that was lying in his lap. He sat behind the bay window of his house, looking out onto Hamlin.

The call was answered, and the voice on the other end said, “Boyle.” Jonas heard a young kid and a teenage kid arguing in
the background.

“Danny, it’s Bill Jonas.”

“Hey, Bill. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you on the letter and envelope.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I’ve been contacted again by the man who sent the letter.”

“Through the mail?”

“By phone. I’d like to see you, Dan. I need to see you
tonight
.”

“Any idea where he was calling from?”

“He’s in town. He followed my son. He
threatened
my son.”

“All right,” said Boyle. “Have you contacted anyone else yet?”

“You mean have I called the station?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a cop. I’m calling you.”

Jonas listened to dead air as Boyle put his hand over the mouthpiece. Then Boyle got back on the line. “Okay. I’ll be right
over. But I’m bringing a friend.”

“Who?”

“A guy named Nick Stefanos.”

“I met him last week at the meeting,” said Jonas. “Private cop, right?”

“Don’t hold that against him. I’ve been with him in situations before. He’s good at what he does, and we’re gonna need him.
He’s friends with Dimitri Karras, the father of —”

“I know who Karras is.”

“Stefanos has a connection to all this.”

“Bring him,” said Jonas.

“Bill? If what you say is true, I’d get your family out of town for a few days.”

“It’s already done.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon.”

William Jonas cut the connection. He wheeled himself back away from the window and sat calmly in the shadows of dusk.

“Nick?”

“Yeah.”

“What, did I wake you up?”

“I was takin’ a nap, Boyle. What’s up?”

“I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

Boyle told him everything he knew.

“I don’t want to hear it,” said Stefanos when Boyle was done.

“It’s true.”

“I don’t care if it’s true. Call the cops.”

“Bill Jonas called
me
.”

“You shouldn’t even think twice about it, Boyle. Call the cops. Call the ATF and the FBI and the SWAT team. Get all the alphabet
guys in one room and
mobilize
, just like they do on TV. But stay out of it, man. And leave me out of it, too, hear?”

“Tell that to your buddy Karras.”

“Don’t play me, Boyle.”

“I’ll be over in a little while to pick you up.”

Stefanos looked down at the hardwood floor. He pictured the group he’d met the week before. He thought of Karras and the bartender’s
wife, who’d broken down. The nice guy in the Orioles cap, and Wilson, the troubled friend of the pizza chef, who was somehow
not who he seemed to be.

Stefanos pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gimme time to take a shower.”

Boyle said, “Right.”

Stefanos showered and changed into a black shirt and jeans. He was taking his leather off the peg by the door when the phone
rang. He slipped into his jacket and answered the phone.

“Nick, it’s Elaine.”

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I had Joey A. do those background checks for you.”

“That was fast.”

“Like I said, I gave it to Joe A.”

“Go ahead.”

“All three of the guys you asked about have records. And they all served time together. Ruiz and Gutierrez went up on an interstate
auto-theft beef. Thomas Wilson fell on a dope bust back in the early eighties.”

Stefanos was not surprised. Thomas had mentioned “straights” at the meeting. It was a con’s term for those not in the life.
And Gutierrez had the prison plumage stamped right on his face.

“Nick?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I had a hunch about those guys, and I was curious, that’s all. Where were they incarcerated?”

“Lewisburg.”

“Okay. What’s Wilson’s street address?”

Elaine Clay gave it to him and said, “Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Thanks a million, hear?”

Stefanos hung the phone in its cradle. So Wilson was an ex-con and so were his friends. So what? It probably didn’t mean a
thing.

A horn sounded from out in the street. Stefanos left the apartment and walked to Boyle’s car.

Booker Kendricks pulled his head out from under the hood of the red Mustang. He turned to Roman Otis, who was standing next
to Gus Lavonicus in the yard.

“It’s simple, cuz,” said Kendricks. “Brakes ain’t workin’ so good ’cause you out of fluid. Need to put some dot three in this
mother-fucker right quick.”

“You know I don’t know nothin’ about cars, Booker.”

“Well, fluid’s all it is.”

Farrow came from the house, walked over to Otis, and lit a cigarette.

“T. W. called,” said Farrow.

“He line us up with anything?” said Otis.

“He heard something about a big-money card game on Friday night. He’s trying to firm up the details.”

“That would work,” said Otis.

“He fix it?” said Farrow, nodding at Kendricks, standing alongside the Mustang.

“Just needs a little fluid,” said Otis. “I’ll pick up some while we’re out.”

Farrow looked at the group. Otis was dressed sharp as always. Kendricks wore a shiny maroon shirt tucked into gray slacks.
Lavonicus sported a Western shirt with imitation pearl buttons and lasso detailing embroidered across the chest. He wore a
surplus coat over the shirt.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” said Farrow.

“Just gonna have a couple of cocktails,” said Otis. “Goin’ crazy sittin’ around this joint.”

Farrow walked back into the house.

Kendricks lowered the hood of the Mustang and wiped his hands on a rag. He gave Lavonicus the once-over and smiled. “Well,
y’all look ready enough.”

“Where we headed, man?” said Otis.

“Place off Three-o-one. Understand, they got bars down here for the brothers and bars for the white boys. There’s a little
bit of crossover but not much. We goin’ to this white joint ’cause they got one of those machines you like.”

“That’s okay by me,” said Otis.

Kendricks glanced at Lavonicus again. “Whoo-eee, pardner. Wait’ll they get a look at you.”

They walked to the Mark V, parked at the edge of the woods by a stand of tall pine. Otis got behind the wheel, ignitioned
the Lincoln, hit the power switch on the stereo, and pushed the button marked “CD.” Lavoncius folded himself into the seat
beside him, and Kendricks settled into the backseat. The Commodores came from the rear deck speakers.

“‘Zoom,’” said Otis. “This here’s got to be one of the most beautiful songs ever recorded.”

“It sounds nice,” said Lavonicus, awkwardly moving his head in time.

“People make fun of Mr. Lionel Richie. But I’d like someone to name a more perfect tune than this one right here.”

Otis turned onto 301 and drove north. “‘I wish the world were truly happy,’” he sang, “‘living as one.…’”

Kendricks directed Otis into the parking lot of a sports bar a couple of miles south of La Plata. They got the fish-eye from
the guys at the main-room bar as they walked through to a paneled room in the back and had a seat at a four-top near the fire
exit. At a nearby table, someone laughed at Lavoncius, then stopped laughing as Otis looked his way. Some guy was up onstage
doing Garth Brooks, singing along to the karaoke. He had a beer in his hand and he sang off-key.

Otis and Kendricks ordered mixed drinks, and Lavonicus went with a Coke. Otis went off to examine the playlist and found one
he knew: “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” by Hank Williams. Well, he knew the Al Green version, anyway. He decided he’d get
up there and sing it like Reverend Al.

Otis took the stage, closed his eyes, and gave it his best shot. He tried to inject a little soul into the shitkicker arrangement,
even threw in some of his hand interpretations, but nothing could make it fly. Lavonicus was the only one in the house who
clapped when Otis was done. Otis thanked the audience and walked back to his seat.