Shame the Devil (38 page)

“He dead?” said Boyle.

“He’s breathing,” said Stefanos.

“Gimme a minute to clean up.”

“Hurry up, man. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

The Mustang blocked the alley. Boyle stepped around it.

“Check on Wilson,” yelled Stefanos.

Boyle walked down the alley. As he walked, he fitted his gloves onto his hands.

Thomas Wilson had a dream.

He and Charles were running and playing in Fort Stevens Park. Charles was seven or eight years old, and when Thomas looked
down at his own skinny forearms and legs, he realized that he was the same age.

They were playing army, and it was a bright spring day. The park’s flag was popping in the breeze, and Charles was laughing
and making shooting sounds with the invisible rifle cradled in his arms.

A white boy and a white man were silhouetted against the sun and standing on the top of the steep hill that semicircled the
park. The man waved at Thomas Wilson.

“Come on, Charlie,” said Wilson. “Let’s go talk to that man!”

“All right!”

Wilson and Charles scurried up the hill to see what was on the man’s mind. When they got there, Wilson looked up at the man,
who now blocked the sun. The man’s hand was on his boy’s shoulder, and the boy’s head was resting comfortably against his
father’s hip.

“What’s up, mister?” said Thomas Wilson.

“Been waiting on you to get here, partner,” said the man, pushing his Orioles cap back on his head.

Thomas Wilson looked around the park with wonder. “Sure is a beautiful day.”

Bernie Walters smiled.

Boyle stood over the corpse of Thomas Wilson. He opened the Baggie and unfolded the snow-seals of a couple of grams of cocaine
and sprinkled powder on Wilson’s face and chest. He dropped the snow-seals onto Wilson and left the .38 in Wilson’s hand.

The one Stefanos had described as Otis was still alive. Bastard was making crazy sounds. Gasping for breath but also trying
to sing or something. That’s what it sounded like to Boyle, anyway. Boyle pulled the .380 from his jacket pocket and walked
across the warehouse floor.

Roman Otis had always wondered how he would face death. He was dying now, there wasn’t any doubt about that. He decided to
think of good things, let it happen while he was off somewhere else. Die peaceful the way he’d always hoped he would.

He couldn’t breathe too good. And it was hard to take his mind off the pain.

He’d had that Commodores song on his mind all day, couldn’t get it out of his head. He tried to sing a little bit of that.
He closed his eyes and imagined palm trees, riding along Little Santa Monica in his Bill Blass Continental, that girl he’d
left behind at El Rancho, his favorite bar, down on Sunset.

He opened his eyes. A big white man stood over him, easing a round into an automatic he held in a gloved hand. Looked like
some kind of cop.

Otis raised some spit. He tried to spit at the cop, but he was weak and, lying on his back like he was, the spit shot straight
up about a foot or so and came right back down on his face.

With the luck he’d had today, would be just like him to go and spit in his own face. Otis laughed. It made a gurgling kind
of sound that didn’t sound much like a laugh, but that’s what it was, just the same.

The cop took a step back, aimed the gun, and raised his palm to avoid the blow-back.

Watch yourself, Hoss,
thought Otis.
Don’t want to get any on that fucked-up raincoat you wearin’.

Stefanos heard a shot. Ten minutes later Boyle returned to the Dodge. He got into the passenger seat and looked over his shoulder.
Karras was facing the seat, sprawled across the back bench on his side.

“Wilson?” said Stefanos.

“Wilson didn’t make it,” said Boyle, and Stefanos shut his eyes. “You clean off that Mustang?”

“I wiped it the best I could. What about you?”

“They get to this crime scene, they’re gonna be nothin’ but confused.”

“Dimitri needs to get that forehead stitched.”

“We’ll take him into D.C.,” said Boyle. “And pull over at a pay phone when we get on the road. I gotta phone Bill Jonas.”

“What for?”

“He needs to call his family,” said Boyle as Stefanos ignitioned the Dodge. “Tell ’em it’s okay to come back home.”

WASHINGTON, D. C.

JULY 1998

ON A WARM
, sunny morning, Dan Boyle and William Jonas sat in the living room of Jonas’s house on Hamlin Street, drinking coffee and
reading the Sunday edition of the
Washington Post.
In the past few months it had become a ritual for Boyle to stop by for some conversation on his way back from mass. Jonas’s
sons didn’t care much for Detective Boyle, but the boys kept their displeasure to themselves. It was obvious that some kind
of bond had developed between their father and the white cop.

Boyle read the “Crime and Justice” column of the Metro section aloud to Jonas.

“ ‘A Northeast man was found with multiple stab wounds in the stairwell of a housing unit in Marshall Heights. Police are
withholding the name of the victim until relatives can be notified. A police spokesman says there are no suspects at this
time.’ ”

“Guy loses his life and he gets three sentences of copy,” said Jonas. “If that was a white man in Potomac got stabbed, it’d
be front-page news. The
Post
might as well call that section the ‘Violent Negro Death Roundup.’ For all the value that newspaper places on African American
life —”

“Yeah,” said Boyle, scratching his head, wondering what Bill was so hacked off about. “I know what you mean.”

“Keep reading.”

Boyle continued. “Randy Weston, of Northwest, was fatally wounded last night in what several witnesses have described as a
brazen homicide outside a Southeast nightclub. Police are holding Sean Forjay, also of Northwest, in connection with the shooting.”
Boyle looked up and smiled. “Sean. Think he’s Irish?”

Jonas didn’t answer.

Boyle handed the A section to Jonas and pointed a thick finger at a story below the fold on the front page. “You read this?”

Jonas looked at the story. The headline read, “After Three Years, Pizza Parlor Murders Remain Unsolved.”

“I read it,” said Jonas.

“The surviving family members of the victims declined to comment for the article.”

“They talked about Wilson in there, how he was part of that support group.”

“I know it,” said Boyle. “Mentioned his bizarre death in a drug-related shoot-out.”

“Shame he has to be remembered like that to his uncle Lindo, the one that had that hauling business.”

“There wasn’t any time to make it look any other way. Wilson died knowing he’d done good, I expect. But once you’re dead,
you’re dead. I don’t think he’s listening to what anyone’s saying about him now.”

“You believe that?”

“Yeah.”

“But you went to church this morning.”

Boyle finished his coffee and stood. “Call me superstitious.”

He shook Jonas’s hand and told him he’d see him next week. He left the house.

William Jonas wheeled himself over to the bay window. Christopher was out front, mowing the lawn. Jonas watched Boyle greet
his son with his idea of a black man’s handshake. Then Boyle mimed a jump shot and punched Christopher on the shoulder. As
Boyle walked toward his car, Christopher looked up at the window, where he knew his father would be, and rolled his eyes.

“Crazy bastard,” said Jonas.

Someday, maybe, he’d tell his family that Boyle had saved their lives.

Nick Stefanos pushed his plate to the side and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

“More coffee, Nick?” said Darnell.

“Thanks.”

Darnell poured from a pot. “How was your breakfast?”

“Beautiful. You know I like a good half-smoke with my eggs. And those grits had just the right texture.”

“It’s not gonna make you forget the Florida Avenue Grill.”

“Not yet. But you’re getting there, buddy.”

Stefanos lit his smoke. Darnell looked around the small lunch counter he had purchased from a Korean up on Georgia Avenue,
near the District line.

“Anyway,” said Darnell, “it’s mine.”

“Dimitri and Marcus did you right, finding this place.”

“Yeah, and that Clarence Tate ran some real accurate numbers. They got a nice business, those three. Doin’ a good thing, too.”
Darnell leaned on the Formica counter. “With Dimitri and me gone, and you leavin’ the Spot last month, wonder how it’s gonna
work out down there on Eighth.”

“Phil will find some replacements.”

“You miss it?”

“Elaine Clay keeps me busy with work. The Spot wasn’t a good place for a guy like me, Darnell.”

“I heard
that.
How you doin’ with it, anyway?”

“So far so good.”

“You
look
good, man.”

“I’m trying.” Stefanos got off his stool and reached for his wallet. He left three on five and slipped into his sport jacket.

“Where you off to, all dressed like that?”

“Church,” said Stefanos. “Gonna say a prayer for a kid named Randy Weston.”

“Say hey to Alicia when you see her,” said Darnell.

“Gonna see her tonight,” said Stefanos. “I’ll tell her you said hello.”

Dimitri Karras and Stephanie Maroulis walked across the manicured grounds of the Gate of Heaven cemetery in Aspen Hill to
the Walters family headstones. Stephanie said a silent prayer over the graves of Bernie, Lynne, and Vance Walters. They visited
Karras’s mother, Eleni, and brushed debris off the nearby marker for Jimmy’s grave. Then they stopped at the grave of Steve
Maroulis, where Stephanie’s adjoining plot had been purchased three years earlier. Stephanie did her cross, and they walked
to Karras’s BMW, parked in the shade. Karras drove back into D.C.

Thomas Wilson was buried alongside Charles Greene at Fort Lincoln cemetery in Northeast. Stephanie held Karras’s hand as he
stared down at Wilson’s grave.

“You okay?” she said.

Karras touched the knot of his tie. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Dimitri Karras lit a candle and did his
stavro
in the narthex of St. Sophia’s Greek Orthodox Cathedral. Then he and Stephanie went upstairs to the balcony and listened
to the remainder of the service. They enjoyed the choir and took in the atmosphere of the church. Stephanie’s eyes were closed
as she prayed for Dimitri and those who were gone.

Karras looked down to the nave, where the sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons of Greek immigrants and their families stood
side by side in the pews. He noticed the graying hair of a man who stood alone, wearing a lightweight fifties sport jacket.

Karras smiled and whispered, “Nick.”

They waited on the stone steps of the cathedral as parishioners streamed from the front doors. Bells chimed, and a warm breeze
came off Massachusetts Avenue. Men were lighting cigarettes, greeting each other with firm handshakes, and children were chasing
one another and laughing. Karras saw Nick Stefanos emerge from the church.

“
Yasou,
Niko!” said Karras.

“Dimitri!” Stefanos came to meet them. He kissed Stephanie on the cheek and squeezed her arm. He looked at Karras and smiled.
“What’re you doing here, man?”

“I should be asking you the same thing.”

“Like I told you before: I’m just trying to figure it all out.” Stefanos squinted up at the bright, cloudless sky. “Nice day.
You guys feel like taking a ride?”

“Where to?” said Karras.

“I was thinking of Hanes Point.”

“You go ahead, Dimitri,” said Stephanie. “I’ve got things to do this afternoon.”

Karras handed her his car keys and gave her a kiss. “See you later. Thanks.”

They watched her descend the stone steps and turn the corner toward Garfield Street.

“You’re a lucky man,” said Stefanos.

“I know it.”

“Come on. My ride’s parked out back.”

“We’re getting married,” said Karras as they drove along the Potomac, the wind rushing through the open windows of the Dodge.

“Congratulations, man.”

“I love her, Nick.”

“As you should.”

Karras looked out the window. “She wants to have a baby. I want the same thing. This baby’s not meant to replace Jimmy. No
one will ever replace him in my heart. But I was a good father, Nick, and I didn’t get to finish. And I feel like, if Stephanie
and I have a child, then our meeting the way we did will have meant something. That everything that happened to everyone else
will have meant something, too. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, Dimitri. It makes sense.”

Stefanos parked the Dodge in the first set of spaces at Hanes Point. He and Karras got out of the car and walked across the
grass to the concrete path that ringed the outer edge of the park. They leaned on the rail and looked out across the Washington
Channel, the sun winking off its waters.

Karras loosened his tie at the neck. “It’s beautiful, man.”

“Yes, it is.” Stefanos looked over at his friend. “So what were you doing in church?”

“I made a promise to a friend that I’d give it a try.”

“And?”

“I kept the promise.” Karras ran his thumb along the thin scar that creased his forehead, thinking of his son. He smiled at
the memory, looking into the channel’s brown waters.

“You still think you lied to Jimmy about God?” asked Stefanos. “I don’t know anymore. There are days when I’m certain that
there is no God. And then I’ll have a day, every now and again, when I think it might be possible. That makes me like most
men, I guess. Which is where I’ve been trying to get back to all along.” Karras frowned. “The question is, after what I did
in the warehouse — after what you’ve done yourself — does God even care to save men like us?”

“I don’t know,” said Stefanos. “We’ll find out soon enough, I guess.”

Stefanos smoked a cigarette while the two of them looked across the channel.

“They used to call this ‘the speedway,’ ” said Stefanos. “You remember that?”

“I know everything about this place,” said Karras, pointing to the middle of the channel. “My mother told me that my father
learned to swim out there on a day just like this, when he was a kid back in the Depression.”