George Pelecanos: Shame the Devil

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.