George Pelecanos - Shame the Devil

“Bill Jonas.” Jonas extended his hand and Karras shook it. “And this is my son Christopher.”

“Dimitri Karras.” He nodded at the young man.

“Nice to finally meet you,” said William Jonas.

“And you,” said Karras. “Well, good, I’m glad you broke the ice by coming here, because I brought someone tonight, too. Meet my friend Nick Stefanos.”

Stefanos went around the group, shaking hands. Jonas, the homicide cop crippled by the May’s shooters, told Stefanos his friend Dan Boyle had mentioned his name before, and Stefanos nodded politely.

“You’re a private cop,” said Jonas, “right?”

“That’s right,” said Stefanos, who immediately went to the urn to draw himself a cup of coffee. He felt eyes on his back, or maybe it was his imagination.

“Hey, Ernst,” said Bernie Walters, the father of the slain waiter, as an old guy with gray hair-clumps growing from his face entered the room from a side door.

“Everything all right?” said Ernst.

“Yeah,” said Thomas Wilson, the pizza chef’s friend, “we’re okay, Ernie. You can go ahead and stand guard next to the collection box upstairs, or whatever it is you do. Us straights gonna be all right tonight down here. Got us a couple of lawmen sitting in.”

Stefanos had a seat, studied Wilson as he spoke.

“We’ll let ourselves out, Ernst,” said Walters.

“Unplug the coffee urn before you go,” said Ernst.

“Make a deal with you,” said Wilson. “We’ll unplug it if you clean it for a change.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Ernst, shaking his head. “You guys.”

“Maybe I better get going,” said Stefanos to Karras.

“It’s okay,” said Karras. “Stay.”

They watched Ernst leave. Then there was a silence as they looked to Jonas, expecting him to start things off. But it was his son who spoke first.

“I came home late this afternoon,” said Christopher Jonas, “and found my father sitting in the living room, thinking. He told me he’d like to drop in on this meeting tonight, but he wasn’t sure if you’d want him here. I know from talking to my father these last couple of years how all of you have been in his thoughts. I hope you welcome him tonight.”

“We’re all happy to see you,” said Stephanie Maroulis without hesitation. “We all appreciate your sacrifice, and everything you did.”

“That’s a fact,” said Bernie Walters.

Thomas Wilson nodded his head, looking at the floor.

“Thank you,” said William Jonas. “I was thinkin’, if you all don’t have any objection… I was thinking we’d start off tonight with a prayer.”

“I’d sure like that,” said Walters, his eyes going to Karras. “Any objections?”

Karras didn’t mind, any more than he’d mind using a Ouija board for grins or having his palm read at a party. If it made the rest of them happy, it was okay by him.

Stephanie mouthed the words “thank you,” and Karras smiled.

They joined hands, all of them, in the circle, and bowed their heads. William Jonas began to pray: “Father in heaven, thank you for the gift of friendship we are receiving here tonight. And for our many blessings…”

Karras closed his eyes, gripping the hands of the ones to the right and left of him. It was crazy; for a moment, he thought he felt his son’s touch.

Nick Stefanos screwed a cigarette between his lips and dropped thirty-five cents into a pay phone. He turned up the collar of his leather. Outside the Mobil station at 22nd and P the wind blew cold across the open lot. He dialed Elaine Clay’s home number, struck a match, cupped it until the flame touched tobacco, and took in a deep draw of smoke.

“Elaine, it’s Nick. Bad time?”

“I’m sitting down to dinner. What’s up?”

“Working the Randy Weston case. I met with Jerry Sun today, the Chinese guy who saw the red Torino. And I talked with Randy’s brother Ronald.”

“And?”

“Ronald told me that Erika Mitchell could alibi Randy for that night, but now she’s got a sudden loss of memory.”

“What she said was, they did go to a picture together, but she can’t remember for sure what night it was.”

“I checked the movie schedule in the morgue materials at the MLK library. The late shows at Union Station started at around nine-thirty that night. Jerry Sun said he heard gunshots just after nine-thirty. The girl could get Randy off if she’d say they were together at one of those shows. Why won’t she?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about her father? Supposedly he keeps her on a short leash.”

“He’s a former D.C. beat cop, and he doesn’t remember anything, either. Funny, a cop who doesn’t remember details. Right?”

“I’m going to try and interview both of them.”

“Good.”

“Ronald Weston is certain his brother didn’t kill Donnel Lawton. Weston says his brother’s no killer, that he wouldn’t own a gun to begin with. You gonna put Ronald up on the stand?”

“You saw him. He might be a sweet kid for all I know, but he refuses to come off that way. And he’s got juvenile priors. Besides, he only knows what his brother told him, and that won’t hold water. The prosecutor will take him apart up there. He’d just be another ineffective character witness with nothing concrete to say.”

“Okay. Let me keep working on it.”

“Great. And Nick, thanks for hooking Dimitri up with that job. He’s talked to Marcus and he thinks it’s done him good.”

“I think so, too. I just left him, as a matter of fact.”

“You two Greek boys are bonding, huh?”

“Yeah, we just slaughtered a lamb in the alley. It’s really good when it’s fresh, you know? Hold on a second while I wipe this blood off my chin.”

“Nick, I just wanted you to know, Marcus and I appreciate it.”

“Glad to help. Listen, I gotta bolt.”

“My family’s waiting as well. Take care, Nick.”

“You too.”

Stefanos met Alicia Weisman at a gallery on the south end of 7th Street. She was standing in front of a large piece, one of a series of Fred Folsom paintings depicting the characters inhabiting the old Shepherd Park strip club on a typical night. Alicia wore a black corduroy zippered shirt over black tights and utilitarian black boots. A black leather jacket was draped over her arm.

“Hey, baby,” said Stefanos, kissing her neck. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Where you been?”

“I’ll tell you later.” He looked the painting over and chuckled. “Well, he captured it, all right.”

“You used to go to that place?”

“All the time.” Stefanos tugged at the triangle of T-shirt showing beneath Alicia’s corduroy. “Hey, I don’t want to be the one to point this out, but -”

“I know. I wore a little white by mistake.”

They went downstairs to another gallery and took in the Jim Saah photographs on display. Stefanos studied Saah’s portrait of three very Greek women sitting on a Karpathos stoop. He smiled and marked the number of the photograph on a sheet he had picked up by the door.

“Hungry?” said Stefanos.

Alicia said, “I’m starved.”

They had dinner at a restaurant without signage at 5th and H in Chinatown. Except for Stefanos and Alicia, the patrons were all Chinese. This was the most inconspicuous restaurant on the strip and, for Stefanos’s money, the best. Stefanos ordered shrimp dumpling- noodle soup and Alicia asked for plain roast duck over rice.

“So what do you think of the art on this one right here?” asked Alicia, pushing a CD booklet across the table.

“Looks like one of those numbered Prestige jazz jackets. An Eddie Lockjaw Davis record, something like that.”