George Pelecanos - Shame the Devil

Greene and Walters had lowered their heads. Maroulis had kept his head up; the carotid artery swelled in his neck.

“Please,” said Maroulis. “We haven’t seen anything. None of us will remember you. I’m speaking for all of us -”

“Put your forehead on the tiles.”

“Please.” Maroulis’s eyes were pleading, wild and red. He looked at Frank. “Don’t make me put my head down. Please.”

“Do what I say and you won’t get hurt.”

Maroulis put his head down slowly. In a low voice he began to pray: “Pateri mon…”

Otis listened to the bartender, chanting some kind of bullshit in a tongue he had never heard. Well, the bartender was the smart one of the bunch. He knew his bossman had gone and done them all by making that play.

Frank looked at Otis. Frank holstered the. 38 and drew the. 22 Woodsman with his right hand. He stepped quickly to Maroulis and shot him in the back of the head.

Greene began to scream. Frank waved gun smoke out of his face as he walked over to Vance Walters.

Walters felt the cool touch of metal behind his ear. Frank shielded his face from the blow-back and put his finger to the trigger.

“Dad,” said Walters. He yelled, “Daddy!”

His last moment felt like fire and confusion.

“Naw, man,” said Greene, tears rolling one after the other down his cheeks. “Not me, man, I hooked you up!” He sobbed and begged and screamed as he writhed violently against the rope. A line of saliva dripped from his mouth to the floor.

Frank stepped around Vance Walters’s corpse. He put the muzzle of the Woodsman to Greene’s head.

Richard Farrow had heard the gunshots come from inside the pizza parlor, but apparently the black cop had not. He had pulled away and been gone ten minutes. Richard was relieved at first, but growing shaky again as the time ticked off. He smoked another cigarette, tapped his hand on the wheel, spun the automatic on the hot vinyl seat beside him.

Richard figured the cop had called in the Ford’s plates. But the plates had been lifted just that morning from Union Station’s long-term lot. Those Spanish guys in that garage had done them a solid there. Yeah, they’d done good -

Another gunshot sounded from inside the pizza parlor. Then another, and another behind it.

No, brother. God, no…

“Phew,” said Roman Otis. “One of ’em done fouled his britches.”

“Put another round in each one and let’s go.”

“What, you think they gonna walk away?”

“Do it, Roman. Do it and let’s go.”

Yeah, thought Otis, Frank is one smart man. He’s going to tie us together now, forever and for real.

Otis shrugged. He holstered the shotgun and drew the. 45.

Richard Farrow left the motor running and got out of the car. He paced back and forth in the street. The heat of the asphalt came through the thin leather soles of his shoes. He looked down his arm and saw the nine millimeter in his hand. He looked toward a low-rise apartment building on his left and saw a curtain drop shut.

He heard four more shots.

“We are fucked,” said Richard. He glanced back at the car. No – he couldn’t go back to that hot car. Richard began to stumble-walk across the street toward the rear entrance of May’s.

He turned at the sound of a big engine. The black unmarked cop car was blowing toward him on 39th.

William Jonas accelerated when he saw the sweaty white man with the aviator shades standing in the middle of the street, holding a gun.

“Aw, shit,” said Jonas. The cruiser he had called for hadn’t arrived. No time to think about that now.

He hit the brakes fifty yards from the man, turned the wheel, skidded his car to a stop so that it blocked the street. He keyed the mic, screamed into it for backup. He dropped the mic to the floor, pulled his weapon, chambered a round, opened the door, and rolled out of the car onto the street. He got up into a crouch and positioned himself behind the hood of the car. He straightened his gun arm and rested it on the hood, his head and shoulders clear.

“I’m a police officer!” he yelled. “Throw the weapon to the side! Get down on your stomach and cradle your hands behind your head, now!”

The man paced a few steps, dizzy with confusion. He looked over at the back of the commercial strip, made a move toward it, changed his mind and walked back toward the Ford.

“Drop the weapon!” screamed Jonas.

The man looked in the direction of Jonas like he was hearing him for the first time. He opened the door of the Ford.

“I said drop it!” Jonas could hear a siren now. The backup would be here in a hot minute, maybe less. If the guy by the Ford could only hold onto his shit, then maybe everything could turn out all right.

Frank Farrow looked through the partially opened door as Roman Otis checked his gun and listened to the screech of tires.

“Okay, Richard’s got company.”

“How many?” said Otis.

“One for now.”

“One’s better than two.”

“Richard’s just standing there, out in the street. Goddamnit, I told him… All right, gimme the bag.” Otis tossed the duffel over to Frank. “How many you got left in that forty-five?”

“Four.”

“I’ve got two in the thirty-eight.” He holstered the. 22 – useless at this range – and grasped the handles of the duffel bag.

“You know what we gotta do,” said Frank.

Otis shrugged. “Can’t do nothin’ else.” He hand-brushed his hair back behind his ears.

Otis went to the door, yanked it open, and charged out into the sunlight. Frank went out behind him, calling his brother’s name.

William Jonas watched the man reach for the door handle of the Ford. Someone yelled, “Richard!” The man looked back at the center of the commercial strip. Two men carrying guns and a duffel bag bolted from a door. Jonas speed-scanned: One of them was white with gray hair and a gray mustache, the other a tall, dark-skinned man with Las Vegas-looking hair. The image of them registered as Jonas returned his sight to the man by the Ford. The man by the Ford pointed his gun at Jonas.

He’s scared. He won’t shoot…

The man by the Ford steadied his gun with both hands.

Jonas thought of his wife and sons. He closed one eye, aimed, and fired his weapon.

Jonas’s first round penetrated the door of the Ford. His second round found its target. The pale white man’s sunglasses went funny on his face as he crumpled and swung down, his arm hooked around the window frame. Jonas could see a black line running like a worm down the front of the man’s face.

A round sparked off the hood in front of Jonas. He blinked, moved his gun arm, fired at the two men who were standing still and firing at him. He squinted, saw smoke coming from their guns, heard his windshield spider, kept firing even as a bullet tore into his bicep and another hit his shoulder as he was jerked up and back. He took another bullet high in the chest. It was like a hot needle going in. He screamed as he fell, firing his weapon into the front quarter panel of his own vehicle, feeling the shock of his back hitting the hard, hot pavement and the wind blow from his lungs. He stared up at the blazing sun and listened to the siren grow louder. He fought for breath and got it. He turned his head to vomit. He dropped his Glock and heard the dull sound it made on the street.

Goddamn plastic gun. Oh, sweet Jesus, I am hit.

Lisa Karras couldn’t believe the heat. She had called the weather service, but the temperature given on the recording didn’t begin to describe the feeling of actually being outdoors. Not that Jimmy seemed to notice. He was ahead of her, walking faster even as she slowed her pace.

“Jimmy, honey, c’mon. We’ve got all day. The ice cream store’s not going anywhere.”