George Pelecanos - Shame the Devil

The driver of the Acura was stepping out of his car as Stefanos approached the house, a small, clapboard, single-family home. The Acura was parked in front of a detached, locked-down garage.

Stefanos kept walking. He was reading the address and making a mental note of it when he bumped into a man.

“Fuck you think you doin’?” said the young man, low slung with a stoved-in nose. He made a sweeping motion with his hands.

“Sorry,” said Stefanos. “I wasn’t watching -”

“Gotdamn right you sorry. You about the sorriest motherfucker I seen all day.”

Stefanos walked around the man and kept on, glancing back over his shoulder. The young man was standing there studying him, giving him the requisite hard look. The driver of the Acura stood by his car. He had heard the exchange and was studying Stefanos now, too.

Stefanos quickened his step. He made a right on 2nd, another right on Sheridan, and circled the block. He got into his Coronet, U-turned it, and gave it gas.

He stopped at Blair Liquors up the road. He bought a can of Budweiser and a pint of Old Crow. He sat in the car and had a deep drink from the bottle. He drank some more. He opened the can of beer and lit a cigarette. He was breathing normally now, and he headed for home.

On Saturday morning, Dimitri Karras drove his faded navy blue BMW down into Maryland’s St. Mary’s County, following Bernie Walters’s pickup all the way. They stopped for coffee, then stopped again for ammunition and bait, and made one last stop at a drive-through liquor store, where Karras watched the clerk pass a case of beer through the window of Walters’s truck. Pulling out of the lot, Karras saw a puff of smoke come from the driver’s side of the F-150 as Walters lit a cigarette.

They drove down Route 5 and then 242, through the towns of Clements and Dynard and onto back roads skirting the western shore of Clements Bay, an offshoot of the lower Potomac. A hard dirt road led them through woods to a clearing opening to two hundred feet of brackish creek. Walters parked the truck next to his pop-up trailer, and Karras pulled in beside him. Walters had a beer in his hand as Karras met him by the truck.

“Care for one?” said Walters, holding up the can.

“No, thanks, I’m good.” Karras zipped up his coat.

“A little cold,” said Walters, who wore only a down vest over a denim shirt, blue jeans, and his Orioles cap. He shaded his eyes from the sun and studied the clear sky. “But not bad.”

Karras looked around the property. “Nice, Bern.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fine. When the weather breaks and these trees fill out, you’re really alone back here. Which is how I like it. I don’t even have a phone line.”

“You’re gonna stay down here all week without a phone?”

“What do I need it for? And if I do need to make a call, I’ll just drive up the road to town.”

“What are you going to eat?”

“I’ve got a generator, but I cook with propane and I rarely use the electricity.” Walters nodded at the Jiffy John set back from the trailer. “I put that in for my guests. Me, I just pee in the grass and shit in the woods.”

“That’s mighty natural, pardner. But you won’t think I’m a pussy if I use the toilet, will ya?”

“Do anything you like, Dimitri. I won’t think a thing.”

Walters killed his beer and tossed the empty into a box filled with empties that was lying in the bed of his truck. He grabbed a fresh beer from the cab.

“Feel like takin’ a walk in the woods?” said Walters.

“Sure. Maybe we could do that thing we talked about.”

“Okay. Shotgun or handgun? I got both.”

“Handgun.”

“Be right back,” said Walters, heading for the trailer.

Bernie Walters emerged from the trailer with a day pack slung over his shoulder. He got the box of rounds he had purchased from out of the pickup and put that and some of the empty beer cans, plus one unopened can, into the pack.

They walked into the woods. Walters pointed to a deer blind he had built in the branches of a tall oak as they crossed a dry creek bed. Karras followed him up a rise and into a clearing where an ancient, rusted tractor sat in tall brown grass. There was a row of upended logs along the far side of the tree line.

“We’ll set up the cans over there,” said Walters.

“You shoot out here yourself?” said Karras as they crossed the clearing.

“With my pistols, yeah.”

“What about your shotguns?”

“I used to hunt deer with ’em.”

“What did you do with the deer after you killed it?”

“Well, I used to clean it and take it home. Lynne would freeze the meat, and we’d eat venison stew all winter. Vance, he hated it. But I haven’t killed a deer in a couple of seasons. Mostly I just sit up in that blind I showed you. Sitting up there, listening to the woods… it’s peaceful. Like being in God’s natural church.” Walters’s eyes shot over to Karras. “You ought to try it sometime.”

Walters set the cans up on the logs. He and Karras walked back thirty yards, and Walters reached into the pack.

“Here’s the Colt,” said Walters. He handed Karras a. 45 automatic in a leather holster, along with the box of shells.

“Go ahead,” said Walters. “Release the magazine and load it.”

The magazine slid out into Karras’s palm. He got down on one knee and thumbed the rounds into the empty magazine. It took some time; his dexterity was hampered by the cold.

“This thing full?” he said.

“One more,” said Walters, watching closely. “Give it a little pressure now and feel the tension on that spring. That’s it. Now replace the magazine.”

Karras stood. “Just aim and fire, right?”

“Pull back on the receiver and put one in the chamber. Check your safety. There you go.”

Karras bent his knees deeply, steadying the butt of the gun with his left hand.

“You don’t need to crouch down like that, Starsky. This ain’t no TV show. But use both hands like you’re doing. And if you’re going to shoot more than one round, remember to space for the recoil. Otherwise, with that gun kicking, you’re just gonna be firing wild. That’s it, that’s my lesson. Go ahead.”

Karras fired out the clip, slowly and deliberately. The shots silenced the bird and animal sounds that had been there moments before. A steady tone sounded in Karras’s ears, and both hands were numb with vibration.

Walters squinted and wiped beer from his chin. “You hit exactly one.”

“I need more practice.”

“Go ahead,” said Walters, dropping the empty can to the ground and reaching into his pack for a fresh one. “I got nothin’ but time.”

Karras loaded the magazine more quickly than he had on his first attempt.

Walters watched him and said, “Why you want to learn to shoot all of the sudden?”

“You never know when you’ll need it, right?”

Walters regarded him closely. “You ever kill a man, Dimitri?”

“No,” lied Karras. A round slipped from his hand, and he stooped to pick it up.

“I have,” said Walters, feeling the start of a daytime drunk. “Course, you know that, seein’ as how I’m one of those Vietnam veteran, killin’-machine soldiers you’ve heard so much about.”

Karras palmed the magazine into the butt of the automatic. “Think you could ever kill again?”

“No,” said Walters. “I’ll never kill again.”

Karras turned to face him. “Not even if you came face-to-face with the men who killed your son?”

“No,” said Walters, “not even then. I do hate those men, Dimitri, I’m not gonna lie to you. But I’ve forgiven them. Only the Lord can decide their fates.”