George Pelecanos - Shame the Devil

“Some stuff I picked up at the drugstore down in Edwardtown,” said Farrow.

“Finally got that shoe polish out, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Otis pursed his lips. “Looks good, too.”

Farrow glanced at Gus Lavonicus, sitting at an old desk, trying to write a letter to his wife. He had the push end of a pen in his mouth, and his lips were moving as he struggled to compose the words. His legs were spread wide, as he couldn’t hope to fit them under the desk, and he was fanning them back and forth. When you got right down to it, thought Farrow, the guy was nothing more than a giant child. Farrow should not have agreed to let Otis bring him along. But he’d never say no to Roman – the two of them went that deep.

“How’s that letter to my sister comin’, Gus?” said Otis.

“I’m trying to find the right words.”

“Tell her she’s prettier than a flower,” said Otis, “some shit like that.”

Farrow sipped red wine. He dragged on his Kool. “That what you’d tell her, Roman?”

“If that was my woman? I’d just go ahead and tell her that I planned to split that thing like an ax to an oak.”

“You always did know the right thing to say to women,” said Farrow.

“Goddamn right I did.”

“I can’t say that to Cissy,” said Lavonicus in his monotone.

“No,” said Otis. “I don’t recommend that you do.”

Booker Kendricks, Otis’s third cousin, came from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hand. He was a small, spidery man with rheumy eyes and rotten teeth, a multiple sex offender with violent attachments who’d finally gone down on a sodomy rape beef. Even Otis knew that his cousin belonged in prison for life. But the system had coughed Booker Kendricks back out onto the street.

“Here you go, Roman,” said Kendricks, putting a bottle in front of Otis. He snapped his fingers. “Aw, shit, did I forget you, Gus?”

“I don’t drink beer anyway,” said Lavonicus. “Yeah, you must be in training for that athletic comeback you’re gonna make someday.”

Lavonicus watched Kendricks as he turned on the living room’s television set. Despite the fact that Kendricks was a relative by marriage, Lavonicus didn’t care to spend much time around him. Sometimes he got the feeling that Kendricks was putting him on. He didn’t like that.

“Here we go,” said Kendricks, sitting in an overstuffed armchair. “Got the Bulls and the Knicks.”

Otis had a seat on the couch next to Farrow. “You all right, man?”

“Itching to do something,” said Farrow. “That’s all.”

Kendricks watched Larry Johnson sink a jumper, then wink at the bench as he jogged down the court. “Look at L. J., man. The man thinks he’s all that.”

“Johnson can play,” said Lavonicus, who had turned the chair away from the desk to watch the screen.

“Johnson can pa-lay,” said Kendricks, mimicking Lavonicus, then slapping his own knee in laughter. “Aw, shit, Gus. Say, man, tell me what it was like in that post-ABA career you had. Weren’t you on the squad of one of those teams that used to play against the Harlem Globetrotters?”

“The New York Nationals,” said Lavonicus softly. “I only did that one season.” They’d thrown him off the team after he coldcocked one of the Globetrotters who had called him a name. The fans had laughed like crazy; they thought the knockout punch had been in the script.

“Yeah, I remember the green uniforms y’all had. How’d it feel to be ridiculed, having balls passed between your legs, gettin’ the pill bounced off your head and shit, night after night?”

Lavonicus felt his ears grow hot. He imagined they were red now, the way they got when he let guys like Kendricks get to him like this.

“It was a job,” said Lavonicus, and he turned his chair back to the desk.

Farrow stabbed out his cigarette.

Otis leaned back on the couch, closed his eyes, and picked up the Isleys’ tune where he had left it in his head. He imagined that he was back in California. Frank had called him, and he’d come, but he didn’t much care for the East Coast. His work, it demanded that he move around. Sometimes it seemed like one big circle. Do a job, grab some money, spend the money, do a job… try to stay ahead of the law. Well, what else was he gonna do? He knew the way it would end, too, but it didn’t do much good to think on it. This was the life he had made for himself. He had accepted that a long time ago.

“Look at Rodman,” said Kendricks, pointing at the screen. “That is one genuine nigger right there.”

They had all stopped listening to Kendricks. Farrow picked up his beer and went to the front window of the house. He looked out into the absolute darkness.

They were in a small brick rambler in the woods of southern Maryland. Off 301 somewhere and down a couple of two-lane black-tops, near a place called Nanjemoy, that’s all Farrow knew. They’d stayed here before the May’s job, but Booker Kendricks had been in Lorton then, and they’d been alone. This Kendricks could really get on his nerves. But Kendricks would be all right if anything went down. Farrow knew his history, and his type.

Farrow imagined they could do a job in D.C., and finish their business, in the space of a week or so. Then they could all get on their way.

Headlights appeared down the long dirt road that cut through the woods to the house. As they approached, Farrow could see that these were the lights of a late-model car.

“Here he comes,” said Farrow.

Kendricks pulled a Rossi. 22 from underneath the chair. He locked back the trigger without moving his eyes from the screen.

The headlights were killed out in the yard, and then there were footsteps and a knock on the door. Farrow looked through the peephole and unfastened the dead bolt. He pulled the door open and stepped back.

“T. W.,” said Farrow.

“Frank,” said Thomas Wilson, stepping inside. “Long time.”

You remember Roman,” said Frank Farrow.

“How’s it goin’, man?” said Thomas Wilson, nodding at Otis.

He saw that Otis was still dressing sharp. Still doin’ that Nick Ashford thing with his hair, too.

“I’m makin’ it,” said Otis, smiling amiably, reaching over and shaking Wilson’s hand.

Wilson did not let the handshake linger. You could mistake Otis’s easy manner for weakness. He had seen a couple of men make that mistake up in Lewisburg. Roman Otis wasn’t nothin’ much more than Frank Farrow with a smile.

“Say hello to Gus Lavonicus,” said Farrow.

“Gus,” said Wilson. He saw an ugly white giant sitting at what looked like a child’s desk. The giant waved awkwardly and turned his attention back to the sheet of paper before him.

“And this here’s Booker Kendricks,” said Farrow.

Wilson looked at the skinny, greasy-lookin’ hustler with the yellow eyes, slouched in the chair. A pistol hung limply in his clawlike hand. Kendricks did not acknowledge Wilson. Wilson felt it was just as well.

“Beer?” said Farrow.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Get T. W. a beer, Booker,” said Otis.

“Damn, can’t y’all see I’m watchin’ this shit?” said Kendricks. “Starks is getting ready to light it up, too!”

“Get it,” said Farrow.

Kendricks went to the kitchen as Wilson took a seat on the couch next to Otis. Farrow stayed on his feet. He leaned forward and rustled his pack of Kools in Wilson’s face.

“Cigarette?” said Farrow.

“Nah,” said Wilson. “Thanks.”

“This used to be your brand in the joint, I remember right.”

“I gave them up a long time ago.”

Charles convinced me to throw them away for good.

Kendricks returned, placed an open bottle of beer on the cable-spool table in front of Wilson. Kendricks went back to the oversize chair and had a seat.