George Pelecanos - Shame the Devil

“Listen, Frank -”

“Don’t let it bother you, all right? Wouldn’t want your nerves to get the better of you.” Farrow removed his black-rimmed nonprescription glasses. “Now. How’s it going on our upcoming prospects?”

“Working on that,” said Wilson. “Been out in the clubs, listenin’ to people talk. Gonna find something real good for the two of you, you’ll see.”

“You been clubbin’, huh?” said Otis. “Must be gettin’ a lot of pussy, too, with that up-to-the-minute look you got goin’ on.”

“Find something soon,” said Farrow. “We don’t want to be here any longer than we have to.” Farrow checked his watch. “Come on, let’s see how they’re getting along out there.”

“I’ll just wait here,” said Otis, “let my legs straighten out for a while.”

Farrow and Wilson walked back out to the garage. Going around the corner, they nearly bumped into Manuel and Jaime and a man in a brown leather jacket they were talking to. The man’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of Wilson.

“Hey,” said the man in a friendly way.

“How you doin’?” said Wilson.

“Nick Stefanos,” said the man, extending his hand. “Remember?”

Wilson remembered. It was that investigator, Dimitri’s friend, the one from the meeting last Tuesday night.

Nick Stefanos found the street called Selim in downtown Silver Spring and parked his ride outside Hanagan’s Auto Body behind a late-model Chrysler product. He rang the bell beside the door of the unmarked bay located between Hanagan’s and Rossi Automotive, and zipped up his leather as he waited. The door opened and a short, black-haired, Indian-featured Hispanic stood in the frame. The name “Manuel” was stitched across his uniform shirt.

“Yes?”

“Nick Stefanos. I’m an investigator with the District of Columbia.” Stefanos flipped open the leather cover and let Manuel inspect his ID. “Do you have a minute? I have a couple of questions.”

Manuel looked over his shoulder and back at Stefanos. He knew Stefanos was not a cop, but the investigator tag had raised the red authority flag in his mind. This was Stefanos’s intent. If this Manuel was like most people, he’d let Stefanos have his minute, if only to get rid of him for good.

“What is this?”

“A case I’m working on for the courts.”

“A court case?”

Stefanos decided to cut right to it. This one’s shell looked hard enough.

“It’s not about you or your business,” said Stefanos. “I’m not IRS and I’m not immigration. I’m just trying to locate a particular car.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Ford.” Stefanos blew into his hands. “Look, can I come in and warm up?”

Manuel looked him over. “Come on. But I have much work to do today, okay?”

“I’ll be quick.”

As they entered, Stefanos saw a mechanic in the back of the garage quickly pull a tarp over an early-seventies, muscled-up Mustang. Stefanos only saw the car for a couple of seconds, but the lines were unmistakable. Stefanos walked toward the mechanic, whose obvious, urgent action had sparked his curiosity. Manuel walked beside him.

“You’re Manuel Ruiz, right?”

“Yes,” said Manuel, clearly perturbed. “How do you know this?”

“Al Adamson. You know Al, don’t you?”

“ Si. The Continental man.”

Stefanos kept walking. The mechanic met them past an entrance-way to a hall of some kind. All of them stepped around a corner.

“You must be Jaime Gutierrez,” said Stefanos. He noticed the teardrop tattoos on the side of Jaime’s bony face.

“Yes,” said Jaime, glancing nervously at his partner.

“I won’t keep you guys. I’m trying to locate an old Torino. A special-edition Ford called the Twister, red -”

Jaime spoke Spanish to Manuel, and then Manuel said, “We know of no such car.”

“You guys specialize in Ford restorations, right?”

“We do not know this car,” said Manuel. “I do know of a Torino man, though. On Route One in Laurel.”

“Who is it?”

Manuel gave him the man’s name and the location of his garage. Stefanos was writing it down when he heard the voices of two other men, and then the men, one white and one black, were right upon them as they turned the corner.

Stefanos recognized the black man. It was Thomas Wilson, one of the guys from Dimitri’s group.

“Hey,” said Stefanos.

“How you doin’?” said Wilson with a shaky smile.

“Nick Stefanos. Remember?”

“I forgot something in the office,” said the white man, walking back around the corner.

Stefanos speed-scanned the man before he turned: medium height, solid build, flat eyes, thin lips, a Cassavetes type with dyed-black hair and Clark Kent glasses on his lined face.

“What you doin’ here, man?” said Wilson in a friendly way.

“I’m working a case. How about you?”

Wilson spread his hands. “Gettin’ my car checked out.”

“Thought you drove a Dodge,” said Stefanos, realizing then that it was Wilson’s car he had parked behind out on Selim. “This is a Ford shop, isn’t it?”

Wilson forced a grin. “Yeah, but my boys here… they make an exception when it comes to my short.”

“Okay.” Stefanos closed his notebook. “Well, I’ve gotta run. Thanks for your time, Manuel. Take it easy, Thomas.”

“Yeah, man, take it light.”

Stefanos shook Manuel’s hand. He nodded to Jaime and Wilson and walked from the garage.

Driving back into D.C., he thought of the teardrop tattoos on Jaime’s face: prison tats, or those from a gang. He thought of the odd, hard man who had rushed off. He thought of Thomas Wilson, a Dodge man, getting his car done in a Ford restoration shop. He wondered what Wilson was doing hanging around these men. And he had that crazy feeling again, the same feeling he’d had the night of the meeting: the feeling that something was not right.

After the man in the brown leather jacket had gone, Frank Farrow and Roman Otis emerged from the office and crossed the garage.

Farrow said to Thomas Wilson, “Who was that?”

“Ask Manuel,” said Wilson with a clumsy shrug.

“You knew him,” said Farrow. “I’m asking you.”

“I met him at a party last week,” said Wilson. “Seeing him here today was just one of those accidents.”

“He was looking for a car,” said Manuel.

Jaime dragged hard on his cigarette and stared down at his boots.

“He looked like some kind of cop,” said Farrow.

“I don’t think so,” said Manuel. “He was only looking for a car.”

Farrow regarded Manuel and said, “All right. How much to use the Mustang for the week?”

“Seven hundred,” said Manuel.

“You’ve raised your rates.”

“The car was bought from the Old Car Trader. It is all legal, down to the plates.”

“Here.” Farrow counted out seven hundred-dollar bills. “Have something ready for me that I can buy when I bring the Mustang back. I want it clean and fast.”

“You will have it,” said Manuel.

“’Bout ready, Frank?” said Otis.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

“See you later, Man-you-el,” said Otis. “Jamey.”

“Stay in touch, T. W.,” said Farrow.

Wilson said, “Right.”

Farrow and Otis went to the Mach 1 and settled into its white buckets. Farrow cooked the ignition; the rumble echoed in the garage. He looked across the buckets and smiled at Otis. Otis took his. 45 from his coat and slipped it beneath his seat. Farrow put the automatic in gear.

They drove south on Georgia Avenue. A cop car passed them on the right, its uniformed driver slowing down to have a look at the Mach 1.