George Pelecanos - Shame the Devil

“I wouldn’t say it’s unnecessary,” said Otis. “Only thing I’m askin’ is, let’s be smart about it, right? I mean, we’re sittin’ out here in the broad daylight and shit. We were lucky to get out of this town the first time around, Frank. I just don’t think we ought to be so fast about temptin’ the gods of fate, man. You know what I’m sayin’?”

“It was you who said we could come back here for this. Remember?”

“I remember.” Otis sighed. “I’m with you, man. You don’t have to doubt that, hear?”

“That’s all I wanted to know.”

A tall young man with a leather book bag slung over his shoulder came from the Jonas house and walked toward a Toyota parked on the street.

“There’s one of his sons,” said Farrow. “Looks like the one from the photograph we sent to Jonas. Christopher is his name.”

Christopher Jonas got into the Toyota, started it, and drove down Hamlin. Farrow ignitioned the Mustang.

“Here we go,” said Farrow, pulling off the curb.

Otis kicked the volume up on the radio to where it had been.

“Cancer,” said Otis. “And my name is Larry. And I like a woman that likes everythang and everybody…”

They followed Christopher Jonas across town and southwest, over to Georgia and down New Hampshire for a long stretch, around one of D.C.’s many circles, past a hospital, to where students walked the sidewalks along dormitory-style brick buildings.

“George Washington University,” said Otis, studying the detail map. “Boy must have a brain in his head.”

The Toyota went into a garage. Farrow did not want to be trapped inside the structure, so he went around the block and found a spot on the street. The meter where they parked was without a head, as were most of the meters they’d seen since they’d been in town. They sat in the car, waiting. A cop car sat idling at a red light ahead. The light turned green, and as the cop car prepared to accelerate, another car ran the opposing red, blowing through the intersection. The cop car did not pursue the offender.

“That’s not the first time I’ve seen that,” said Otis.

“Yeah,” said Farrow. “Man could get the crazy idea that there’s no police presence in this town.”

“Our kind of place,” said Otis. “Right?”

Christopher Jonas emerged from the garage and crossed the street.

“Wait here,” said Farrow.

He stepped out of the car and followed Christopher on foot. Otis reached over, turned the ignition key, and hit the power button on the radio. Otis decided to let the car run while he listened to music. Frank wouldn’t like it if he put a drain on the battery.

Christopher Jonas went into an eat-house called D.J.’s. Farrow hung outside and looked through the plate glass window. He watched the Jonas kid greet a couple of his friends, two white kids and a Paki-looking girl, at a long table. Jonas kissed the girl and had a seat by her side.

Farrow went around the corner to a bank of pay phones and dropped thirty-five cents in one of the change slots. He punched in the number he read off a slip of notepaper he had pulled from his coat.

“Jonas residence,” said a female voice on the other end of the line.

“Afternoon,” said Farrow. “Would it be possible to have a word with Bill?”

Roman Otis watched Farrow go around the front entrance of the carryout shop up ahead. He could see a sliver of Frank, lifting the receiver off a pay phone. He wondered what Frank was up to now.

Watching Farrow, he sang along softly to that Manhattans single “Kiss and Say Goodbye.” This was one of those special classics that Otis did so well.

A campus cop car slowed down as it passed the Mustang, then accelerated and took a right at the next corner.

“‘Understand me,’” sang Otis, “‘won’t you try-yi-yi; let’s just kiss and say good bye…’”

Otis was on the last verse when he looked in the rearview and saw the campus cop. The car had circled the block and was slowing to a stop and double-parking behind him. Otis took his shades from his breast pocket and put them on. Without leaning forward, he reached down and touched the butt of the. 45 he had slipped beneath the bucket. He pushed it back an inch or so and let himself relax.

The cop got out of his car and walked to the driver’s side of the Mustang. He made a motion for Otis to roll down the window. Otis reached across the bucket and did it. He looked up at the cop: white boy, wearin’ his first mustache, couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or so.

“Officer,” said Otis with a wide smile.

“Afternoon. Something wrong?”

“No, sir, not a thing.”

“I noticed the car was idling without a driver.”

“Waitin’ on my friend. Was trying to keep the heater running, cold as it is.”

“It’s not all that cold today.”

“Is for me. I’m up here from Florida.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“Makin’ a call on the corner there. He should be right along.”

The cop shuffled his feet. He looked at the Korean place called D.J.’s on the corner and back at Otis.

“Excuse me a minute,” said the cop. “I’ll be right back.”

Otis saw the cop go and get into the driver’s seat of his car, the door open, one foot out planted on the street. He watched the cop lift the radio mic, speak into it as he read the plate numbers off the car.

“C’mon, Frank,” said Otis, more annoyed than anything else. “You fuckin’ around too much now.”

Dee Jonas handed her husband their cordless phone.

“Jonas here.”

“Bill?”

“Yes.”

“How’s it going?”

“Who is this?”

“An old friend. I’m back in town for a few days. Thought I’d say hello.”

“Who is this?” repeated Jonas.

“You have a good-looking family, Bill. I’m looking at your son Chris right now, and he’s a very handsome boy. Got a lot of friends, too. He’s sweet on an Indian girl, Bill. You know that?”

Jonas looked over his shoulder. His wife was back in the kitchen. He lowered his voice and said, “I’m going to ask you again -”

“Chris is tall. He drives a Toyota and he carries a leather book bag.”

“Coward.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re good at keeping your distance. You sent me a photograph. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right. I’m the man who put you in that chair.”

“What kind of rock did you crawl out from under?” growled Jonas.

“All kinds of rocks. Reformatories, state prisons, federal joints… I’ve been under all sorts of rocks my whole life, Bill.”

“Keep talking. Tell me more.”

“You killed my brother Richard, and now I’m going to have to kill your son. That’s all you need to know. Good bye, Bill.”

“Damnit!” yelled Jonas.

Bill Jonas heard a click on the other end of the line. Then he heard a dial tone and threw the phone onto the couch.

Dee Jonas had come from the kitchen. She was standing by its entrance, wringing her hands on a towel.

“What is it, Bill?” she said.

“It’s nothing,” said Jonas. “I lost my temper at a salesman, is all. Shoulda taken my number out of the book years ago.”

Jonas wheeled himself to the bay window. He rubbed his knuckle against his teeth and felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder. He looked down at his skinny, useless legs lying crookedly in the seat of the chair.

“Richard,” said Jonas under his breath.

“What?” said Dee.

“Pack your bags. Pack bags for our sons, too. I want you all to go down to Tidewater, to your mother’s place. It’ll only be for a few days.”

“Why, Bill?”

“Don’t ask me why.”

“You can’t stay here by yourself.”