George Pelecanos - Shame the Devil

“What happened?” said Karras.

“Burke had been shaking down Nick for protection money all along. He sent some men he knew from Philly to talk to Nick, and they pushed him too far. Pete and Nick and Costa slaughtered those men in the back of the grill, late one night.”

Karras and Stefanos said nothing.

Boyle cleared his throat. “Burke must have found out that they killed his associates. He couldn’t let it lie. I figure he planned to take down Nick and burn his place to the ground. Joe Recevo knew it and tipped Pete. Joe and Pete stood together and turned Burke’s row house into a battlefield. They stepped in and stopped it all right there.”

“Dimitri’s father saved my grandfather’s life,” said Stefanos. Boyle nodded. “What they did was beyond the scope of the law. But the law isn’t always the answer. What they did was necessary. And it’s important that you know. That who they were is passed on to their own blood. If it’s not passed on, then their lives meant nothing.”

Stefanos glanced up. Karras was staring at him, and he looked away.

“I’m tired,” said Jimmy Boyle.

“We’ll leave you now,” said Stefanos.

Karras squeezed the hand of his father’s friend.

They found Dan Boyle in the day room, sitting beside a bloodless, gray man in a wheelchair. Both of them were drinking beers.

“Come on,” said Karras, putting his head in the doorway.

“Right,” said Boyle.

The three of them left the building. Darkness had fallen. They walked across the parking lot to the car.

“I could use a drink,” said Karras.

“Now you’re talkin’,” said Boyle. “Guess we’ll head back to the Spot. Okay by you, Nick?”

Stefanos didn’t answer. He was thinking of his grandfather, Nick Stefanos. He was thinking of Dimitri’s father, Pete Karras, and Jimmy Boyle, the man facing death back in that bed. Knowing with certainty that nothing was accidental. That everything started long ago and led to something else and couldn’t be stopped. Knowing now, too, that he and Dimitri Karras were linked for life.

Stefanos, Karras, and Boyle entered the Spot. Karras and Boyle found two stools in the center of the bar. A small man wearing a beret drained his beer, put his coat on, and waved good-bye.

“Good night, sweet princess,” said the man.

“See you, Charlie,” said Mai.

Closing time at the Spot was anywhere from seven-thirty to eight o’clock – an unusual arrangement for a bar. But the Spot’s drinkers were working people and cops who got plowed early and made their way home, stopping at other joints along the way. The neighborhood juicers were hip to the house hours and went elsewhere late at night. That was how Phil Saylor wanted it to go.

“I got it, Mai,” said Stefanos, walking around the bar.

“Thanks, Nicky.” She reached behind her, undid pins, and shook out her hair. As she did this her breasts jiggled inside her marine T-shirt.

“Do that again,” said Boyle.

“Do what, Danny?”

“Go on,” said Stefanos, “get out of here. Say hello to Sergeant Slaughter.”

“It’s DeLaughter. And I will.”

She kissed Stefanos on the cheek and bolted out the door. Stefanos set Karras up with a beer and put a Jack and a beer in front of Boyle. Boyle picked up the A section of the Post. He read intently, chuckling under his breath as Stefanos finished up with Mai’s closing procedure.

“Here’s one for you,” said Boyle to Karras. “Ah, jeez. The press dug up some internal memos on the mayor’s million-dollar security detail. This story talks about how the guys on the detail drive the mayor around town, drop him off at ‘unscheduled stops,’ and sit out on the street and wait. Sometimes they check on him, and he comes to the door ‘partially clothed.’ The mayor says he’s just visiting ‘associates and political supporters’ and looking for ‘some good conversation.’ The taxpayers are footing the one-million-dollar bill for the mayor to whore around, and the schoolkids in this town can’t get protection or books or roofs that don’t leak. Yeah, and that general they got to run the schools, he’s doin’ a real good job. And you know what? If the mayor runs again he’s gonna get reelected. And if he gets reelected, the people who voted him back in won’t see Home Rule again for a long while.” Boyle lit a cigarette and talked through the smoke. “Funny city you guys live in, right?”

Neither Karras nor Stefanos replied.

Boyle folded the newspaper and tossed it aside. Stefanos pulled the green netting off the inside lip of the bar, rinsed it, and laid it out on the service area to dry. He put Jacks amp; Kings, an old Night-hawks tape, into the box. A guy named Hap had left it one evening in the bar.

Boyle got up, went to the phone, and called William Jonas. He told Jonas he’d be over to his house shortly. Then he went back to the bar and had a seat.

“My wife worries about me,” said Boyle before killing his shot of Jack.

“I’ll bet,” said Karras.

Stefanos cracked three more beers. He served Karras and Boyle. He opened a bottle for himself, tipped it back to his lips, and drank hungrily.

“Hey, Nick,” said Boyle, “hit me with another mash.”

Stefanos poured Jack Daniel’s into Boyle’s shot glass.

“Christ,” said Karras, “you guys like to drink.”

“Think we might have a problem with it?” said Boyle.

Karras sipped his beer. He was no drinker, but it tasted good tonight.

“Turn this up,” said Boyle. “I remember seeing these guys at the old Psychedelly. ’Bout time you played some good music in this joint. And they say white boys can’t play the blues.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Boyle, but it’s blacks and whites playing together on this one. Muddy Waters’s backup band. Guitar Jr. and Pinetop Perkins on the ivories.”

“Pinetop Perkins,” said Boyle. “Who the hell is that?”

They drank some more. They listened to Boyle talk about the jungle out there and his daughter’s third-world boyfriends and how Keith Van Horn was going to dominate in the NBA. Karras said little, smiling strangely at Stefanos until Stefanos had to look away. Then Boyle looked at his watch and told them he had to go.

“I’m baby-sitting tonight,” said Boyle, winking at Stefanos as he slipped into his wrinkled raincoat. He left money on the bar, clapped Karras on the shoulder, and left the Spot.

Baby-sitting, thought Karras. Couldn’t Boyle come up with anything better than that? Who in the hell would ever leave a baby with Boyle, anyway?

He relaxed. He was glad that Boyle was gone. Karras finished another beer.

Stefanos poured three fingers of Grand-Dad into a heavy, beveled shot glass and set it next to his bottle of Bud. The lights went out in the kitchen, and Darnell walked from the darkness. He adjusted his leather kufi on his head and buttoned his coat.

“Late for you to be getting out,” said Stefanos.

“Was waitin’ for your redneck friend to leave,” said Darnell. “He asks me if I can dunk again, me and him are gonna have it out.”

“Can you?”

“Funny.” Darnell looked at the bourbon-and-beer setup in front of Stefanos. “Want me to hang around? You could drop me uptown.”

“We’re gonna be a while,” said Stefanos.

“Let me get on out of here, then,” said Darnell. “Dimitri. Nick.” Stefanos locked the front door behind Darnell and went back around the bar.

“Darnell tries to pull me out of here every night,” said Stefanos.

“He doesn’t have too much luck, I take it.”

“Not too much. I guess I’m one of those guys who can’t be saved.” Stefanos put one foot up on the beer cooler and raised his glass. “Yasou, re.”