George Pelecanos: Shame the Devil

Back in the office, Otis had changed into a brown-on-beige monochromatic shirt-and-slacks arrangement with matching brown weave shoes. He had tied his hair back tightly in a ponytail and wore wire-rimmed shades that darkened in the light.

Otis smiled when Farrow walked back into the room. “Lookin’ all Clark Kent on me now.”

“You take your share?”

“I took it.” Otis picked up his pack. “Too bad about that pizza boy. I know he would have talked when it got hot. Shame, though, we had to do him like we did.”

“We did have to. Come on.”

“Okay, amigo,” said Farrow as he and Otis reentered the garage. “Come on over here.”

Jaime ground a live butt under his boot and followed Manuel to where the hard men stood. Farrow chin-nodded in the direction of two cars parked in the back of the garage.

“That us?” said Farrow.

“Yes,” said Manuel. “The Taurus is yours.”

“I ask for a shitwagon?” said Farrow.

“You asked for something that would not attract attention,” said Manuel. “The body is rough, I admit. I did not touch the metal.”

“Does it run?”

“It will run, yes. It’s a SHO. I took the identifying bumper off. It looks quiet, like an old man’s car. But it is very quick. Redline it if you wish.”

“How about mine?” said Otis, looking at the two-tone brown-and-beige ’79 Mark V parked beside the Taurus.

“The Bill Blass model,” said Manuel, a glint in his eye. “What you asked for. Under the hood is -”

“I ain’t never gonna look under the hood, Man-you-el, you know that. Will it take me across country?”

“Were it not for the ocean, it would take you around the world.”

“What about the sounds? You put that unit in I was tellin’ you about?”

“Yes. You load the disks in the trunk.”

Otis said, “Always wanted me a box like that, too.”

Farrow reached into the duffel bag and tossed a thick stack of bills to Manuel. “Count it with your fingers,” said Farrow. “Go ahead.”

Manuel went through the money.

Farrow looked at Jaime and said, “Now you.”

Jaime shrugged, took the money from Manuel, licked his thumb and forefinger elaborately, and counted the bills.

Farrow said, “It’s what we agreed upon, no?”

Manuel regarded Farrow and nodded slowly.

“Give it here,” said Farrow, and when Jaime handed him the money he said, “I’ll just keep this stack as a souvenir. It’s got your fingerprints on it – in case there’s any question of who was involved in what.”

“We’ll keep it on file,” said Otis, “just like the FBI.”

“But let me make this clear,” said Farrow, “in case you get the feeling you want to unburden your conscience.”

“You don’ haf to worry,” said Manuel.

“Let him make it clear,” said Otis.

“Well, we all know the code. I mean, we all came up the same way. But to remind you… You and Jaime, you ever feel the need to talk, I want you to remember something -”

“Let me tell this part, Frank,” said Otis.

“Go ahead.”

“You talk,” said Otis, “we’re just gonna have to go ahead and fuck up your families. Comprende? ”

“Is no problem,” said Manuel, shaking his head, his eyes closed solemnly.

“Didn’t think it would be,” said Otis.

Farrow tossed a new stack of money to Manuel. “That’s yours to keep. Count it.”

“I trust you,” said Manuel, and Otis laughed.

“The keys under the mats?” said Farrow.

Manuel nodded. Farrow and Otis began to walk away.

“What would you have us do with the man in the trunk?” Manuel asked.

Farrow turned. “You keep old car batteries here, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do this: Drop a battery on his mouth until his teeth are busted out.”

“Now wait -”

“Pour battery acid on his face and fingers. Cut his head and his limbs off, and bury his pieces in different spots. Bury the guns and the gloves as well.”

“But… he is your brother. ”

Farrow did not reply. He and Otis walked to the cars.

“That fingerprints-on-the-money thing,” said Otis. “That was pretty slick.”

“They’re scared enough to believe it.”

“I think you put the fear into ’em for real,” said Otis. “So where you gonna be?”

“Remember Lee Toomey?”

“Sure. He settled in this state, didn’t he? Down on the Eastern Shore?”

“Right. He hooked me up with a straight gig.”

“Straight, huh.”

“For a while. You?”

“You need me, you can get me through my sister Cissy, out in Cali.”

“She still in the L.A. phone book?”

“You know it.”

Otis clapped Farrow on the arm, shook his hand as he would another black man’s.

“All right, Frank.”

Farrow said, “All right.”

Manuel had opened the bay door and was waving them on. Farrow drove the SHO out first, and Otis followed in the Mark V.

Manuel Ruiz closed the door and walked toward Jaime, who stood by the LTD’s open trunk. Jaime Gutierrez was staring into the trunk while trying to put fire to a cigarette. His hand shook, and it was difficult to touch the flame to the tip.

Manuel put his thumb to his fingers and crossed himself. He went to the far corner of the garage, where a couple of old batteries were resting on wooden pallets. He lifted one of the batteries and carried it back to the LTD.

Nick Stefanos tucked a black denim shirt into jeans and had a seat on the edge of his bed. He leaned forward to tie his shoes and felt a rush of dizziness. Cool sweat broke upon his forehead. He sat up and waited for the feeling to pass. In an hour or so he’d be fine.

Stefanos shaved with a cup of coffee in front of him and the last Jawbox booming from his Polk speakers back in the bedroom. “Iodine,” the CD’s soul-tinged rocker, had just kicked in. He rubbed his cheek, downed a last swig of coffee, and gargled a capful of breath wash. In his bedroom he grabbed an envelope and a shrink-wrapped CD off his dresser.

Stefanos snagged his brown leather jacket off a peg by the door, turned up his collar, locked the apartment, and left the house. He picked up the morning Post from his landlord’s front lawn and got under the wheel of his white-over-red Coronet 500, parked at the curb. He turned over the engine and drove a couple of miles out of Shepherd Park to the Takoma Metro station, where he caught a downtown train.

He found a seat on the right side of the car. Seasoned Red Line riders knew to go there, as the morning sun blew blinding rays through the left windows of the southbound cars, causing a sickening, furnace brand of heat. “Doors closing,” said a recorded female voice, and Stefanos couldn’t help but smile. It always sounded like “George Clinton” to him.

The train got rolling as Stefanos pulled the Metro section from the Post and scanned its front page. One of the section’s rotating columnists had written yet another piece on the ongoing dismantlement of Home Rule.

Quietly, and with surprisingly little resistance, the Feds had taken over the nation’s capital. Congress had appointed a control board and a city manager, a white female Texan who would oversee a town whose black residents made up more than 80 percent of the population. A former military general had been put in charge of the public school system, with little positive effect. Under his “leadership,” public schools had opened seven weeks late the previous fall due to long-neglected repairs. D.C. residents continued to pay taxes but had no meaningful voting representation in the House or the Senate, and the elected city council had been stripped of its power. The mayor was now in charge of little more than parades.