George Pelecanos - Shame the Devil

“He’s breathing,” said Stefanos.

“Gimme a minute to clean up.”

“Hurry up, man. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

The Mustang blocked the alley. Boyle stepped around it.

“Check on Wilson,” yelled Stefanos.

Boyle walked down the alley. As he walked, he fitted his gloves onto his hands.

Thomas Wilson had a dream.

He and Charles were running and playing in Fort Stevens Park. Charles was seven or eight years old, and when Thomas looked down at his own skinny forearms and legs, he realized that he was the same age.

They were playing army, and it was a bright spring day. The park’s flag was popping in the breeze, and Charles was laughing and making shooting sounds with the invisible rifle cradled in his arms.

A white boy and a white man were silhouetted against the sun and standing on the top of the steep hill that semicircled the park. The man waved at Thomas Wilson.

“Come on, Charlie,” said Wilson. “Let’s go talk to that man!”

“All right!”

Wilson and Charles scurried up the hill to see what was on the man’s mind. When they got there, Wilson looked up at the man, who now blocked the sun. The man’s hand was on his boy’s shoulder, and the boy’s head was resting comfortably against his father’s hip.

“What’s up, mister?” said Thomas Wilson.

“Been waiting on you to get here, partner,” said the man, pushing his Orioles cap back on his head.

Thomas Wilson looked around the park with wonder. “Sure is a beautiful day.”

Bernie Walters smiled.

Boyle stood over the corpse of Thomas Wilson. He opened the Baggie and unfolded the snow-seals of a couple of grams of cocaine and sprinkled powder on Wilson’s face and chest. He dropped the snow-seals onto Wilson and left the. 38 in Wilson’s hand.

The one Stefanos had described as Otis was still alive. Bastard was making crazy sounds. Gasping for breath but also trying to sing or something. That’s what it sounded like to Boyle, anyway. Boyle pulled the. 380 from his jacket pocket and walked across the warehouse floor.

Roman Otis had always wondered how he would face death. He was dying now, there wasn’t any doubt about that. He decided to think of good things, let it happen while he was off somewhere else. Die peaceful the way he’d always hoped he would.

He couldn’t breathe too good. And it was hard to take his mind off the pain.

He’d had that Commodores song on his mind all day, couldn’t get it out of his head. He tried to sing a little bit of that. He closed his eyes and imagined palm trees, riding along Little Santa Monica in his Bill Blass Continental, that girl he’d left behind at El Rancho, his favorite bar, down on Sunset.

He opened his eyes. A big white man stood over him, easing a round into an automatic he held in a gloved hand. Looked like some kind of cop.

Otis raised some spit. He tried to spit at the cop, but he was weak and, lying on his back like he was, the spit shot straight up about a foot or so and came right back down on his face.

With the luck he’d had today, would be just like him to go and spit in his own face. Otis laughed. It made a gurgling kind of sound that didn’t sound much like a laugh, but that’s what it was, just the same.

The cop took a step back, aimed the gun, and raised his palm to avoid the blow-back.

Watch yourself, Hoss, thought Otis. Don’t want to get any on that fucked-up raincoat you wearin’.

Stefanos heard a shot. Ten minutes later Boyle returned to the Dodge. He got into the passenger seat and looked over his shoulder. Karras was facing the seat, sprawled across the back bench on his side.

“Wilson?” said Stefanos.

“Wilson didn’t make it,” said Boyle, and Stefanos shut his eyes. “You clean off that Mustang?”

“I wiped it the best I could. What about you?”

“They get to this crime scene, they’re gonna be nothin’ but confused.”

“Dimitri needs to get that forehead stitched.”

“We’ll take him into D.C.,” said Boyle. “And pull over at a pay phone when we get on the road. I gotta phone Bill Jonas.”

“What for?”

“He needs to call his family,” said Boyle as Stefanos ignitioned the Dodge. “Tell ’em it’s okay to come back home.”

On a warm, sunny morning, Dan Boyle and William Jonas sat in the living room of Jonas’s house on Hamlin Street, drinking coffee and reading the Sunday edition of the Washington Post. In the past few months it had become a ritual for Boyle to stop by for some conversation on his way back from mass. Jonas’s sons didn’t care much for Detective Boyle, but the boys kept their displeasure to themselves. It was obvious that some kind of bond had developed between their father and the white cop.

Boyle read the “Crime and Justice” column of the Metro section aloud to Jonas.

“ ‘A Northeast man was found with multiple stab wounds in the stairwell of a housing unit in Marshall Heights. Police are withholding the name of the victim until relatives can be notified. A police spokesman says there are no suspects at this time.’ ”

“Guy loses his life and he gets three sentences of copy,” said Jonas. “If that was a white man in Potomac got stabbed, it’d be front-page news. The Post might as well call that section the ‘Violent Negro Death Roundup.’ For all the value that newspaper places on African American life -”

“Yeah,” said Boyle, scratching his head, wondering what Bill was so hacked off about. “I know what you mean.”

“Keep reading.”

Boyle continued. “Randy Weston, of Northwest, was fatally wounded last night in what several witnesses have described as a brazen homicide outside a Southeast nightclub. Police are holding Sean Forjay, also of Northwest, in connection with the shooting.” Boyle looked up and smiled. “Sean. Think he’s Irish?”

Jonas didn’t answer.

Boyle handed the A section to Jonas and pointed a thick finger at a story below the fold on the front page. “You read this?”

Jonas looked at the story. The headline read, “After Three Years, Pizza Parlor Murders Remain Unsolved.”

“I read it,” said Jonas.

“The surviving family members of the victims declined to comment for the article.”

“They talked about Wilson in there, how he was part of that support group.”

“I know it,” said Boyle. “Mentioned his bizarre death in a drug-related shoot-out.”

“Shame he has to be remembered like that to his uncle Lindo, the one that had that hauling business.”

“There wasn’t any time to make it look any other way. Wilson died knowing he’d done good, I expect. But once you’re dead, you’re dead. I don’t think he’s listening to what anyone’s saying about him now.”

“You believe that?”

“Yeah.”

“But you went to church this morning.”

Boyle finished his coffee and stood. “Call me superstitious.”

He shook Jonas’s hand and told him he’d see him next week. He left the house.

William Jonas wheeled himself over to the bay window. Christopher was out front, mowing the lawn. Jonas watched Boyle greet his son with his idea of a black man’s handshake. Then Boyle mimed a jump shot and punched Christopher on the shoulder. As Boyle walked toward his car, Christopher looked up at the window, where he knew his father would be, and rolled his eyes.

“Crazy bastard,” said Jonas.

Someday, maybe, he’d tell his family that Boyle had saved their lives.

Nick Stefanos pushed his plate to the side and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

“More coffee, Nick?” said Darnell.

“Thanks.”

Darnell poured from a pot. “How was your breakfast?”