Shame the Devil

  Karras fired his gun. The .45 jumped in his hand and he fired again and the weapon bucked. He saw the blur that was Farrow through the ejecting shells and the gunsmoke that had exploded into the room.

  Wilson was falling. He fired and saw blood erupt from Otis’s neck as he drifted back. Wilson’s last shot blew lights from the ceiling as he hit the concrete.

  Karras saw flame spit from Farrow’s gun. The roar of the gun was deafening, and Karras kept firing and felt something graze his scalp and it burned. The Colt’s receiver slid open as the final shot was expended, and Karras tumbled over the desk as rounds blew through particle board and bits of pressed wood bit sharply at his face.

  He dropped his gun and covered up. A bell sound vibrated in his ears. Through the sound, he heard the door open at the front of the warehouse.

  Karras stood and waved smoke from his face. The smell of cordite was heavy in the room. His feet crunched copper casings as he went to Thomas Wilson. He kicked the gun from Otis’s hand and kept on walking for Wilson.

  He knelt over Wilson. The left side of Wilson’s face was ruined, a stew of blood and bone. There was blood in his lap and on his thighs and blood had pooled beneath him.

  “I’m going to get help,” said Karras. “You’re going to live, Thomas, you hear me?”

  Wilson blinked his eyes and squeezed Karras’s hand.

  “You came in a car,” said Karras. His eyes felt wild and jittery, and he squinted to make them small. He didn’t want Thomas to be afraid.

  Wilson’s eyes shifted in the direction of Otis.

  “I’ll be back,” said Karras. “You’re gonna be okay. You did good, Thomas, hear?” His words sounded hollow coming from his mouth.

  Karras went to Otis. His white shirt was soaked red and it flapped beneath the left arm. He had taken another bullet in the throat. He was dying. A wheezing noise came from his open mouth.

  Karras searched Otis’s pockets and found the keys. Karras stood and sprinted for the warehouse door.

  Frank Farrow pulled his fingers away from his stomach, where he had been pressing them at the point of pain. There was a black hole ripped in his shirt, and blood leaked freely from the hole.

  Farrow started for the Mustang and realized Roman had the keys. He stumbled toward the alley. He’d get to the main road, hijack a car up there.

  He made it to the alley. He heard his name called and turned. The gray-haired man had come from the warehouse. He had yelled his name and now he was walking toward the Mach 1.

  Farrow ran into the alley as the Mustang’s ignition cut the night.

  Karras fastened his seat belt. He put the transmission in reverse to back out of the spot. The car went back and he pushed down on the brake pedal, but the car did not stop, and he slammed the trans into drive to make it stop. The Mustang caught rubber as he blew across the lot and steered it into the alley.

  Farrow was running down the alley, bent forward and holding his stomach, up ahead. There was no protection in the alley, and he was running to get through to the other side.

  Karras accelerated. He reached Farrow quickly, and Farrow turned and leaped up onto the hood of the car. Farrow was on the hood and he began to slide down the hood, and Karras could see that he was confused and afraid. Farrow grabbed the inlay of the scoop as he slipped down the hood of the car and Karras gave the Mustang gas. He pinned the accelerator and the car lifted as the speedometer climbed and Farrow’s face through the windshield was all fear. His legs slipped down over the grille and his hands were white, gripping the scoop on the hood.

  Past Farrow, Karras saw the Dumpster at the end of the alley, and he pressed down on the brake so he could swing wide of it, but the car did not slow and now they were heading straight for the Dumpster as the alley walls bled off at their sides.

  Karras screamed over the screams of Farrow and they hit the Dumpster doing fifty. Karras saw a one-legged torso spin away from his field of vision and everything compressed at once. He met a wash of blood at the windshield and then he was showered in glass and black sleep.

  Stefanos and Boyle heard the sonic collision of metal on metal as they entered the industrial park. Stefanos drove quickly, straight into the park, as Wilson had directed. They found the red Mustang, its front end totaled and smoking against the green Dumpster. They saw the body of Farrow, facedown and bled out on the asphalt nearby. One of Farrow’s legs had been amputated at the thigh.

  Stefanos skidded to a stop. He and Boyle got out of the Dodge. Stefanos jogged to the Mustang and went around to the driver’s side. He opened the door and cradled Karras in his arms. Karras’s forehead was cut and bleeding, and it had darkened and begun to swell. Stefanos brushed glass off his face.

  “He dead?” said Boyle.

  “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 l
augh, 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.”

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  JULY 1998

  THIRTY-NINE

  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?”

  “Beautiful. You know I like a good half-smoke with my eggs. And those grits had just the right texture.”

  “It’s not gonna make you forget the Florida Avenue Grill.”

  “Not yet. But you’re getting there, buddy.”

  Stefanos lit his smoke. Darnell looked around the small lunch counter he had purchased from a Korean up on Georgia Avenue, near the District line.

  “Anyway,” said Darnell, “it’s mine.”

  “Dimitri and Marcus did you right, finding this place.”

  “Yeah, and that Clarence Tate ran some real accurate numbers. They got a nice business, those three. Doin’ a good thing, too.” Darnell leaned on the Formica counter. “With Dimitri and me gone, and you leavin’ the Spot last month, wonder how it’s gonna work out down there on Eighth.”

  “Phil will find some replacements.”

  “You miss it?”

  “Elaine Clay keeps me busy with work. The Spot wasn’t a good place for a guy like me, Darnell.”

  “I heard that. How you doin’ with it, anyway?”

  “So far so good.”

  “You look good, man.”

  “I’m trying.” Stefanos got off his stool and reached for his wallet. He left three on five and slipped into his sport jacket.

  “Where you off to, all dressed like that?”

  “Church,” said Stefanos. “Gonna say a prayer for a kid named Randy Weston.”

  “Say hey to Alicia when you see her,” said Darnell.

  “Gonna see her tonight,” said Stefanos. “I’ll tell her you said hello.”

  Dimitri Karras and Stephanie Maroulis walked across the manicured grounds of the Gate of Heaven cemetery in Aspen Hill to the Walters family headstones. Stephanie said a silent prayer over the graves of Bernie, Lynne, and Vance Walters. They visited Karras’s mother, Eleni, and brushed debris off the nearby marker for Jimmy’s grave. Then they stopped at the grave of Steve Maroulis, where Stephanie’s adjoining plot had been purchased three years earlier. Stephanie did her cross, and they walked to Karras’s BMW, parked in the shade. Karras drove back into D.C.

  Thomas Wilson was buried alongside Charles Greene at Fort Lincoln cemetery in Northeast. Stephanie held Karras’s hand as he stared down at Wilson’s grave.

  “You okay?” she said.

  Karras touched the knot of his tie. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Dimitri Karras lit a candle and did his stavro in the narthex of St. Sophia’s Greek Orthodox Cathedral. Then he and Stephanie went upstairs to the balcony and listened to the remainder of the service. They enjoyed the choir and took in the atmosphere of the church. Stephanie’s eyes were closed as she prayed for Dimitri and those who were gone.

  Karras looked down to the nave, where the sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons of Greek immigrants and their families stood side by side in the pews. He noticed the graying hair of a man who stood alone, wearing a lightweight fifties sport jacket.

  Karras smiled and whispered, “Nick.”

  They waited on the stone steps of the cathedral as parishioners streamed from the front doors. Bells chimed, and a warm breeze came off Massachusetts Avenue. Men were lighting cigarettes, greeting each other with firm handshakes, and children were chasing one another and laughing. Karras saw Nick Stefanos emerge from the church.

  “Yasou, Nik
o!” said Karras.

  “Dimitri!” Stefanos came to meet them. He kissed Stephanie on the cheek and squeezed her arm. He looked at Karras and smiled. “What’re you doing here, man?”

  “I should be asking you the same thing.”

  “Like I told you before: I’m just trying to figure it all out.” Stefanos squinted up at the bright, cloudless sky. “Nice day. You guys feel like taking a ride?”

  “Where to?” said Karras.

  “I was thinking of Hanes Point.”

  “You go ahead, Dimitri,” said Stephanie. “I’ve got things to do this afternoon.”

  Karras handed her his car keys and gave her a kiss. “See you later. Thanks.”

  They watched her descend the stone steps and turn the corner toward Garfield Street.

  “You’re a lucky man,” said Stefanos.

  “I know it.”

  “Come on. My ride’s parked out back.”

  “We’re getting married,” said Karras as they drove along the Potomac, the wind rushing through the open windows of the Dodge.

  “Congratulations, man.”

  “I love her, Nick.”

  “As you should.”

  Karras looked out the window. “She wants to have a baby. I want the same thing. This baby’s not meant to replace Jimmy. No one will ever replace him in my heart. But I was a good father, Nick, and I didn’t get to finish. And I feel like, if Stephanie and I have a child, then our meeting the way we did will have meant something. That everything that happened to everyone else will have meant something, too. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, Dimitri. It makes sense.”

  Stefanos parked the Dodge in the first set of spaces at Hanes Point. He and Karras got out of the car and walked across the grass to the concrete path that ringed the outer edge of the park. They leaned on the rail and looked out across the Washington Channel, the sun winking off its waters.

  Karras loosened his tie at the neck. “It’s beautiful, man.”

  “Yes, it is.” Stefanos looked over at his friend. “So what were you doing in church?”

  “I made a promise to a friend that I’d give it a try.”