Shame the Devil

  Stefanos found the joint, fired it up. He took in what was left of it and dropped the roach out the window. He opened his beer, took a swig, and placed the bottle between his legs. He pushed a Steve Wynn into the tape deck and pulled out of his spot.

  Stefanos drove east on U, cut up 15th to Irving, and took that east, passing the hospital where the boxer had been killed. He liked to drive the city at night when he had a buzz, and he had one now. He found himself on North Capitol, and he took it north for a couple of miles, cutting a left onto Kennedy Street before the New Hampshire Avenue turnoff.

  He knew all along he’d come here tonight. He turned the volume down on the deck and cruised slowly down the dark street.

  He passed boxy apartment buildings, barber shops, braid parlors, hair and nail salons, a variety store, a Laundromat, a CVS chain pharmacy, two bars, a barbecue joint, and several houses of worship, including a storefront iglesia and the Faith Mission Temple, whose parking lot was fenced and topped by concertina wire. He passed the Brightwood Market, which seemed to be the center of the neighborhood; several young and not-so-young men stood outside, their shoulders hunched, their hands deep in their parkas and Starter coats. A couple of men were boxing playfully, feinting and dodging under a dim street lamp.

  One of the men outside the market yelled something at Stefanos as he drove by. Stefanos went along.

  He pulled over past the 1st Street intersection, in front of the Hunan Delite, a place that advertised “Fried Chicken, Fried Fish, Chinese, Steak and Cheese.” The carryout was the last of several businesses on that particular hundred-block of Kennedy. A Lexus with custom wheels and spoiler sat parked in the six-space side lot.

  Through the plate glass window Stefanos could see a kind of lobby and a wall-to-wall Plexiglas shield that separated, and protected, the employees from the clientele. A revolving Plexiglas tray, like a commercial lazy Susan, had been screwed into the middle of the shield. The tray took money in and was large enough to put food orders out. There was a printed menu posted above the shield that was normally lit but had been turned off. A young Asian guy, clean-cut in a turtleneck and slacks, swept the lobby behind a locked front door.

  In his rearview, Stefanos saw a couple of the men from outside the Brightwood Market walking down the sidewalk toward his car.

  Stefanos no longer worked at night. He wouldn’t even think of getting out of his car here after dark. It wasn’t paranoia. It was real.

  He drove west.

  Nick Stefanos parked on Colorado at 14th and walked around the corner to Slim’s, a small jazz club run by Ethiopians. Live music hit him as he went through the door into the nearly packed house. He wove around tables of middle-class, middle-aged blacks and one interracial couple. There was one empty deuce, and he took it, his back to the wall. He shook out a cigarette from his deck of Camels and put fire to tobacco. He dragged deeply as the waitress set a shot of Beam Black and a cold bottle of beer down in front of him.

  “Thanks, Cissy.”

  She was tall and lovely, with clear reddish-brown skin. “You want to run a tab tonight, Nick?”

  “I better.”

  Applause filled the room. The leader of the quartet, Marlon Jordon, took a small bow, his trumpet in both hands. The band had a hot rhythm section, and Jordon could blow. They launched into “Two Bass Hit” as Stefanos downed his shot. Heads were bobbing. Some of the patrons were keeping time with their feet, their palms slapping at the tabletops. Stefanos dragged on his cigarette and closed his eyes.

  Beautiful. When it’s this good it’s fucking beautiful. I’ll never stop drinking. It just feels too fucking good.

  He was drunk by the time he made it home. It was only a couple of blocks from Slim’s, but he had driven it with a hand over one eye.

  He walked around the back of the house to his apartment. Inside the door, on a small cherry-wood table, he saw the day’s mail. Atop the stack sat an unstamped manila envelope, labeled with his name and address. He opened the envelope and examined its contents: the folder on the Randy Weston case. Elaine Clay had messengered it over earlier in the day.

  Stefanos dropped the folder on the table and went into his bedroom. He could see Alicia’s form beneath the blankets of the bed.

  “Hey,” said Stefanos.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He got out of his shirt, removed his wristwatch, and dropped it shy of the dresser top. He bent down, picked up the watch, and put it in place. He unzipped his jeans and stumbled getting out of them.

  “You all right?” said Alicia.

  “Yeah. I, uh, had a few. I didn’t realize…”

  “Come to bed. Come on.”

  He got under the sheets. She was naked and warm. He turned on his side, and she pressed herself against him, kissing him behind his ear. He could feel her sex and her hard nipples against his back.

  “Alicia?”

  “Ssh.”

  She rubbed his back, and after a while he fell to sleep.

  TEN

  LEE TOOMEY LIVED on eight acres of woodland ten miles south of Edwardtown, on Old Church Road off the interstate. The old church, hugged by a stand of oak, had been gutted and rebuilt and now carried a new facade of white aluminum siding. Farrow passed the New Rock Church and a half mile later made the turnoff onto Toomey’s gravel drive.

  Toomey’s utility truck, boldly lettered with the company name of Toomey Electric, was parked before his house alongside Toomey’s black El Camino. Farrow parked the SHO on the other side of the truck, walked around a bicycle carelessly dropped in the yard, and knocked on the front door of Toomey’s brick rambler.

  Viola, Toomey’s wife, answered the door. She had mousy brown hair, a nothing chest, a flat ass, and a buckshot of acne on her chin. Farrow didn’t know how Toomey could stand to fuck her. Viola carried Ashley — a white-trash name for a kid if Farrow had ever heard one — their two-year-old daughter, in her arms.

  “Hi… Larry.”

  “Viola. Lee asked me to come on out.”

  “He’s back in the den.”

  She stepped aside, bumping her back on the wall. Viola was afraid of Farrow, and that was good.

  Farrow went through a hall to an open kitchen, which led to a den with sliding glass doors giving to a view of thick, gnarled woods. Toomey, short gone dumpy with long hair and a full, red-tinged beard, sat in a recliner, staring through the glass. His chubby, featureless son, Martin, sat in front of the television set, his hand furiously manipulating a joystick as two armor-clad men fought onscreen.

  Toomey had been a bad motherfucker up at Lewisburg when Farrow first met him, one of the Aryan Brotherhood who took shit from no one. He was the enemy of Roman Otis then, as well as Manuel and Jaime and T. W., but since he had found Jesus, his racial outlook, and general demeanor, had changed. He had not forgotten the con’s code, though, and when Farrow had first called, he reluctantly told him to come down to the Eastern Shore, where he would introduce Farrow to a straight job and, it was implied, put him on the path to righteousness.

  Toomey knew Farrow had been coming off some sort of heist. It was only later, when Farrow told him, that he learned about the extreme brand of heat that Farrow and the others had drawn. Farrow wasn’t much worried that Toomey would rat him out; there was the code, and the penalty for breaking it would always be in the back of Toomey’s mind. Toomey had a family now. Surely Toomey understood.

  Jesus was the wild card. Religion was an irrational concept and it bred irrational acts. Toomey had been trying to get Farrow to join the New Rock Church for months now, and Farrow suspected that this was the reason Toomey had summoned him, once again, today. Toomey had gone all the way over for that full-of-shit new Reverend Bob, who had taken over the reins of the church one year back.

  “Lee,” said Farrow.

  Toomey turned his head. “Larry.”

  Farrow stood over him, watched Toomey’s fingers drum the arm of the recliner. “You wanted to see me?”

  Toomey looked at hi
s son. “Martin, why don’t you go on out and ride your bike some, give Larry and me a little privacy.”

  Martin’s eyes did not move from the television screen. “Chain slipped on my bike, Dad. Can’t ride it.”

  “Just give us a few minutes here, son.”

  “I’m in the middle of my game.”

  Farrow went to the electronic box that sat atop the set and ripped the wires out of its back. Martin stood up, his hands wiggling at his side, and looked at his father.

  “Go on, Martin,” said Toomey.

  Martin left the room. Farrow had a seat on the couch across from Toomey.

  Toomey sighed and forced a smile. “Thanks for coming out, Larry.”

  “You can quit all that Larry bullshit, Lee. Call me by my given name. It’s just you and me.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you want?”

  Toomey clapped his hands together. “Well, the Reverend Bob would like to see you. He’s been asking after you for some time.”

  Farrow reached inside his jacket for a cigarette, lit it, shook out the match, tossed the spent match on a glass table set before the couch. The match made a yellow-black mark on the glass.

  “What’s he want with me?”

  “Wants to bring you into the flock, Frank.”

  “He’s a man of the cloth. That means he wants something.” Farrow dragged on his cigarette. “What’s he want?”

  Toomey looked away. “He knows.”

  Farrow flicked ash to the carpet. “Knows what?”

  “He’s a smart man, Frank. Got all sorts of degrees. He worked at Rikers for a while when he was younger, as some sort of counselor. He picked me out of the crowd the first week he came to town.”

  “You telling me he’s blackmailing you?”

  “No, sir. I donate my labor to the church because I want to. I rewired that entire structure, and I’m proud to say it didn’t cost the church a penny. I’d do more if I could.”

  “That’s nice. But how did he connect you to me?”

  “He’s seen us together this past year, once or twice in town. Seen you goin’ in and out of the liquor store, too, the one on the interstate stocks those fancy wines?”

  “So?”

  “Like I say, he picked me out as an ex-con. I figure he picked you out, too.”

  “I’m gonna ask you again. What’s he want?”

  “I told you already, he wants to bring you in —”

  “He wants money.”

  “A donation would be a part of you joining the congregation, yes.”

  “I’m just a dishwasher in town. Where would he get the idea that I’ve got money, Lee?”

  “Now, Frank, you know… you know I haven’t told him a thing.”

  Farrow stared at Toomey while he smoked his cigarette down to the filter. Toomey slid a glass of ginger ale across the table, and Farrow dropped the cigarette into the drink.

  “I guess I better go see him,” said Farrow. “He in today?”

  “He drives a pretty Buick.”

  “There was a platinum-colored Park Avenue parked outside the church when I drove in.”

  “That would be his.”

  “I’ll drop in on him right now, then, since he’s being so persistent. Small town like this, can’t really avoid it any longer, I guess.” Farrow got up from the couch. “Say, Lee, you know that pistol you gave me when I first came down here?”

  “Sure… sure, I remember. I was wanting to get rid of it for a long time, ’specially with kids in the house —”

  “I took it up to that wildlife refuge they got, fifteen miles north of Edwardtown. You know, in the winter there’s nobody on that land. Never even seen a ranger. Anyway, I tried that little gun out. Shot one of those white birds with the long legs that lives there. One of those birds they claim is protected. Anyway, that’s a real fine weapon you sold me. Yeah, that pistol shoots real straight.”

  Toomey picked at his beard and stared at the carpet. “I ain’t proud of the life I had before. And I am not goin’ back to it, I can tell you that. Look, I don’t want to have nothin’ to do with guns anymore, Frank.”

  “I know it, Lee. Just wanted to thank you is all.”

  Farrow went to the front door; Viola stood in the foyer, holding her little girl. She reached for the knob, turned it, held the door open for Farrow.

  “Good bye, Larry.”

  “Viola. Ashley.”

  Farrow left the house. Martin was standing by the tree line, looking Farrow’s way. Martin grabbed a branch to steady himself when Farrow stared back. Farrow smiled at Martin and walked to the Ford.

  Farrow parked next to the platinum Park Avenue outside the church. He went to the church’s varnished front door and knocked, and soon the door swung open. A large thin-lipped man with a gray pompadour stood in the frame.

  “Reverend Bob?”

  “That would be me.”

  “My name is Larry. I’m an acquaintance of Lee Toomey. Lee said you’ve been wanting to see me.”

  “Yes, Larry, thanks for stopping by. Please come in.”

  Farrow followed the reverend through a kind of lobby into the body of the church, which was done entirely in stained wood: wooden beams, wooden pews, paneled walls, a parquet-floored altar with a slatted wooden podium in its center. A wooden cross hung from the ceiling, suspended over the podium. A bible with an ornate gold-leaf cover lay open on the podium’s face.

  “Nothing fancy, as you can see,” said the reverend, turning left at the center aisle, signaling with a wave of his hand for Farrow to keep moving. “I don’t believe in marble and icons. Everything we collect in the form of donations goes back out in some form to the community.”

  “Nice carpentry work,” said Farrow.

  The reverend pushed on a side door, holding it open for Farrow.

  “Local craftsmen did it for us on the weekends. Nearly everything in this building’s been donated by the members of the congregation. Your friend Lee did the electrical work, free of charge.”

  “He mentioned it. You got a Buick dealer who’s part of the flock, too?”

  The reverend turned his head briefly as he walked down the stark hall. “How’s that?”

  “That’s a pretty car you got out front there.”

  The reverend chuckled. “My one indulgence. Come along.”

  He led Farrow into an office and closed the door behind them. There were framed degrees and awards on the walls, no photographs indicating family. The reverend had a seat behind a cherry-wood desk and laced his fingers together, resting them on a green blotter before him. Farrow sat across from him in a leather chair with nail heads along its scrolled arms.

  The reverend’s hands were pink and soft. He wore a fine cotton, starched white shirt, onyx cuff links, and a black-faced watch with a small diamond set in the face. When Farrow was a young man, his father had worn a Movado watch just like it. The sight of it on the reverend’s wrist tightened Farrow’s stomach.

  Farrow kept his eyes lowered in the hat-in-hands position. “What can I do for you, Reverend Bob?”

  “I’ve seen you around town, Larry. With Lee and at other times, too. I’m curious — are you a practicing member of any particular denomination?”

  “You’re gonna have to cut down on the size of those words.”

  “I apologize. Do you belong to any church?”

  Farrow shifted in his seat, trying to appear uncomfortable. “I did once. I’m afraid I’ve lapsed.”

  “It’s never too late to come back to the fold.”

  “With all due respect, Reverend Bob, I’m not interested.” Farrow tried a sheepish, down-home smile. “Besides, I make it a practice to have a few beers on Saturday nights. Sometimes I have more than a few, and on Sundays I sleep in.”

  “We have drinkers in our congregation, Larry. Drinkers and womanizers and tax cheaters, and maybe worse. The service works for those folks, too. Especially for those folks. Our church is about atonement and forgiveness.”

>   Farrow looked directly into the reverend’s brown olive-pit eyes.

  “I’m not interested,” said Farrow.

  The reverend looked away for a moment, then returned his gaze to Farrow and leaned forward over the desk.

  “This isn’t about just going to church, Larry. It’s about how this church reaches out to greater Edwardtown. Why, just this morning I was making my rounds out at the retirement community on the edge of town, speaking to some of our senior citizens who are in the nursing ward. I sometimes bring them candy, cards, flowers… all of that costs money.”

  “Tell me, reverend. What do you tell those people, exactly? The ones who are going to die.”

  “Why, I tell them to have no fear. That the journey is just beginning. That they’re going to a better place.”

  “And you believe that.”

  “Yes.”

  “I envy you, then. A man who doesn’t fear death.”

  The reverend leaned back in his chair. “How do you know Lee Toomey, Larry?”

  Farrow shrugged, pausing to re-create the story he had told others in the kitchen many times before. “I got family up in Wilmington. I was heading up to Delaware to see them a couple of years back, working my way north from Richmond, where I was living at the time. I took a ride into Edwardtown on a chicken truck, decided to spend the night.

  “Well, I had a beer that night at this bar in town, and the bar owner had put this bulletin board up in the head. Lee had posted a card that said he was looking for help on this one job. It was straight labor, really. I didn’t want to go home and see my people with empty pockets, so I called him up and we met and he took me on.

  “Anyway, I got to liking the town in those two weeks I worked for him. When the job was done, Lee, being the kind of man he is, got me an interview with the Royal Hotel’s restaurant. Lee’s in with those people; he’s got their account. I took a dishwasher’s job in their kitchen, and I been with them ever since.”

  “That’s a nice operation they got there.”

  “They do real well.”