Shame the Devil

THIRTY-ONE

William Jonas picked up his phone and punched a number into its grid. While he listened to the phone ring, he rubbed his finger on the checkered grip of the service revolver that was lying in his lap. He sat behind the bay window of his house, looking out onto Hamlin.

The call was answered, and the voice on the other end said, “Boyle.” Jonas heard a young kid and a teenage kid arguing in the background.

“Danny, it’s Bill Jonas.”

“Hey, Bill. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you on the letter and envelope.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I’ve been contacted again by the man who sent the letter.”

“Through the mail?”

“By phone. I’d like to see you, Dan. I need to see you tonight.”

“Any idea where he was calling from?”

“He’s in town. He followed my son. He threatened my son.”

“All right,” said Boyle. “Have you contacted anyone else yet?”

“You mean have I called the station?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a cop. I’m calling you.”

Jonas listened to dead air as Boyle put his hand over the mouthpiece. Then Boyle got back on the line. “Okay. I’ll be right over. But I’m bringing a friend.”

“Who?”

“A guy named Nick Stefanos.”

“I met him last week at the meeting,” said Jonas. “Private cop, right?”

“Don’t hold that against him. I’ve been with him in situations before. He’s good at what he does, and we’re gonna need him. He’s friends with Dimitri Karras, the father of -”

“I know who Karras is.”

“Stefanos has a connection to all this.”

“Bring him,” said Jonas.

“Bill? If what you say is true, I’d get your family out of town for a few days.”

“It’s already done.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon.”

William Jonas cut the connection. He wheeled himself back away from the window and sat calmly in the shadows of dusk.

“Nick?”

“Yeah.”

“What, did I wake you up?”

“I was takin’ a nap, Boyle. What’s up?”

“I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

Boyle told him everything he knew.

“I don’t want to hear it,” said Stefanos when Boyle was done.

“It’s true.”

“I don’t care if it’s true. Call the cops.”

“Bill Jonas called me.”

“You shouldn’t even think twice about it, Boyle. Call the cops. Call the ATF and the FBI and the SWAT team. Get all the alphabet guys in one room and mobilize, just like they do on TV. But stay out of it, man. And leave me out of it, too, hear?”

“Tell that to your buddy Karras.”

“Don’t play me, Boyle.”

“I’ll be over in a little while to pick you up.”

Stefanos looked down at the hardwood floor. He pictured the group he’d met the week before. He thought of Karras and the bartender’s wife, who’d broken down. The nice guy in the Orioles cap, and Wilson, the troubled friend of the pizza chef, who was somehow not who he seemed to be.

Stefanos pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gimme time to take a shower.”

Boyle said, “Right.”

Stefanos showered and changed into a black shirt and jeans. He was taking his leather off the peg by the door when the phone rang. He slipped into his jacket and answered the phone.

“Nick, it’s Elaine.”

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I had Joey A. do those background checks for you.”

“That was fast.”

“Like I said, I gave it to Joe A.”

“Go ahead.”

“All three of the guys you asked about have records. And they all served time together. Ruiz and Gutierrez went up on an interstate auto-theft beef. Thomas Wilson fell on a dope bust back in the early eighties.”

Stefanos was not surprised. Thomas had mentioned “straights” at the meeting. It was a con’s term for those not in the life. And Gutierrez had the prison plumage stamped right on his face.

“Nick?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I had a hunch about those guys, and I was curious, that’s all. Where were they incarcerated?”

“Lewisburg.”

“Okay. What’s Wilson’s street address?”

Elaine Clay gave it to him and said, “Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Thanks a million, hear?”

Stefanos hung the phone in its cradle. So Wilson was an ex-con and so were his friends. So what? It probably didn’t mean a thing.

A horn sounded from out in the street. Stefanos left the apartment and walked to Boyle’s car.

Booker Kendricks pulled his head out from under the hood of the red Mustang. He turned to Roman Otis, who was standing next to Gus Lavonicus in the yard.

“It’s simple, cuz,” said Kendricks. “Brakes ain’t workin’ so good ’cause you out of fluid. Need to put some dot three in this mother-fucker right quick.”

“You know I don’t know nothin’ about cars, Booker.”

“Well, fluid’s all it is.”

Farrow came from the house, walked over to Otis, and lit a cigarette.

“T. W. called,” said Farrow.

“He line us up with anything?” said Otis.

“He heard something about a big-money card game on Friday night. He’s trying to firm up the details.”

“That would work,” said Otis.

“He fix it?” said Farrow, nodding at Kendricks, standing alongside the Mustang.

“Just needs a little fluid,” said Otis. “I’ll pick up some while we’re out.”

Farrow looked at the group. Otis was dressed sharp as always. Kendricks wore a shiny maroon shirt tucked into gray slacks. Lavonicus sported a Western shirt with imitation pearl buttons and lasso detailing embroidered across the chest. He wore a surplus coat over the shirt.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” said Farrow.

“Just gonna have a couple of cocktails,” said Otis. “Goin’ crazy sittin’ around this joint.”

Farrow walked back into the house.

Kendricks lowered the hood of the Mustang and wiped his hands on a rag. He gave Lavonicus the once-over and smiled. “Well, y’all look ready enough.”

“Where we headed, man?” said Otis.

“Place off Three-o-one. Understand, they got bars down here for the brothers and bars for the white boys. There’s a little bit of crossover but not much. We goin’ to this white joint ’cause they got one of those machines you like.”

“That’s okay by me,” said Otis.

Kendricks glanced at Lavonicus again. “Whoo-eee, pardner. Wait’ll they get a look at you.”

They walked to the Mark V, parked at the edge of the woods by a stand of tall pine. Otis got behind the wheel, ignitioned the Lincoln, hit the power switch on the stereo, and pushed the button marked “CD.” Lavoncius folded himself into the seat beside him, and Kendricks settled into the backseat. The Commodores came from the rear deck speakers.

“‘Zoom,’” said Otis. “This here’s got to be one of the most beautiful songs ever recorded.”

“It sounds nice,” said Lavonicus, awkwardly moving his head in time.

“People make fun of Mr. Lionel Richie. But I’d like someone to name a more perfect tune than this one right here.”

Otis turned onto 301 and drove north. “‘I wish the world were truly happy,’” he sang, “‘living as one…’”

Kendricks directed Otis into the parking lot of a sports bar a couple of miles south of La Plata. They got the fish-eye from the guys at the main-room bar as they walked through to a paneled room in the back and had a seat at a four-top near the fire exit. At a nearby table, someone laughed at Lavoncius, then stopped laughing as Otis looked his way. Some guy was up onstage doing Garth Brooks, singing along to the karaoke. He had a beer in his hand and he sang off-key.

Otis and Kendricks ordered mixed drinks, and Lavonicus went with a Coke. Otis went off to examine the playlist and found one he knew: “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” by Hank Williams. Well, he knew the Al Green version, anyway. He decided he’d get up there and sing it like Reverend Al.

Otis took the stage, closed his eyes, and gave it his best shot. He tried to inject a little soul into the shitkicker arrangement, even threw in some of his hand interpretations, but nothing could make it fly. Lavonicus was the only one in the house who clapped when Otis was done. Otis thanked the audience and walked back to his seat.

He saw a couple of countrified black men seated at a deuce, and he nodded as he passed by, but the brothers did not nod back. Otis had a seat at his table.

“You sounded good, bro,” said Lavonicus.

“Let’s get the fuck on out of here,” said Otis, swallowing the rest of his drink in one gulp. “Bunch of Charley Pride-lookin’ mother-fuckers in this place, anyway.”

Otis missed Cali. He couldn’t wait to get back home.

George Pelecanos

Shame the Devil