Shame the Devil

THIRTY-EIGHT

Come on,” said Boyle.

Nick Stefanos used his foot to tap on the high beams. The car ahead of them cleared out of the Beltway’s left lane.

“That’s right, buddy,” said Stefanos. “Get out of the way.”

“Can’t you make this piece of shit move?”

Stefanos floored the accelerator. Boyle grabbed the armrest as the Coronet surged forward from a flood of gas. Stefanos swerved into the middle lane, passed an import on the right, got back into the left, and kept the pedal nailed to the floor.

“How long?” said Boyle.

“Fifteen minutes, I’d say.”

Boyle reached into his pocket and brought out the. 380. “Take this.”

“I’m done with that,” said Stefanos. “I told you once before.”

Boyle dropped the Berreta back in his pocket. He shook a smoke out of his hardpack for himself and rustled the deck in the direction of Stefanos.

Stefanos put a cigarette between his lips and pushed in the lighter on the dash.

“Describe all the players to me,” said Boyle. “I don’t want to shoot the wrong guy.”

The lighter popped out of the dash. Stefanos lit his smoke and handed the lighter to Boyle.

“Looks like you done fucked up again, T. W.,” said Otis. “You should’ve been more firm with that key man. Ain’t you learned yet about these inside jobs?”

Otis turned into the industrial park and drove along the red-brick buildings.

“Man’s taking a risk,” said Thomas Wilson. “He just wants a little extra.”

“I’ll just have to explain it to him,” said Farrow. “If he pushes it, he’s gonna get hurt.”

“Hope he takes it better than that other inside man T. W. had,” said Otis.

“The pizza chef?” said Farrow.

Otis and Farrow exchanged a glance. Wilson saw the eye contact and thought he saw a brief smile crease Otis’s face. They were fuckin’ with him, he knew. Trying to keep him weak. Wilson’s blood jumped at Otis’s smile. But the feeling he had was not familiar. It was not a feeling of fear.

“You talkin’ about Charles?” said Wilson.

“Whatever his name was,” said Otis. “He didn’t take it in a very masculine way when he saw what we had to do. The bartender, that light-steppin’ waiter… shoot, man, you can believe that those two were afraid to die. But even that sissy waiter took it like a man compared to your pizza chef. You remember the way he begged us, Frank?”

Farrow nodded. “He cried like a girl.”

“Screamed like one, too,” said Otis.

Wilson felt tears come to his eyes.

Lord, give me strength to kill these men.

“Charles was a man,” said Wilson, surprised at the force in his own voice.

Otis’s eyes smiled in the rearview. “Listen to T. W., Frank. Gettin’ all ma-cho on us now.”

Wilson swallowed hard. “Make a left into that alley, where that Dumpster is.”

Otis made the turn and drove slowly between the buildings. The brick walls were very close to the sides of the car.

“Damn, this is a tight squeeze,” said Otis.

“Thought you liked tight things,” said Farrow.

“You know I do,” said Otis, smiling in the mirror, giving his gold tooth a lick.

The Mustang came out of the alley and then there was the wide-open lot and the strip of warehouses fronting the creek.

“Park in the middle,” said Wilson, “by that door right there.”

Otis pumped the brakes. The Mach 1 came to a stop.

Dimitri Karras heard the rumble of a muscle car as it cleared the alley. He drew his. 45, pulled back on the receiver, and jacked a round into the chamber. He slipped the automatic barrel-down into the holster, behind the belt line of his jeans and against the small of his back.

He reached behind him, drew the. 45, and replaced it once again.

Karras heard car doors slam and voices as the men approached. He thought of Bernie. He tried to recall Bernie’s advice from that day in the woods. He couldn’t remember what Bernie had said.

He was cold. He hadn’t worn a coat so that he would not fumble the gun. His teeth were chattering, and his hands had grown numb. He tried to raise spit and he could not.

He looked around the empty warehouse and backed up so that he was near the cheap desk. He heard the key turn in the lock and he backed up another step. The door swung open, and Karras stood still.

Farrow, Otis, and Wilson stepped out of the Mustang. Wilson watched Otis twirl the car keys on his finger and drop them in the pocket of his slacks. Otis examined his ID bracelet in the light of the spot lamps hung on the exterior of the warehouse walls.

“What’s the key man’s name?” said Farrow.

“Dimitri,” said Wilson. It was meaningless to lie about it now.

Farrow drew his. 45 from his belt line and chambered a round. He looked at Otis and Otis did the same. They holstered their guns and walked toward the warehouse door.

Wilson looked over his shoulder to the alley before putting the key to the lock. He guessed it wasn’t any use in stalling. Stefanos wasn’t going to make it. Wilson had waited too long to call for his help. Just another fuckup in a lifetime full of them.

“Need help with that, T. W.?” said Otis.

Roman, always with that thing to his voice. Wilson turned the key roughly and opened the door. He went in first. Farrow and Otis followed.

Frank Farrow saw a gray-haired man without a coat, standing by a desk in the back of the warehouse. A defective fluorescent light set above the desk flashed continuously across the man’s face. The warehouse was bathed in fluorescence, and the insect sound of the lights filled the room.

Farrow, Otis, and Wilson moved forward. They walked onto a series of blue plastic tarps that had been spread out on the concrete floor. Farrow looked into the man’s strange eyes as they approached him. There was something familiar about the eyes.

This is not a card game that’s happening here tonight, thought Farrow. This is something else.

Wilson fanned off to the left of Otis. A looked passed between Farrow and Otis and they stopped walking.

“Who are you?” said Farrow to the gray-haired man.

“Dimitri Karras.”

Farrow shifted his weight. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

“Jimmy Karras was my son.”

Farrow spread his hands. “So?”

As Farrow’s coat opened, Karras saw the butt of Farrow’s gun holstered at his waistline.

No one spoke. Their breath was heavy and visible in the buzzing light.

“What is this?” said Otis, looking from Karras to Wilson, who stood facing him now on his left. “Y ’all lookin’ to take us off?”

“It’s not a robbery, Roman.” Farrow looked down at the tarp beneath his feet. “It’s a slaughter.”

“That’s right,” said Karras. “Like you slaughtered those people in the pizza parlor. Like you slaughtered my son.”

Farrow nodded slowly. “That boy in the road. That’s what this is about.”

Karras drew the. 45 from behind his back. Wilson drew the. 38.

Farrow and Otis did not move their hands. Otis turned his head and saw the revolver in Wilson’s hand. He’d shoot the white man with the blank eyes first. He knew that Wilson would never have the courage to use the gun.

Karras raised his gun and pointed it at Farrow’s face. Bernie’s voice entered his head.

Always aim for the body.

Karras lowered the barrel of the gun.

“Kill him, Dimitri,” said Wilson.

Karras watched Farrow move a step to the right.

Lead that body a little if it’s moving.

“Your son,” said Farrow very quietly. “That was an accident.”

“It’s all an accident,” said Karras.

“Kill him!” screamed Wilson.

Otis looked over at Wilson and laughed. The revolver was shaking wildly in Wilson’s hand.

Farrow looked into Karras’s eyes, the light winking on his face. Now he knew what had seemed familiar to him. It was as if Farrow were looking at his own eyes in the mirror. There was nothing in the man’s eyes, nothing at all.

Karras stared back.

And keep firing your weapon until you’ve accomplished what you set out to do.

“I guess they got us, Roman,” said Farrow.

“Yeah,” said Otis. “Guess we oughtta just go ahead and surrender.” Otis raised his arms over his head. He rotated his right hand at the wrist as if he was waving good bye. The ID bracelet dropped beneath the cuff of his shirt.

His right hand flashed down to his waist.

Wilson squeezed the trigger of the. 38.

The slug blew through Otis’s armpit and punched out of his back. The force of it spun him around. He drew his. 45 and fired. Wilson felt his cheekbone rip away. He fell back screaming, still firing his weapon, as he took a second bullet in the groin.

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 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.”