Shame the Devil, Page 2

  Richard looked in the rearview. The black car had circled and was coming up behind him on 39th.

  Richard turned the key in the ignition. A natural reaction, that’s all. He realized Frank had told him not to, but… fuck it, it wouldn’t do any good to get himself down about it now. He’d done it.

  The cop car was slowing down. It was crawling.

  “Come on, Frank,” said Richard. He heard the high pitch of his own voice and was ashamed.

  Richard stared straight ahead as the cop car accelerated and passed. Richard exhaled, removed his glasses, wiped at the sweat that stung his eyes.

  The cop car stopped at the next corner, pulled over, and idled beside a fire hydrant.

  Richard steadied the Beretta, pulled back on the receiver, eased a round into the chamber. What was he doing? What was he going to do now, shoot a cop? This was crazy. He’d never shot anything, not even an animal in the woods. Frank had told him to carry the gun. Frank had made him bring the gun.

  Richard Farrow looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He saw a pale, wet mask of fear.

  Frank Farrow pressed the flat of his palm against the bartender’s shoulder. He pushed him firmly through the open door into the kitchen. The bartender, heavy and broad of back with a friendly pie-plate face, stared at the three men against the wall. A long-haired, sharply dressed black guy was holding a shotgun and singing to himself on the other side of the prep table. He stopped singing as Frank entered the room.

  Frank said to the bartender, “What’s your name?”

  “Steve Maroulis.”

  “All right, Steve. You’re going to be smart, right?”

  Maroulis nodded and said, “Yes.”

  “Is there any rope here?”

  Maroulis looked at the pizza chef, tried to make a casual gesture that played clumsy. “I don’t know.”

  “Who knows?” said Frank.

  “Got some clothesline rope over in that utility closet,” said Charles Greene. “That there’s the onlyest rope we got.”

  “Get it, Steve,” said Frank.

  “Gonna have to tie you gentlemen up,” said Otis. “Give us time to, uh, effect our getaway.”

  Maroulis went to the closet on the opposite wall and opened its hinged gate.

  Mr. Carl watched the black guy with the funny hair. The joker was holding the shotgun loosely, barrel-down against his thigh. How long would it take to raise a sawed-off and pull the trigger? Two seconds? He could draw the .32 quicker than that. He did have that element of surprise. Hell, not even his own employees knew he carried a piece. He could wait until the gray-haired one got distracted. Shoot the spade first, the gray-haired sonofabitch next. Then, after it was over, find the one who tipped these two to the pickup.

  Mr. Carl hitched up his slacks, kept his hands on his belt line.

  Go ahead, Maroulis, Mr. Carl thought. Just keep ratfucking through that closet.

  Frank turned around. “How’s it coming, Steve?”

  “I don’t see the rope.”

  “It’s on the bottom shelf, man,” offered Greene.

  Vance Walters felt his knees weaken. He willed himself to stand straight.

  Now, thought Mr. Carl.

  I’ll do it now, while gray-hair’s got his back turned. These two are nothing. Lettuce-pickers. I’ll shoot the spade first and then the gray-haired bastard. Someone will pin a fucking medal on me —

  “Let’s go, Steve,” said Frank. He looked up at the wall: A stainless steel paper-towel dispenser hung there, shiny and clean. He could see the reflection of the men behind him in its surface.

  Otis glanced at his wristwatch, turned his head to the side. “C’mon with that rope!”

  Carl Lewin’s hand inched inside his jacket.

  Now. Nigger, you are going to die now.

  In the towel dispenser’s reflection Frank Farrow watched Mr. Carl reach into his jacket. He saw Mr. Carl’s hand on the grip of a gun.

  Frank spun around and leveled his gun at Mr. Carl. Their eyes met and locked. Mr. Carl’s finger jerked in spasm. Frank squeezed the trigger of the .38 three times.

  Mr. Carl took two rounds in the chest. The third blew tiling off the wall behind him. Mr. Carl winced, spit the cigar and a spray of blood onto the prep table. His hands flopped comically at the wrists as he dropped to the floor.

  Frank went to Mr. Carl. He stood over him and kicked him in the stomach. He stepped back and shot him again. The corpse jumped and came to rest.

  A sliver of tile had cut into Vance Walters’s cheek. His hand flew to the spot as tears welled in his eyes. But he didn’t let the tears go. He swore to himself then that he wouldn’t cry.

  Charles Greene was silent, stunned, openmouthed. Steve Maroulis stood still, the clothesline slack in his shaking hands.

  A look passed between Frank and Otis. Otis took the clothesline from Maroulis’s hand and tossed it over the prep table to Charles Greene.

  “Okay, bartender,” said Otis. “You and the waiter: Lie down on your bellies.”

  “You,” said Frank, pointing the .38 at Greene. “Tie them up. Feet to hands.”

  Detective William Jonas thought he heard something. Muffled, like. Couldn’t be gunshots, not in this neighborhood. Kids lighting off a string of firecrackers or ladyfingers, most likely — it was July. Or a car or Metrobus backfiring on Wisconsin. Hard to tell with the air blower on full and the crackle coming from the mic.

  He had called in the plate numbers of the Ford, and now he was waiting to see if the car was on the hot sheet. He’d have word on that momentarily, and then he’d be gone. He didn’t know why he was wasting his time messing with this one, anyway. He was Homicide, not a beat cop. He had done his beat time, and he had worked hard to get his shield. Still, there was definitely something wrong about that sweaty white man wearing those gloves back in the white car.

  Jonas got the negative response. He ordered in a cruiser anyway to check out the suspicious vehicle and its driver, and thanked the dispatcher. He replaced the mic in its cradle and pulled away from the curb.

  He drove up toward Nebraska Avenue, took Albemarle Street over to Wisconsin, and parked his car in front of the big video store. He looked at his watch: a little early to take the kid off his shift. He had, what, ten, fifteen minutes to kill? Maybe he’d go on back and see what was up with that guy on 39th. By now the uniforms would have arrived. By now they’d be talking to the guy, checking him out. He was awful curious to hear what the guy had to say.

  William Jonas pulled out of his spot and swung his vehicle around on the main drag. He headed south on Wisconsin.

  “Put your heads down,” said Frank to the three men lying bound on the floor behind the prep table. The pizza chef, Greene, had tied Maroulis and Walters. Otis had tied Greene. Frank Farrow had dragged Mr. Carl’s body next to a drain set in the center of the room. His blood ran slowly down a slight grade in the floor and dripped through the grates of the drain.

  Greene and Walters had lowered their heads. Maroulis had kept his head up; the carotid artery swelled in his neck.

  “Please,” said Maroulis. “We haven’t seen anything. None of us will remember you. I’m speaking for all of us —”

  “Put your forehead on the tiles.”

  “Please.” Maroulis’s eyes were pleading, wild and red. He looked at Frank. “Don’t make me put my head down. Please.”

  “Do what I say and you won’t get hurt.”

  Maroulis put his head down slowly. In a low voice he began to pray: “Pateri mon…”

  Otis listened to the bartender, chanting some kind of bullshit in a tongue he had never heard. Well, the bartender was the smart one of the bunch. He knew his bossman had gone and done them all by making that play.

  Frank looked at Otis. Frank holstered the .38 and drew the .22 Woodsman with his right hand. He stepped quickly to Maroulis and shot him in the back of the head.

  Greene began to scream. Frank waved gun smoke out of his face as he walked over to Vance Wa
lters.

  Walters felt the cool touch of metal behind his ear. Frank shielded his face from the blow-back and put his finger to the trigger.

  “Dad,” said Walters. He yelled, “Daddy!”

  His last moment felt like fire and confusion.

  “Naw, man,” said Greene, tears rolling one after the other down his cheeks. “Not me, man, I hooked you up!” He sobbed and begged and screamed as he writhed violently against the rope. A line of saliva dripped from his mouth to the floor.

  Frank stepped around Vance Walters’s corpse. He put the muzzle of the Woodsman to Greene’s head.

  Richard Farrow had heard the gunshots come from inside the pizza parlor, but apparently the black cop had not. He had pulled away and been gone ten minutes. Richard was relieved at first, but growing shaky again as the time ticked off. He smoked another cigarette, tapped his hand on the wheel, spun the automatic on the hot vinyl seat beside him.

  Richard figured the cop had called in the Ford’s plates. But the plates had been lifted just that morning from Union Station’s long-term lot. Those Spanish guys in that garage had done them a solid there. Yeah, they’d done good —

  Another gunshot sounded from inside the pizza parlor. Then another, and another behind it.

  No, brother. God, no…

  “Phew,” said Roman Otis. “One of ’em done fouled his britches.”

  “Put another round in each one and let’s go.”

  “What, you think they gonna walk away?”

  “Do it, Roman. Do it and let’s go.”

  Yeah, thought Otis, Frank is one smart man. He’s going to tie us together now, forever and for real.

  Otis shrugged. He holstered the shotgun and drew the .45.

  Richard Farrow left the motor running and got out of the car. He paced back and forth in the street. The heat of the asphalt came through the thin leather soles of his shoes. He looked down his arm and saw the nine millimeter in his hand. He looked toward a low-rise apartment building on his left and saw a curtain drop shut.

  He heard four more shots.

  “We are fucked,” said Richard. He glanced back at the car. No — he couldn’t go back to that hot car. Richard began to stumble-walk across the street toward the rear entrance of May’s.

  He turned at the sound of a big engine. The black unmarked cop car was blowing toward him on 39th.

  William Jonas accelerated when he saw the sweaty white man with the aviator shades standing in the middle of the street, holding a gun.

  “Aw, shit,” said Jonas. The cruiser he had called for hadn’t arrived. No time to think about that now.

  He hit the brakes fifty yards from the man, turned the wheel, skidded his car to a stop so that it blocked the street. He keyed the mic, screamed into it for backup. He dropped the mic to the floor, pulled his weapon, chambered a round, opened the door, and rolled out of the car onto the street. He got up into a crouch and positioned himself behind the hood of the car. He straightened his gun arm and rested it on the hood, his head and shoulders clear.

  “I’m a police officer!” he yelled. “Throw the weapon to the side! Get down on your stomach and cradle your hands behind your head, now!”

  The man paced a few steps, dizzy with confusion. He looked over at the back of the commercial strip, made a move toward it, changed his mind and walked back toward the Ford.

  “Drop the weapon!” screamed Jonas.

  The man looked in the direction of Jonas like he was hearing him for the first time. He opened the door of the Ford.

  “I said drop it!” Jonas could hear a siren now. The backup would be here in a hot minute, maybe less. If the guy by the Ford could only hold onto his shit, then maybe everything could turn out all right.

  Frank Farrow looked through the partially opened door as Roman Otis checked his gun and listened to the screech of tires.

  “Okay, Richard’s got company.”

  “How many?” said Otis.

  “One for now.”

  “One’s better than two.”

  “Richard’s just standing there, out in the street. Goddamnit, I told him… All right, gimme the bag.” Otis tossed the duffel over to Frank. “How many you got left in that forty-five?”

  “Four.”

  “I’ve got two in the thirty-eight.” He holstered the .22 — useless at this range — and grasped the handles of the duffel bag.

  “You know what we gotta do,” said Frank.

  Otis shrugged. “Can’t do nothin’ else.” He hand-brushed his hair back behind his ears.

  Otis went to the door, yanked it open, and charged out into the sunlight. Frank went out behind him, calling his brother’s name.

  William Jonas watched the man reach for the door handle of the Ford. Someone yelled, “Richard!” The man looked back at the center of the commercial strip. Two men carrying guns and a duffel bag bolted from a door. Jonas speed-scanned: One of them was white with gray hair and a gray mustache, the other a tall, dark-skinned man with Las Vegas–looking hair. The image of them registered as Jonas returned his sight to the man by the Ford. The man by the Ford pointed his gun at Jonas.

  He’s scared. He won’t shoot.…

  The man by the Ford steadied his gun with both hands.

  Jonas thought of his wife and sons. He closed one eye, aimed, and fired his weapon.

  Jonas’s first round penetrated the door of the Ford. His second round found its target. The pale white man’s sunglasses went funny on his face as he crumpled and swung down, his arm hooked around the window frame. Jonas could see a black line running like a worm down the front of the man’s face.

  A round sparked off the hood in front of Jonas. He blinked, moved his gun arm, fired at the two men who were standing still and firing at him. He squinted, saw smoke coming from their guns, heard his windshield spider, kept firing even as a bullet tore into his bicep and another hit his shoulder as he was jerked up and back. He took another bullet high in the chest. It was like a hot needle going in. He screamed as he fell, firing his weapon into the front quarter panel of his own vehicle, feeling the shock of his back hitting the hard, hot pavement and the wind blow from his lungs. He stared up at the blazing sun and listened to the siren grow louder. He fought for breath and got it. He turned his head to vomit. He dropped his Glock and heard the dull sound it made on the street.

  Goddamn plastic gun. Oh, sweet Jesus, I am hit.

  Lisa Karras couldn’t believe the heat. She had called the weather service, but the temperature given on the recording didn’t begin to describe the feeling of actually being outdoors. Not that Jimmy seemed to notice. He was ahead of her, walking faster even as she slowed her pace.

  “Jimmy, honey, c’mon. We’ve got all day. The ice cream store’s not going anywhere.”

  He turned around and jogged backward, pointing to his mother with that evil, beautiful smile of his that couldn’t help but break her down.

  “I’m not biting for that,” said Lisa. “I’m telling you, sweetheart, I can’t go any faster than this.”

  Jimmy turned frontward and broke into a run. She called out to him weakly, but by now he was out of earshot, charging down Alton, halfway to 39th. Fireworks sounded from far away.

  “Where you goin’, man?”

  “I’m going to finish that cop.”

  “You hear them sirens? The two of us ain’t gonna make it if we stay. And I ain’t leavin’ you here, you know that.”

  “He killed my brother,” said Frank.

  “Then we’ll just have to come back at a better time,” said Otis. “Do him the same way.”

  Jonas’s unmarked blocked the road. A patrol car skidded into the Wisconsin Avenue turnoff, rolled up 39th, and came to a stop behind the unmarked. The driver radioed for backup while his uniformed partner crawled out of the car.

  Frank and Otis moved quickly to the Ford. Frank picked up Richard and threw him across the backseat of the Ford. He tossed the duffel bag on top of Richard, ignoring the uniform’s shouted comma
nds, and got under the wheel. Otis was already on the passenger side of the bench.

  Frank yanked down on the tree and fishtailed coming out of the space. Sirens wailed from several directions. They heard the pop of gunshots behind them, and neither ducked his head.

  Otis wiped sweat from his forehead, glanced at the speedometer: fifty, sixty… okay, shit, it would be all right. Frank always did know how to handle a ride.

  “Gonna be a trick to get us out of here,” said Otis. He holstered the .45.

  Frank saw a flash of cop car moving toward them on the street called Windom to his right.

  “Punch this motherfucker,” said Otis.

  Frank pinned the accelerator. The car lifted, and both of them were pushed back against the seat. The Ford blew through the four-way and caught air coming over a rise.

  “Watch it,” said Otis, as something small ran backward into the street ahead. “Hey, Frank, man, slow down.…”

  Something was wrong. There were ambulance or police sirens all over now, and Lisa Karras knew something was wrong. She broke into a run.

  “Jimmy!” she yelled, frantic because he was still going toward the intersection of 39th and he was too many steps ahead and it was too hot. “Jimmy!”

  He turned and ran backward. She saw his crooked smile and the flush of his cheeks as he tripped back off the curb. She saw surprise on his face, but only for a moment. A blur of white car lifted him and pinwheeled him over its roof. He was hinged at an awful angle as he tumbled over the car.

  That is not my little Jimmy, thought Lisa Karras.