Shame The Devil Part 30

Farrow squinted. "You think this is unnecessary, Roman?"

Otis thought carefully before he spoke. He was about as close to Frank as any man could be, but he didn't want to get on his wrong side, just the same. Long as he'd known him, Frank had been a violent man. No conscience, either, which could be a positive in their profession. That no-conscience thing was what often kept men like them alive. But the way he'd run over that kid after the pizza parlor kill, that had been extra cold, even for Frank. And killing that churchman out in the country? Otis could not see where that had been justified. Frank had always been ice. Lately, though, it seemed like he was enjoying the bloodletting a little too much.

"I wouldn't say it's unnecessary," said Otis. "Only thing I'm askin' is, let's be smart about it, right? I mean, we're sittin' out here in the broad daylight and s.h.i.t. We were lucky to get out of this town the first time around, Frank. I just don't think we ought to be so fast about temptin' the G.o.ds of fate, man. You know what I'm sayin'?"

"It was you who said we could come back here for this. Remember?"

"I remember." Otis sighed. "I'm with you, man. You don't have to doubt that, hear?"

"That's all I wanted to know."

A tall young man with a leather book bag slung over his shoulder came from the Jonas house and walked toward a Toyota parked on the street.

"There's one of his sons," said Farrow. "Looks like the one from the photograph we sent to Jonas. Christopher is his name."

Christopher Jonas got into the Toyota, started it, and drove down Hamlin. Farrow ignitioned the Mustang.

"Here we go," said Farrow, pulling off the curb.

Otis kicked the volume up on the radio to where it had been.

"Cancer," said Otis. "And my name is Larry. And I like a woman that likes everythang and everybody..."

They followed Christopher Jonas across town and southwest, over to Georgia and down New Hampshire for a long stretch, around one of D.C.'s many circles, past a hospital, to where students walked the sidewalks along dormitory-style brick buildings.

"George Washington University," said Otis, studying the detail map. "Boy must have a brain in his head."

The Toyota went into a garage. Farrow did not want to be trapped inside the structure, so he went around the block and found a spot on the street. The meter where they parked was without a head, as were most of the meters they'd seen since they'd been in town. They sat in the car, waiting. A cop car sat idling at a red light ahead. The light turned green, and as the cop car prepared to accelerate, another car ran the opposing red, blowing through the intersection. The cop car did not pursue the offender.

"That's not the first time I've seen that," said Otis.

"Yeah," said Farrow. "Man could get the crazy idea that there's no police presence in this town."

"Our kind of place," said Otis. "Right?"

Christopher Jonas emerged from the garage and crossed the street.

"Wait here," said Farrow.

He stepped out of the car and followed Christopher on foot. Otis reached over, turned the ignition key, and hit the power b.u.t.ton on the radio. Otis decided to let the car run while he listened to music. Frank wouldn't like it if he put a drain on the battery.

Christopher Jonas went into an eat-house called D.J.'s. Farrow hung outside and looked through the plate gla.s.s window. He watched the Jonas kid greet a couple of his friends, two white kids and a Paki-looking girl, at a long table. Jonas kissed the girl and had a seat by her side.

Farrow went around the corner to a bank of pay phones and dropped thirty-five cents in one of the change slots. He punched in the number he read off a slip of notepaper he had pulled from his coat.

"Jonas residence," said a female voice on the other end of the line.

"Afternoon," said Farrow. "Would it be possible to have a word with Bill?"

Roman Otis watched Farrow go around the front entrance of the carryout shop up ahead. He could see a sliver of Frank, lifting the receiver off a pay phone. He wondered what Frank was up to now.

Watching Farrow, he sang along softly to that Manhattans single "Kiss and Say Goodbye." This was one of those special cla.s.sics that Otis did so well.

A campus cop car slowed down as it pa.s.sed the Mustang, then accelerated and took a right at the next corner.

"'Understand me,'" sang Otis, "'won't you try-yi-yi; let's just kiss and say good bye....'"

Otis was on the last verse when he looked in the rearview and saw the campus cop. The car had circled the block and was slowing to a stop and double-parking behind him. Otis took his shades from his breast pocket and put them on. Without leaning forward, he reached down and touched the b.u.t.t of the .45 he had slipped beneath the bucket. He pushed it back an inch or so and let himself relax.

The cop got out of his car and walked to the driver's side of the Mustang. He made a motion for Otis to roll down the window. Otis reached across the bucket and did it. He looked up at the cop: white boy, wearin' his first mustache, couldn't have been more than twenty-two or so.

"Officer," said Otis with a wide smile.

"Afternoon. Something wrong?"

"No, sir, not a thing."

"I noticed the car was idling without a driver."

"Waitin' on my friend. Was trying to keep the heater running, cold as it is."

"It's not all that cold today."

"Is for me. I'm up here from Florida."

"Where's your friend?"

"Makin' a call on the corner there. He should be right along."

The cop shuffled his feet. He looked at the Korean place called D.J.'s on the corner and back at Otis.

"Excuse me a minute," said the cop. "I'll be right back."

Otis saw the cop go and get into the driver's seat of his car, the door open, one foot out planted on the street. He watched the cop lift the radio mic, speak into it as he read the plate numbers off the car.

"C'mon, Frank," said Otis, more annoyed than anything else. "You f.u.c.kin' around too too much now." much now."

Dee Jonas handed her husband their cordless phone.

"Jonas here."

"Bill?"

"Yes."

"How's it going?"

"Who is this?"

"An old friend. I'm back in town for a few days. Thought I'd say h.e.l.lo."

"Who is this?" repeated Jonas.

"You have a good-looking family, Bill. I'm looking at your son Chris right now, and he's a very handsome boy. Got a lot of friends, too. He's sweet on an Indian girl, Bill. You know that?"

Jonas looked over his shoulder. His wife was back in the kitchen. He lowered his voice and said, "I'm going to ask you again -"

"Chris is tall. He drives a Toyota and he carries a leather book bag."

"Coward."

"What's that?"

"You're good at keeping your distance. You sent me a photograph. Isn't that right?"

"That's right. I'm the man who put you in that chair."

"What kind of rock did you crawl out from under?" growled Jonas.

"All kinds of rocks. Reformatories, state prisons, federal joints... I've been under all sorts of rocks my whole life, Bill."

"Keep talking. Tell me more."

"You killed my brother Richard, and now I'm going to have to kill your son. That's all you need to know. Good bye, Bill."

"d.a.m.nit!" yelled Jonas.

Bill Jonas heard a click on the other end of the line. Then he heard a dial tone and threw the phone onto the couch.

Dee Jonas had come from the kitchen. She was standing by its entrance, wringing her hands on a towel.

"What is it, Bill?" she said.

"It's nothing," said Jonas. "I lost my temper at a salesman, is all. Shoulda taken my number out of the book years ago."

Jonas wheeled himself to the bay window. He rubbed his knuckle against his teeth and felt his wife's hand on his shoulder. He looked down at his skinny, useless legs lying crookedly in the seat of the chair.

"Richard," said Jonas under his breath.

"What?" said Dee.

"Pack your bags. Pack bags for our sons, too. I want you all to go down to Tidewater, to your mother's place. It'll only be for a few days."

"Why, Bill?"

"Don't ask me why."

"You can't stay here by yourself."

"I can get from my chair to my walker. I can get in and out of the bathroom, and I can cook. So don't tell me I can't."

Dee lowered her voice. "But the boys aren't going to want to go."

"Tell them that aunt of yours wants to see them. The one been in that nursing home for ten years? Tell them she's dying and she wants to say good bye."

"But Aunt Carla's not dying. She's gonna outlive us all."

"Tell them anything you want to, then," said Jonas, staring out the window at the street. "Whatever you tell them, I want y'all out of here by tonight."

Frank Farrow racked the receiver. He walked around the corner of D.J.'s and saw the campus cop car parked behind the 'Stang. He crossed the street with his head down, staring at his feet. He heard a siren coming from somewhere behind him, and as he walked the siren grew louder.

As he approached the Mustang, he looked briefly at the cop, sitting behind the wheel of the car, one foot out on the street. The cop was young, nothing more than a boy. There was fear on the cop's face, and something close to panic. He couldn't even meet Farrow's eyes.

The siren grew louder.

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit all," muttered Farrow.

He reached the Mach 1 and got behind the wheel.

"Put your seat belt on, Roman."

Otis nodded. The metal-to-metal seat belt connection was made with a soft click. Farrow pulled the shifter back to D and hit the gas.

The Mach 1 left rubber on the street, fishtailed on 22nd, and then straightened, clipping the door of a black Camry parked at the curb. They pa.s.sed Christopher Jonas and his friends, who were walking out of the carryout on the corner and staring at the speeding car.

"We got Johnny Law at twelve o'clock high," said Otis. "That's a real one, too."

"I see him."

Farrow turned sharp left on G, pumped the brakes, and then punched the gas to bring them out of the skid. The D.C. cop followed, the overhead lights spinning, the siren on full.

"Watch it, man," said Otis, as a female student ran across the street into their path. Then they were nearing the girl and almost on her.

Otis said, "Frank."

Otis leaned over and pushed the wheel in a counterclockwise direction. The Mustang swerved around the girl. For a second Otis saw her stretched-back, gray-as-death face.

"Where?" said Farrow.

"Left on Twentieth," said Otis.

Farrow cut it hard. They sideswiped a parked Amigo before getting back on course. The cop car made the turn fifty yards behind them.

"Right on K," said Otis.

"That the next street?"

"The next big one, yeah."