Shame the Devil
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Frank Farrow is a natural-born killer. Roman Otis is a fine-looking crooner who does his killing on the side. On a hot D.C. afternoon Frank and Roman hit a pizza shop called May's. When the hit was over, four people were executed. A cop was shot. A boy was dead. And when the sirens stopped wailing and the killers vanished into the heat, dozens of lives were shattered forever.
Now it's three years later, and Dimitri Karras, who lost a son, is starting to live again. But Dimitri's old acquaintance, a P.I. named Nick Stefanos, has just unburied the past--by discovering the killers' identity. Suddenly the second act of a crime story is about to be told. Because the May's pizza parlor killers are coming back into town: where they'll be greeted with open arms, broken hearts, and at least one loaded gun.
side-glanced Karras. “Goin’ all the way back to Gail Goodrich, when you modeled your game after his.” “Aw, shit, now you’re gonna start that again. I told you a hundred times, my game was always closer to Walt Frazier’s.” “Well, you used to wear those Clydes of his, anyway.” “And I could drive the paint like him, too.” Clay and Karras laughed and shook hands. Clay squeezed Karras’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you, man,” said Clay. “Good to see you, too.” “You look different. Happier or
was a nest of angry spiders now, all the time, crawling around in his head. Now Farrow wanted him to set up the cop in the wheelchair, and maybe his sons. Wilson approached the lights of the strip shopping centers along the highway side of La Plata. He cracked the window to let in some air. It felt kind of stuffy in the car, and there was a tightness in his chest. He knew he was a coward. It was because of his cowardice that things had come this far. Once you were in with Farrow and Otis, you
guitar below his waist and he smiled. Alicia Weisman arrived a little while later. He kissed her on the lips as she removed her coat. She went to walk away, and he drew her back to him and kissed her again. “What’s up with you?” she said, not unhappily. “Nothing. Can we just stay in tonight?” “Damn straight. Let me get a drink.” “Bring another beer for me, too. Okay?” Stefanos built the fire up and got down to his T-shirt. Alicia played Soda Pop * Rip Off, by Slant 6, and Stefanos played
the edge of his bed. He leaned forward to tie his shoes and felt a rush of dizziness. Cool sweat broke upon his forehead. He sat up and waited for the feeling to pass. In an hour or so he’d be fine. Stefanos shaved with a cup of coffee in front of him and the last Jawbox booming from his Polk speakers back in the bedroom. “Iodine,” the CD’s soul-tinged rocker, had just kicked in. He rubbed his cheek, downed a last swig of coffee, and gargled a capful of breath wash. In his bedroom he grabbed an
part of his cousin’s brain through all the blood. Otis recited a brief and meaningless prayer. He had known Booker’s mother, and she would have liked him to say a few words over her son. “So long, cuz,” said Otis. “You done gone and talked yourself to death. Now these animals out here gonna do you like you been doin’ them.” He went back to the car. Out on 301, Lavonicus fiddled with the radio dial. “Want you to take care of my sister now, Gus, you hear?” “I will.” “Ain’t gonna lose that