Shame the Devil by George P. Pelecanos Page A

cigarette for himself, lit Alicia’s. The bartender placed a bottle of Bud in front of him. Stefanos
     chin-motioned the call rack, and the bartender returned with a shot of Old Grand-Dad.
    “Ah,” said Stefanos, sipping the bourbon and lifting his bottle. He tapped Alicia’s and drank.
    She said, “Hey.”
    He rubbed her back and gave her another kiss.
    “What’s up tonight?” he said.
    “I was gonna go over to Arlington. Kevin Johnson’s at Iota, and Dana Cerick’s new band is the opening act. Plus, we just put
     out the seven-inch on this band that’s playing a couple of sets at Galaxy Hut. I should drop by and see how they’re doing.
     Wanna go?”
    “Johnson’s cool. But I think I’ll pass on the Wilson Boulevard crawl.”
    “Afraid to go into Virginia?”
    “Yes.”
    Stefanos had another round while Alicia nursed her beer. The booze was working, and he liked the feel of her next to him.
     He didn’t want her to go. But Alicia and a partner ran a small record label in town, and much of her work was done at night.
    “I gotta run,” she said.
    “Meet me at my place later?”
    “Want me to?”
    “Damn straight.”
    She kissed him and said, “Bye.”
    He watched her go toward the door. She had a spring in her step, and strangers were smiling at her as she passed. Stefanos
     felt lucky as hell.
    Stefanos downed his third shot and took his beer bottle with him to the pay phone in the back of the house. Robert Plant was
     coming back in after the glorious Page solo on “Ten Years Gone,” and Stefanos sang along. Some college guys playing a drinking
     game at a table smirked at him — an old-school guy with a load on, singing a seventies number — as he passed. He found the
     note Elaine Clay had handed him, dropped thirty cents in the slot, and punched some numbers into the grid.
    He got an answering machine that simply said, “Leave a message.”
    After the tone Stefanos said, “Hey, Dimitri. Dimitri Karras. I hope I’ve got the right number. This is Nick Stefanos. I don’t
     know if you remember me. Your father used to work for my
papou
down on Fourteenth Street back in the forties. You and me met a couple of times. My
papou
had you talk to me once when he thought I was getting off the track. Back in, like, seventy-six. Like I said, you might not
     remember. Anyway, I was talking to Elaine Clay today, and she said you might be interested in some part-time work. Well, it
     happens we’ve got an opening down at this little bar I work in, down in Southeast? Place called the Spot. On Eighth Street,
     about a block from the marine barracks. I was thinkin’, I’m working a shift tomorrow, why don’t you stop by after lunch and
     we could talk. I’ll show you around, introduce you to the crew, like that.… If you’re interested, I mean. If not, no sweat.
     I mean, it’s up to you. Well, here’s my phone number, too, if you want to talk…”
    Stefanos left his number and hung up the phone.
    “Shit,” he said, realizing then that he was half lit, wondering what kind of cockeyed message he had just left on the machine.
    He went back to the stick and settled his tab. He bought a go-beer from the tender, slipped the bottle in the inside pocket
     of his leather, and left the bar.
    Stefanos ignitioned his car and turned on the radio while he looked in the ashtray for the tail end of a joint he had placed
     there a few nights back. There was a news brief on the radio: A local middleweight contender who had been in and out of trouble
     with the law over the years had been gunned down in the lobby of the cancer institute of the Washington Hospital Center, where
     he had been receiving treatment for a malignant tumor. The assassin had stood over him and emptied his gun into him after
     he had fallen. Five bystanders were injured by wild shots. The boxer was dead.
    Stefanos had seen Simon Brown fight the boxer at the Pikesville Armory in Baltimore County when the boxer was coming up through
     the