Shame the Devil Read Online Free Page B

breaking
     a sweat.
    Well, no one would ever accuse Frank of being too human. One thing was certain, though: There wasn’t anyone else you’d want
     to be riding with when the death house was calling your name.

TWO
    FRANK FARROW PARKED behind an LTD on a residential street named Tennyson, near Oregon Avenue at the edge of Rock Creek Park. To their right a
     long stand of trees bordered a huge old folks’ home, and across the street to their left stood a row of identical split-level
     houses.
    Farrow got out of the Ford, eye-scoping the houses on his left as he went quickly to the LTD and found its key under the driver’s-side
     mat. He popped the LTD’s trunk, went back to the Ford, and leaned into the open window.
    “I’ll get Richard and put him in the trunk. Clean the interior out and follow with the bag. Dump your guns in the trunk, too,
     and we’ll split.”
    “Any curtain action from those houses?”
    “None that I could see. Come on.”
    They drove through the park, cruised by upper-class houses with Jags and Mercedes parked in their driveways, and passed over
     the Maryland line into Silver Spring. Otis found HUR, the station he had discovered in his motel room, on the dial.
    “You are,” sang Otis, “my starship; come take me out tonight.…”
    Farrow took East West Highway across Georgia Avenue and made a sharp left down a street of cinder-block garages set beside
     the railroad tracks. They parked in front of an unmarked bay between Rossi Automotive and a place called Hanagan’s Auto Body.
     Farrow gave the horn two sharp blasts; the bay door rose, and Frank drove the LTD through.
    The garage was cool, clean, and dimly lit. A Hispanic in a blue workshirt with the name “Manuel” stitched above the breast
     pocket dropped a hose to the smooth concrete and walked over to the LTD. Another Spanish, Jaime, rubbed his hands on a ruby
     shop rag and eyed the men inside the car.
    “Where’s our gear?” said Farrow to Manuel.
    “In the offi.”
    “You said ‘offi,’” said Otis. “But you
meant
‘office,’ right?”
    Manuel nodded and smiled thinly, careful to mask any displeasure at the remark. He had straight black hair and slanted eyes,
     making him look like a brown-skinned Asian. The other one, Jaime, had bony, unmemorable features, except for a line of tattooed
     teardrops dripping from his right eye.
    Farrow said, “Bring our stuff here.”
    Manuel returned with two large packs and dropped them at the feet of Farrow and Otis, who had gotten out of the car. Farrow
     and Otis removed their gloves and tossed them on the concrete. Farrow had retrieved the duffel bag from the trunk, leaving
     the lid open.
    “You listen to the news, amigo?” said Farrow.
    “Is on the radio already,” said Manuel. “You have trouble, eh?”
    “My brother’s dead,” said Farrow, noticing a nerve twitch in Jaime’s cheek. “He’s in the trunk of the LTD.”
    “What you goin’ to do about that?” said Manuel.
    “I’m not going to do anything,” said Farrow. “You are.” Farrow picked up his pack and the duffel bag and went into the office.
     Otis hoisted his pack and did the same.
    Farrow changed his clothes quickly — plain work pants, a lightweight short-sleeved shirt, and oilskin shoes. While Otis changed,
     Farrow took his shaving gear to the office bathroom, placed his Swiss Army knife, his Norelco electric, and a glass tub of
     black Meltonian Shoe Cream on a steel shelf welded below the mirror. He used the knife’s scissors to cut off the bulk of his
     mustache, then shaved his upper lip clean with the razor. He dipped his fingers in the shoe cream and massaged it into his
     hair until his hair was no longer gray. He looked five years younger — at least. He found a pair of nonprescription black-rimmed
     glasses in his shaving kit, put them on, and looked in the mirror: Now he was a different man.
    Back in the office, Otis had changed into a brown-on-beige monochromatic