Part 1 (2/2)
”Help me, Mom.”
”You got it.”
She rested the flat of her palm on his short, curly brown hair as she turned the lock. His scalp was warm to the touch.
”Mom, can we go for a Metro ride today?”
”One thing at a time, okay, honey?”
”Could we take the Metro to the zoo?”
”I don't think so. Anyway, it's too hot. The animals will all be inside.”
”Aw,” said Jimmy, flipping his hand at the wrist. ”Gimme a break!”
Jimmy ran down the concrete steps as she locked the front door of the colonial. She watched him bolt across the sidewalk and head toward the street.
”Jimmy!” she yelled.
Jimmy stopped short of the street at the sound of her voice. He turned, pointing at her and laughing, his eyes closed, his dimples deeply etched in a smooth oval face.
Mrs. Lincoln, the old woman next door, called from her porch, ”You better watch that boy!”
Lisa smiled and said cheerfully, ”He's a handful, handful, all right.” And under her breath she added, ”You dried-up old crow.” all right.” And under her breath she added, ”You dried-up old crow.”
As Lisa got down to the sidewalk of Alton Place, Jimmy said, ”What'd you say, Mom?”
”Just saying h.e.l.lo to Mrs. Lincoln.”
”You mean Mrs. Stinkin'?”
”Now, don't you ever say that except in our house, honey. Daddy was just kidding when he made up that name for her. It's not nice.”
”But she does smell funny, though.”
”Old people have a different smell to them, that's all.”
”She smells.”
”Jimmy!”
”Okay.”
They walked a bit. They stopped at the corner of 38th Street, and Jimmy said, ”Where we goin' for ice cream, Mom?”
”That store next to the pizza parlor.”
”Which pizza parlor?” said Jimmy.
”You know,” said Lisa Karras. ”May's.”
Roman Otis went in first, putting a hard shoulder to the door. Frank Farrow stepped in next, cross-drawing the .22 and the .38 revolver at once. He kicked the door shut behind him as Otis drew the sawed-off and pumped a sh.e.l.l into the breech.
”All right,” said Otis. ”Don't none a y'all move.”
Charles Greene, the pizza chef, stood still behind the kitchen's stainless steel prep table and raised his hands. Mr. Carl, a short man with a stub of unlit cigar wedged in the side of his liver-lipped mouth, stood to the side of the table. On the tiled floor beside him sat an olive green medium-size duffel bag, zipped shut.
”What is this?” said Mr. Carl, direct and calm, looking at the armed white man with the gray hair.
Frank up-jerked the .38. ”Raise your hands and shut your mouth.”
Carl Lewin raised his arms very slowly, careful not to let his sport jacket spread open and reveal the .32 Davis he carried wedged against his right hip on pickup day.
”Against the wall,” said Frank.
Greene and Mr. Carl moved back. Frank holstered the .22, stepped over to the duffel bag, and opened it. He had a quick look inside at the stacks of green: tens, twenties, and hundreds, loosely banded. He ran the zipper back up its neck and nodded at Otis.
”Okay, pizza man,” said Otis. ”Who we got in the front of the house?”
Charles Greene licked his dry lips. ”The bartender. And the day waiter's out in the dining room, setting up.”
”Go out there and bring the waiter back with you,” said Otis. ”Don't be funny, neither.” Greene hesitated, and Otis said, ”Go on, boy. Let's get this over with so we can all be on our way.”
Greene had a look at Mr. Carl before hurrying from the kitchen. Mr. Carl stared at the gray-haired white man without speaking. Then they heard footsteps returning to the kitchen and a chiding young voice saying, ”What could be so important, Charlie? I've got side work.”
The waiter, who was named Vance Walters, entered the kitchen with Greene behind him. At the sight of the men and their guns, Walters nearly turned to run, then swallowed and breathed out slowly. The moment had pa.s.sed, and now it was too late. He wondered, as he always did, what his father would have done in a situation such as this one. He raised his hands without a prompt. If he'd just cooperate, they wouldn't hurt him, whoever they were.
”What's your name?” said Frank.
”Vance,” said the waiter.
”Over there against the wall with your boss,” said Frank.
Otis watched the waiter with the perfect springy haircut hurry around the prep table. One of those light-steppin' mugs. Vance with the tight-a.s.s pants. Otis knew the look straight away. Marys like Vance got s.n.a.t.c.hed up on the cell block right quick.
”I'll get the bartender,” said Frank to Otis.
Frank Farrow left the kitchen. Otis pointed the shotgun at each of the three men against the wall in turn. He began to sing ”One in a Million You” under his breath. As he sang, he smiled at Mr. Carl.
Detective William Jonas cruised up Wisconsin in his unmarked and made the turn up 39th. The cold air felt good blowing against his torso, and for a change he was fairly relaxed. It wasn't often that he rolled on the clean, white-bread streets of upper Northwest's Ward 3. Most of his action was in neighborhoods like Trinidad, Pet-worth, LeDroit Park, and Columbia Heights. But this morning he had an interview with a teenage kid who worked at the chain video store over near Wilson High. The kid lived in Shaw, and he had grown up with a couple of young citizens charged with beating a pipehead to death outside a plywood-door house east of 14th and Irving. Jonas hated to roust the kid at work, but the young man had been uncooperative on his home turf. Jonas figured that the kid would talk, and talk quick, at his place of employment.
William Jonas had two sons at Wilson himself. They took the bus across town from Jonas's house on Hamlin Street, over in Brookland.
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