Shame the Devil by George P. Pelecanos Page A

expand the menu, he had hired Maria and James and made Darnell the expediter — the person
     who called out the orders, garnished the plates, and moved the lunches onto the reach-through. Since Ramon would be occupied
     out in the dining room with the extra table turnover, Phil had suggested they hire a new dishwasher, but Darnell, who had
     been washing dishes at the Spot since serving out an armed-robbery sentence at Lorton years earlier, wouldn’t hear of it.
     He took a small raise and told Phil he’d get to the dishes after the lunch rush was through. The popularity of the new menu
     had surprised everyone, though — it was previously assumed that the Spot’s regulars would not care to consume any substance
     that required chewing — and the three-hat arrangement with Darnell wasn’t exactly working out as planned. Since the new system
     had been put in place, there was often high confusion in the kitchen during the rush, and the dining room had run out of plates
     and silver more than once.
    “A little late, aren’t you?” said Phil Saylor with halfhearted force, noticing Stefanos by the door. It was about as tough
     as the mellow Saylor got with his employees.
    “I had an appointment,” said Stefanos, his eyes staying on Saylor’s, letting him know with his overly serious look that the
     appointment had to do with his “other” life. Saylor was an ex-cop, which explained the high percentage of plainclothesmen
     and uniforms among the Spot’s clientele. Phil was retired, but the profession had never entirely left his blood. Invoking
     his investigative gigs was a cheap way for Stefanos to reach Saylor, but it worked.
    “Try to make it on time,” mumbled Saylor.
    “I will.”
    “Nick,” said James Posten, who sported a fox-head fur stole draped over his uniform shirt. “How you doin’, man?”
    James wore eye shadow and carried a walking stick with an amber stone glued in its head. He went six-four, two eighty, and
     most of it was hard.
    “James.”
    “Ni,” said Maria Juarez. Her reddish lipstick clashed with the rinse in her shoulder-length hair. She was on the short and
     curvy side, with the worn, aging-before-her-time look of many working-class immigrant women across the city. When she smiled
     her lovely smile, the hard life and age lines on her face seemed to fall away.
    “Hey, baby.”
    “Check this out,” she said, pulling a locket away from her chest and opening it up for Stefanos to see. He went to her, looked
     at the photograph of her gorgeous five-year-old daughter, Rosita, cut to fit the locket’s oval shape.
    “She’s beautiful,” said Stefanos, noticing the patch of discol-oration on Maria’s temple.
    “She doing good in school,” said Maria. “The teacher say she smart.”
    “How could she not be,” said Stefanos, “with a mother like you?”
    “Ah, Ni!” she said, making a wave of her hand, then wiping her hands dry on her apron as she returned, blushing, to her salads.
    Darnell removed his leather kufi and wiped sweat from his forehead. The knife scar running across his neck was pink against
     his deep brown skin. “You got business in here, Nick? ’Cause we’re trying to prepare for lunch.”
    “Just, you know, stopped in to brighten everyone’s day.”
    “Yeah, well we gotta get this place set up, man.”
    “What’re the specials?”
    “Chef’s salad,” said Maria.
    “Got a nice grilled chicken breast today,” said James, raising his spatula in the air, affecting the manner of a school-taught
     chef. “Marinated it overnight in teriyaki, some herbs and shit. I’m not lyin’, man, that bird is so tender you could fuck
     it —
excuse
me, Maria.”
    “Is okay,” said Maria.
    “Wouldn’t want to lie about that,” said Stefanos.
    “Tell the truth,” said James, “and shame the devil.”
    “Thought you were gone,” said Darnell, trying to get around Stefanos.
    “I’m goin’,” said Stefanos, shaking Darnell’s hand as he passed,