Shame the Devil by George P. Pelecanos Page B

then putting pressure on the fleshy, tender spot between
     Darnell’s thumb and forefinger.
    Darnell smiled, caught a grip on Stefanos’s other hand, pushed down so that it bent unnaturally forward at the wrist. They
     stood toe-to-toe, grunting, until Stefanos yanked his hand free.
    “All right, man,” said Darnell, clapping Stefanos on the shoulder.
    Stefanos said, “All right.”
    “You guys through playing?” said Saylor.
    “Yeah,” said Stefanos.
    “So what are you still standing here for?”
    “I was wondering, Phil,” said Stefanos. “Could I have a word with you, out in the bar?”
    “So how well do you know this guy?” said Saylor.
    Stefanos folded a dry bar rag into a neat rectangle, tucked it behind the belt line of his jeans so it rested against his
     hip. “Old family friend.”
    “How old?”
    “His old man worked for my grandfather in the forties, when my grandfather had his grill over on Fourteenth and S.”
    “Okay, but how well do you know him?”
    “I’ve run into him a couple of times in the last twenty years.”
    “Uh-huh.” Saylor scratched his chin. “If his father worked for your granddaddy, then he must be pretty old.”
    “I’d say he’s cruising up on fifty.”
    “He must be a real go-getter. Fifty years old and he wants to work in the kitchen of a joint like this.”
    “I don’t even know if he does want to work here. A mutual friend of ours suggested it. You remember the Pizza Parlor Murders
     a couple of years back?”
    “I remember it. So what?”
    “Dimitri Karras’s son was the kid who got run down by the getaway car.”
    “Christ.”
    “Yeah. This guy’s no loser. The bottom fell out on him, is what it is. He’s trying to put it together, and I thought we could
     help.” Stefanos locked eyes with Saylor. “Look, Phil, the setup we got right now isn’t exactly working out. Darnell hasn’t
     caught a grip on the expediter position, and Ramon can’t bus tables and wash the load of dishes we got with the business we’re
     doing. Put Darnell back at the sink and bring Karras in to expedite for two hours a day. He’s not desperate for money, so
     it’s not a case of how much you pay him. It would do the guy good to just go somewhere every day. Get into the flow of normal
     life again, you know?”
    Saylor pushed his glasses up on his nose. “You think he can do it? I mean, I feel sorry for the guy about his kid and all
     that, but I don’t want to bring someone with emotional problems in here who’s gonna screw up my business.”
    “Karras was some kind of college instructor if I remember right. And he used to run a multistore retail operation. So I gotta
     think he can handle this.”
    “Yeah, but does he have any restaurant experience?”
    “He’s a Greek, Phil.”
    “Good point. Okay, talk to him. See for yourself if you think he’ll work out. I’m gonna leave it up to you. But I’m only gonna
     pay ten bucks an hour for two hours a day’s worth of work. A free lunch goes with it, and a beer if he’d like. That’s it,
     you hear me?”
    “Thanks. You’ll talk to Darnell?”
    “Yeah, I’ll do that. In the meantime, let me outta here before we open. You know I get too nervous when this place heats up.”
    Phil Saylor patted the John Riggins poster hung over the bar, then stopped to look at the framed Declaration of Independence
     print hanging by the service station. He smirked, reading the signatures of the Spot’s regulars scrawled in childlike, drunken
     script alongside the signatures of America’s forefathers.
    “Hey, here’s yours,” said Saylor. “‘Nicholas J. Stefanos.’ I like that curlicue thing you did after your last name. And Boyle’s
     name, you can barely read it. Jesus, you guys must have been drunk that night.”
    “I don’t remember, to tell you the truth. But at least we had the sense to use the same color pen.”
    “Comedians,” said Saylor. He was shaking his head as he headed for the door.
    Melvin