Frank and Otis moved quickly to the Ford. Frank picked up Richard and threw him across the backseat of the Ford. He tossed the duffel bag on top of Richard, ignoring the uniform’s shouted commands, and got under the wheel. Otis was already on the passenger side of the bench.
Frank yanked down on the tree and fishtailed coming out of the space. Sirens wailed from several directions. They heard the pop of gunshots behind them, and neither ducked his head.
Otis wiped sweat from his forehead, glanced at the speedometer: fifty, sixty… okay, shit, it would be all right. Frank always did know how to handle a ride.
“Gonna be a trick to get us out of here,” said Otis. He holstered the. 45.
Frank saw a flash of cop car moving toward them on the street called Windom to his right.
“Punch this motherfucker,” said Otis.
Frank pinned the accelerator. The car lifted, and both of them were pushed back against the seat. The Ford blew through the four-way and caught air coming over a rise.
“Watch it,” said Otis, as something small ran backward into the street ahead. “Hey, Frank, man, slow down…”
Something was wrong. There were ambulance or police sirens all over now, and Lisa Karras knew something was wrong. She broke into a run.
“Jimmy!” she yelled, frantic because he was still going toward the intersection of 39th and he was too many steps ahead and it was too hot. “Jimmy!”
He turned and ran backward. She saw his crooked smile and the flush of his cheeks as he tripped back off the curb. She saw surprise on his face, but only for a moment. A blur of white car lifted him and pinwheeled him over its roof. He was hinged at an awful angle as he tumbled over the car.
That is not my little Jimmy, thought Lisa Karras.
That’s just a broken doll.
Frank Farrow gave the cracked windshield a spray of fluid and hit the wipers. Blood swept away and gathered at the edges in two pink vertical lines.
Roman Otis turned his head, looked through the rear glass. A woman was in the street, her hands tight in her hair. Her mouth was frozen open, and she was standing over a small crumpled thing.
Frank gave it a hard right onto Nebraska Avenue, downshifted the automatic to low coming out of the skid, and then brought it back up to drive. He passed a Jetta on the right and crossed the double line passing a ragtop Saab.
“There’s Connecticut Avenue,” said Otis. “I remember it from the map.”
“I see it.”
“You ain’t gonna make that yellow, partner.”
“I know.”
Frank shot the red; a car three-sixtied as they went through the intersection and down a steep grade, Frank’s hand hard on the horn. Vehicles ahead pulled over to the right lane.
Otis breathed out slowly, checked the backseat, looked across the bench.
“Look – about your brother.”
“Forget it.”
“Your brother did good, man. Remember it. He kept that cop busy and he did good. ”
Frank was expressionless.
“Frank.”
“I said forget it. Where’s the switch?”
“Tennyson at Oregon. About a mile up ahead.”
Otis closed his eyes. Frank’s brother was dead, stretched out under a bag of money. Otis and Frank had just killed five – four whites and a black – including a kid. Maybe even killed a black cop, too. Be hard to find a jury of any racial mix that wouldn’t give the two of them that last long walk. And here was Frank, colder than the legs on Teddy Pendergrass, barely 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 shirt-and-slacks arrangement with matching brown weave shoes. He had tied his hair back tightly in a ponytail and wore wire-rimmed shades that darkened in the light.
Otis smiled when Farrow walked back into the room. “Lookin’ all Clark Kent on me now.”
“You take your share?”
“I took it.” Otis picked up his pack. “Too bad about that pizza boy. I know he would have talked when it got hot. Shame, though, we had to do him like we did.”
“We did have to. Come on.”
“Okay, amigo,” said Farrow as he and Otis reentered the garage. “Come on over here.”