Several restaurant workers are murdered by a robber, whose brother is killed by police during the chaotic event. As everyone struggles to heal after the incident, the gunman is determined to kill everyone involved in his brother's death. George Pelecanos is the bestselling author of twenty novels set in and around Washington, D.C. He is also an independent film producer, and a producer and Emmy-nominated writer on the HBO series The Wire , Treme , and The Deuce . He lives in Maryland. Shame the Devil By George P. Pelecanos Little, Brown Books for Young Readers Copyright © 2011 George P. Pelecanos All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-316-13340-1 CHAPTER 1 The car was a boxy late-model Ford sedan, white over black, innocuous borderingon invisible, and very fast. It had been a sheriff's vehicle originally, boughtat auction in Tennessee, and further modified for speed. The car rolled north on Wisconsin beneath a blazing white sun. The men insidewore long-sleeved shirts, tails out. Their shirtfronts were spotted with sweatand their backs were slick with it. The black vinyl on which they sat was hot tothe touch. From the passenger seat, Frank Farrow studied the street. Thesidewalks were empty. Foreign-made automobiles moved along quietly, theiroccupants cool and cocooned. Heat mirage shimmered up off asphalt. The city wasnarcotized—it was that kind of summer day. "Quebec," said Richard Farrow, his gloved hands clutching the wheel. He pushedhis aviator shades back up over the bridge of his nose, and as they neared thenext cross street he said, "Upton." "You've got Thirty-ninth up ahead," said Frank. "You want to take that shoot-off,just past Van Ness." "I know it," said Richard. "You don't have to tell me again because I know." "Take it easy, Richard." "All right." In the backseat, Roman Otis softly sang the first verse to "One in a MillionYou," raising his voice just a little to put the full Larry Graham inflectioninto the chorus. He had heard the single on WHUR earlier that morning, and thetune would not leave his head. The Ford passed through the intersection at Upton. Otis looked down at his lap, where the weight of his shotgun had begun to etch adeep wrinkle in his linen slacks. Well, he should have known it. All you had todo was look at linen to make it wrinkle, that was a plain fact. Still, aman needed to have a certain kind of style to him when he left the house forwork. Otis placed the sawed-off on the floor, resting its stock across the toesof his lizard-skin monk straps. He glanced at the street-bought Rolex strappedto his left wrist: five minutes past ten A.M. Richard cut the Ford up 39th. "There," said Frank. "That Chevy's pulling out." "I see it," said Richard. They waited for the Chevy. Then Frank said, "Put it in." Richard swung the Ford into the space and killed the engine. They were at theback of a low-rise commercial strip that fronted Wisconsin Avenue. The doorleading to the kitchen of the pizza parlor, May's was situated in the center ofthe block. Frank wiped moisture from his brush mustache and ran a hand throughhis closely cropped gray hair. "There's the Caddy," said Otis, noticing the black DeVille parked three spacesahead. Frank nodded. "Mr. Carl's making the pickup. He's inside." "Let's do this thing," said Otis. "Wait for our boy to open the door," said Frank. He drew two latex examinationgloves from a tissue-sized box and slipped them over the pair he already had onhis hands. He tossed the box over his shoulder to the backseat. "Here. Doubleup." Roman Otis raised his right hand, where a silver ID bracelet bearing theinscription "Back to Oakland" hung on his wrist. He let the bracelet slip downinside the French cuff of his shirt. He put the gloves on carefully, thenreflexively touched the butt of the .45 fitted beneath his shirt. He caught aglimpse of his shoulder-length hair, recently treated with relaxer, in therearview mirror. Shoot, thought Otis, Nick Ashford couldn't claim to have afiner head of hair on him. Otis smiled at his reflection, his one gold toothcatching the light. He gave himself a wink. "Frank," said Richard. "We'll be out in a few minutes," said Frank. "Don't turn the engine over untilyou see us coming back out." "I won't," said Richard, a catch in his voice. The back kitchen door to May's opened. A thin black man wearing a full apronstepped out with a bag of trash. He carried the trash to a Dumpster and swung itin, bouncing it off the upraised lid. On his way back to the kitchen he eye-swept the men in the Ford. He stepped back inside, leaving the door ajar behindhim. "That him?" asked Otis. "Charles Greene," said Frank. "Good boy." Frank checked the .22 Woodsman and the .38 Bulldog holstered beneath his oxfordshirt. The guns were snug against his guinea-T. He looked across the bench athis kid brother, sweating like a hard-run horse, breathing through his mouth,glassy eyed, scared stupid. "Remember, Richard. Wait till you see us come out." Richard