I found the phone and punched in the extension. “How can I help you?”
“To whom am I speaking?” said an effeminate voice, lowered purposely to affect masculinity.
“Nick Stefanos.”
“And your title?”
“I’m in management,” I said emptily.
“Well, then, maybe you can help me. I have a complaint.”
“What can I do for you?”
“My name is Evan Walters. Last summer your company ran a promotion where you gave away an ice bucket with any major purchase. I came in and purchased a VCR, which I’m very happy with, incidentally. The clerk explained at the time that they were out of ice buckets. Frankly, I was warned by friends beforehand that Nutty Nathan’s never lived up to their advertised promises, but I was willing to give you people a try.”
“Who was your salesman, Mr. Walters?”
“A Mr. McGinnes. He promised me he’d get me my ice bucket. At first when I called he repeatedly said the ice bucket was on its way. Then he stopped returning my calls altogether. I know it’s a small matter, but I want what was promised me. And I resent the rather cavalier attitude of your salesman. I don’t want to take this any further. I am a lawyer,” he growled.
Of course. Announcing one’s profession unsolicited was one of the more irritating affectations of eighties Washington.
“I apologize for the delay,” I said. “Mr. McGinnes may have run into some red tape in getting your ice bucket. I happen to know that they are in now. I’ll call the warehouse manager and have him put one on the transfer truck. You can pick it up tonight.”
“Thank you,” he said curtly, and hung up.
I dialed the main office and punched in the extension of Joe Dane, the warehouse manager. I asked him to find an ice bucket and throw it on the truck that day to the Avenue.
I walked over to the cashier’s station where Lee was wiping off the shelves with glass cleaner. McGinnes was handing the customer his receipts.
“Here is a copy of your paid invoice,” he said, “and this is a copy of your extended maintenance agreement. I’ve stapled my card to your receipt in case you need anything. You’re really going to love your set. It’s got the highest IS rating of any set we sell.”
“What is the IS rating on this set?” I interrupted. IS stood for “internal spiff,” a Nutty Nathan’s incentive to step off the advertised product onto profit pieces.
“This one’s rated at twenty,” McGinnes said coolly, then turned back to the customer. “If you’d drive around to the back door, I’ll load you up.”
Lee touched my arm lightly to move me out of the way. I caught a whiff of her as she slipped by. Malone walked his customer to the front door, his arm around her waist, his hand just brushing her jeans above her crotch. They talked softly for a few minutes, then he held the door open for her, giving her his model’s grin.
McGinnes, knocking the dirt off his shirtsleeves, moved quickly up the aisle towards the cashier’s station. Malone arrived at the same time. McGinnes folded his arms and stood straight.
“Yeah,” he said. “Twenty dollar spiff. Another ten bucks commission at four percent. And a fifteen dollar pop for the service policy. Forty-five bucks for fifteen minutes’ work.” He paused to rock back on his heels. “I love this business.”
“I’d love it too,” Malone said, “if I could get an up.”
“You had an up,” McGinnes said.
“That wasn’t no up,” Malone said. “That was just a freak.”
McGinnes said, “If you hadn’t been dickdancing around with her in the back, you could have had my customer up front.”
“That’s all right. I got a date with that redbone tonight. And I’m still gonna smoke your ass this month, Mick.”
“Listen, you guys,” I said, “this is fascinating. But I’ve got to run across the street for about an hour. Tell Louie when you see him, hear?”
* * *
THE OLD MAN’S APARTMENT was in the same disarray as the night before. Sunlight came through the window in a block, spotting the layer of dust that had settled on the cherrywood furniture.
Pence was wearing what appeared to be his only outfit. His hair was slicked down, and he had begun a part on the left side of his head but apparently had given up on the idea halfway through. He smelled of whiskey and Old Spice.
“You want some coffee?” he asked. “I reheated it when you buzzed me from downstairs.”
“Black, thanks.” He marched into the kitchen with short, quick steps.
I avoided my old chair and found another seat. Near the dining room table, on a two-tiered stand, was the color set McGinnes had sold the old man, a middle-of-the-line profit model. Below it was a videocassette recorder that I didn’t recognize. I got up and walked over to the unit to examine it more closely. The nameplate read “Kotekna,” which I gathered to be a Korean brand. Stamped across a metal plate on the back were the model and serial numbers, the model number being KV100. Following industry logic, “KV” stood for “Kotekna Video” and the “100” series indicated that this particular unit resided in the lower end of the line. The recorder was not hooked up to the television.
“Professional curiosity?” Pence asked, returning with two mugs of coffee and setting one down on the small table next to my chair. I got off my knees, crossed the room, and took a seat. Pence sat in his chair, lit a smoke and leaned forward.
“A bad habit of mine, from being in the business too long. My hosts always catch me inspecting their equipment.”
“My grandson bought that recorder for me,” he offered. “Some kind of employee purchase deal he worked out with your company.”
“That’s a new brand for us, then. I didn’t even know we sold Kotekna.”
“You sell it, son. It came from your warehouse. Still have the box.” He dragged on his cigarette.
“When’s the last time you saw Jimmy, Mr. Pence?”
The old man waved some smoke away from his face to get a better look at me. I sipped from the mug of coffee. “It was the last Monday in September. He left for work at the usual time, near eight.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?”
“No. Your personnel lady called two days later, on a Wednesday.”
“And you made no effort to contact anyone about this until you reached me, two weeks later?”
“That’s right.”
“You must have been worried.”
“You’re damn right I was worried,” he said, agitated. He butted his cigarette. “Let’s go on.”
“When he said goodbye to you that morning, was there anything unusual about the way he acted, something that may have made you suspicious in any way?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot since he’s been gone, as you can imagine. Jimmy wasn’t one to show his affection. But on that last morning he kissed me good-bye and squeezed my hand.”
“Like he knew he wouldn’t be seeing you for a while?”
“That maybe. Or he was in trouble and asking for help.”
“Was he carrying anything with him that morning? A suitcase?”
Pence laughed sharply. “I’m old, Mr. Stefanos, not senile. He only had a small knapsack, and he carried that with him every day. Kept a radio in it with earphones.”
“Is his suitcase gone?”
“No.”
“Mind if I have a look in his room?”
“Of course not.”
I followed him down a short hallway. We passed Pence’s room on the way. The shades were drawn and the air was stale with cigarette smoke. Pictures of his dead wife and daughter sat on his nightstand, facing an unmade bed. I walked on.
Jimmy’s room was brighter than the old man’s. The single bed had been made up neatly and clean underwear had been folded and placed upon it. Posters of postpunk bands like the Minutemen and Husker Du were crookedly tacked to the wall. A bulletin board hung over his dresser, on which were tacked ticket stubs from concerts. Many of the stubs were from lar
ger halls, like Lisner and DAR. A few were from the Warner. But the majority of them were small red tickets with black stenciled lettering, reading “The Snake Pit.”
“You see anything?” Pence asked.
I shook my head and admitted, “I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’ll head downtown tonight and ask around. I could use a photograph of Jimmy if you have one.”
“I thought you might,” he said and produced two folded pictures from his back pocket. “One of him’s his graduation picture from Wilson High last year. The other one I found in his drawer. Looks like him at a party or something.”
I took them both. The graduation picture was typically waxen and told me little about the boy, though there was a small skull and crossbones pinned to his lapel which suggested a touch of insolence, not unusual for someone his age. I thought his eyes drooped rather sadly at the corners.
The second photo said more about the boy. He stood erect, facing the camera, while his companions danced around him. He was unsmiling, had a cigarette cupped in his hand, and wore black motorcycle boots, jeans, and a T-shirt. A shock of hair hung down over his left eye.
I felt a faintly painful blade of recognition slide into my stomach. Though the T-shirt had changed from Led Zeppelin to Minor Threat, this was me, over a dozen years ago.
“This is how he looks now?” I asked.
“Everything but the hair. He shaved it off a couple of days before he disappeared.”
I put the photos in my jacket as we left the room and walked towards the front door of the apartment. The old man grabbed my arm to slow me down.
“I took the liberty of calling some private detective agencies this morning,” he said. “The average going rate seems to be two hundred a day plus expenses. That will be my offer to you.”
“I’m not a private detective,” I said. “And anyway, I could run into him tonight. We’ll settle later.”
“Yes, of course,” he said halfheartedly. He looked small standing in front of me. My sight lit again on the VCR wires lying unconnected on the floor.
“You want me to hook up that recorder for you before I go?”
“No, thank you,” he said. “Jimmy brought that to me, and he can hook it up, Mr. Stefanos. When you bring him home.”
The old man’s eyes were still on me as I closed the door and stepped out into the hall.
FIVE
MALONE SAID, “Where you been, Country? I done closed two deals while you were gone.”
“I had to see a friend.”
McGinnes was nearby, waiting on a compact stereo customer. He turned to me, cupped his hand around his tie, and began stroking it feverishly, his eyes closed and face contorted.
Louie was moving slowly down the center aisle, his short arms propelling him forward as they swung across his barrel chest. I could hear his labored breathing as he approached.
“Call your girl from the Post,” he said.
“You mean Patti?”
“Yeah. She sound nice. She look good too?”
“Too young for you, Louie. You’d stroke out.”
“Never too old to gyrate,” he said, and demonstrated briefly with his hips. “Matter of fact, I’ll be headin’ over to Van Ness in a little while to take care of business. Might take the evening off.”
“Fine with me. Who’s on the schedule tonight?”
“Lloyd just came in. He’s on till six. Malone’s on till six too. Lee takes afternoon classes, but she’ll be back to work on through. That means you, her, and McGinnes will close tonight. That okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, Nick,” Malone said. “Check out our boy Void today. He lookin’ good.”
Lloyd was absently bumping into displays as he attempted to light his pipe while making his way to the front of the store. The pipe was a Holmesian prop, an Anglophilic symbol that he believed suggested intelligence, but Lloyd was a pale, painfully thin man with a frighteningly deathlike grin, whose appearance more accurately reflected the high school outcast who hears voices from beyond as he clutches his hall locker. Today his woodgrain crucifix hung on a rawhide string over a lime green polyester shirt, hooked up with forest green bellbottoms.
The boys used Lloyd to run errands and as the butt of their practical jokes, while Louie kept him around to fill in odd hours on the schedule. As a stockboy I had been continually demeaned by him in the presence of customers, when he wasn’t critiquing my heathen lifestyle or trying to convince me of his close personal relationship with Jesus. His full name was Lloyd Danker, though all of us, Louie included, called him Void Wanker.
Lloyd looked me over in that way of his that always expressed superiority. The corners of his mouth spread into a sickly smile, and he yanked his pipe out to reveal a cockeyed row of yellow teeth.
“I see management’s been good to you, Nick. You’ve come a long way.”
McGinnes’ customer, who was walking, reached the front door, turned his head back, and said, “Thanks.” McGinnes, waving to the customer, said, “Thank you.” And then, still waving and in a quickly lowered voice, added, “You piece of shit.”
The customer smiled, waved back, and disappeared down the Avenue.
“Good close, Johnny,” Louie said.
McGinnes shook his head and said, “Putz.”
McGinnes, Malone, Louie, Lloyd, and I were standing in a circle near the counter. McGinnes had his arms folded. Louie leaned against a “stack and sell” microwave oven display with his hands in his pockets. Malone had just lit a Newport and was blowing the first heavy drag towards Lloyd, who stood awkwardly in forced casualness with his hip cocked, the pipe hanging from the side of his mouth like some comic-strip hillbilly.
“Yeah,” Malone said slowly, “looks like I might be top dog around here this month.” He gave McGinnes a sidelong glance and held it there rather theatrically.
McGinnes said, “The month ain’t over yet, Jim.”
Lloyd jumped in with, “I’m having a pretty good month myself.”
“Yeah,” McGinnes said, “for a guy who couldn’t sell a lifeboat on the Titanic, you’re having a good month.”
Lloyd blinked hard and pulled the crucifix out and away from his chest, holding it gently as if Christ himself were still upon it. “I wouldn’t really expect you guys to understand, but there’s more to life than closing deals and spasmating your genitals.”
Malone ran an open hand across his own crotch and said, “Maybe so, but I plan on spasmatin’ these motherfuckers tonight, Jack.” He and McGinnes gave each other skin and chuckled. Louie snorted but didn’t look up.
Lloyd smiled hopelessly and shook his head. “Anyone want coffee?”
“Yeah, get me some java while you’re out,” Malone said, then fanned away Lloyd’s outstretched hand. “I‘ll get you tomorrow, hear?” Lloyd left the store, looking something like a human scarecrow.
“Thank you, Jeeesus,” McGinnes said.
“Now that Numbnuts is gone,” Louie said, “maybe we can talk a little business. You girls don’t mind, do you?”
McGinnes looked my way and smiled impishly. His eyes were slightly glazed, undoubtedly the result of several more trips to the stockroom.
“I got a call from the office today,” Louie continued. “The Boy Wonder’s been looking at his computer again. ‘Profit margins have eroded, competition’s fierce,’ blah, blah, blah. Bottom line is, we’ve got to start selling more service policies, and I mean now. Anything you guys have to do to get the job done, you do it. If a customer refuses the policy, reduce the product price on our copy of the ticket, then add the service policy back into it to bring the total up to its original amount—after they’ve left the store, understand?”
“What if the customer finds out later they ‘bought’ a policy they didn’t want?” McGinnes said.
“I’ll handle the complaints,” Louie said with a hard stare at McGinnes, “like I always do.” He glanced out the window. “Now you all have a nice day, and write some business. In case the of
fice calls, I’m out for the rest of the day, shopping the competition.” Then he was gone, out onto the sidewalk and heading south with his short-man’s swagger.
McGinnes and Malone split up, Malone heading back to the relative darkness of the Sound Explosion. McGinnes had picked up a sales call and was gesturing with his hands as he talked into the phone. I went around the counter and dialed Patti Dawson’s number on another line.
“Pat Dawson’s desk,” her assistant said.
“Is Patti in?”
“She’s away from her desk.”
“When you see her, tell her Nick Stefanos called.”
A pause, then, “She’s back at her desk now. Hold please.”
I held for at least a minute and listened to New Age whale music. Finally Patti picked up.
“Where you at, lover?” she said.
“In hell.”
“Back on the Avenue, huh? What’s going on?”
“Some free-lance work I couldn’t get away with in the main office. I figure I can get the job done from here, with your help.”
“What do you need?”
“You got a pen?”
“Shoot.”
“The ad I mocked up for the weekend,” I said. “Have ad services run the proofs over to me here at the store. For next weekend I want to pick up an old ad.”
“Which one?”
“Take the ad I did the second week of September, I think the head was ‘September Savings.’ Change the head to ‘October Values.’”
“How do you keep coming up with these zingers?” she asked.
“It’s pretty scary, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Have you got any camera-ready art down there of a horn-of-plenty?”
“I’m sure we do,” she said.
“Good. Put that in the head too, and paste down some art of televisions and radios spilling out of the horn. Got all that?”
“Yeah. It’s absolutely brilliant, Nicky. I’m sure it will create a feeding frenzy. Anything else you want, while I’m doing your job for you?”
“That ought to do it.”
“They know in the office that you’re just picking up old ads?”
A Firing Offense Page 4