A Firing Offense

by George Pelecanos

  The place was all muted greens and mahogany. A geezer with a long gray beard, his cane hung over the back of his chair, drank dark beer methodically, closing his eyes with each sip. A couple of young Scots sat near us, discussing rugby as they washed down their ham sandwiches with mugs of ale.

  “Now this is a bar,” McGinnes said, winking at Lee and smiling to expose some blood seeping from the top of his gums. He signaled a waitress who arrived with a bartray at her side.

  “How you doin’, Johnny?” she asked pleasantly with a shockingly thick Irish accent. She was plump with thick calves, but had a lovely, pale freckled face topped by thick, wavy black hair.

  “Meg,” he said, gesturing around the table, “I want you to meet my friends, Nick and Lee.”

  She pulled out a wet bar rag and lightly dabbed around my eye. “You boys had some fun tonight. Better wash that up in the WC.”

  “Thanks, Meg,” I said.

  “What will you be having, then?”

  McGinnes said, “Is Carmelita in the kitchen tonight?”

  “She’s just got off. Getting changed now.”

  “Tell her I’m out here, Megan. And give us four Harps and four ‘Jamies.’”

  “Carmelita’s already drinkin’ a shift beer.”

  “Then send out three Harps,” McGinnes said, “and four whiskeys.”

  I got up and made my way to the stairs that led to the toilets. At the sink I ran some cold water into my cupped hands. Someone in the stall behind me expelled unashamedly as I splashed water onto my face. In the mirror I saw that I had been slightly marked and was a little swollen, but it had all been relatively bloodless. My hair was wild and I dampened it, moving it around into some semblance of uniformity.

  When I returned to the party, Carmelita, a girlfriend of McGinnes’, with whom I had partied once before, was seated at the table. She smiled when I kissed her on the cheek.

  Carmelita was wearing a plaid skirt, pumps, and a crisp white blouse, though she had worked in the kitchen all evening. Her hair, highlighted by a reddish rinse, was set off by her deep red lipstick. Like many other working immigrants in this city, she had an admirably fierce pride in how she looked when not on shift.

  She and Lee were talking when McGinnes interrupted, and we raised our glasses without a toast, drinking down the smooth Jamison’s whiskey. The amber lager was a fine complement, and we had another round of both.

  We left Megan five on twenty and exited Kildare’s. McGinnes told us to wait on the sidewalk, entered a smaller bar next door that had off-sale, and emerged with two sixes of longnecks under his arm. He smiled obtusely as he goose-stepped towards us and said, “Let’s get going.”

  He and Carmelita climbed into the backseat of my car, cracked some beers, and handed one up to Lee, whose leg was against mine.

  “Where we going?” I asked into the rearview.

  “Head on up to Mount Pleasant,” McGinnes slurred. “Carmelita lives that way. And we can drop in on Mr. Malone, see how his date’s going.”

  “Come on, Johnny…”

  “Do it, Jim,” he ordered, “and put on some Irish.”

  I slid some Pogues into the deck, Boys from County Hell, and turned up the volume. McGinnes was trying to sing along to the group’s wild, punked-up bastardization of Irish music, but mostly he and Carmelita were fitfully laughing and making out.

  Lee passed me the bottle and told me what a great night she was having. I laughed at that but agreed and gave her a long kiss, mightily struggling to stay within the lines of my lane, as Shane McGowan shouted at an ear-numbing volume through my ravaged speakers.

  WE PULLED UP TO Malone’s rowhouse on Harvard Street, a darkish block dimly lit by old-style D.C. lampposts. This was a real neighborhood, a mix of Latins, blacks, and pioneer whites. There was just enough of a violent undercurrent here to keep the aspiring-to-hipness young professionals away and on the fringe of their beloved Adams Morgan, which had become an artificially eclectic mess of condos, “interesting” ethnic restaurants, Eurotrash discos, and parking lots.

  When Malone opened the door of his basement apartment and saw the four of us on his steps, beers in hand with swollen faces and ripped clothing, like some escaped group of mentally ill Christmas carolers, a look of exasperation clouded his face. McGinnes put a shoulder to the door and a beer in Malone’s hand, and we all stepped in.

  In my Connecticut Avenue days I would often pick Malone up here on my way to work. We’d sit in his living room, trading bong hits and listening to Miles or Weather Report until it was time to go in. Though he’d upgraded his audio and video equipment since then, the apartment was still decorated primarily in variations of red.

  Malone wore a silk kimono over pressed jeans and soft leather slippers. His date, who had changed her hairstyle since the afternoon, was standing by the kitchen door and staring in disbelief. McGinnes was already by the stereo, moving the dial off WDCU and undoubtedly searching for something more offensive.

  “Just make yourself at home, Mick,” Malone said sarcastically, and McGinnes thanked him.

  Carmelita was trying to talk to Malone’s date, who was answering in Spanish but not encouraging the conversation. Malone had a cognac in one hand and now a beer in the other. He shrugged, tapped my bottle with his, and drank.

  “Thank you so much for dropping by tonight,” he said. “Will you be staying long?”

  “We weren’t interrupting anything,” I said, “were we?”

  “Bitch has some big red titties,” he whispered, then looked at me more closely. “Looks like you motherfuckers got into some shit tonight, boy.”

  I rolled my eyes, took a swig, and stumbled backwards. Lee stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. McGinnes had lost patience locating a radio station and was rifling through Carmelita’s purse, finally finding a cassette and slipping it into Malone’s deck.

  Latin music blared out of the speakers. Carmelita broke away from Malone’s date, excitedly crossing the room to McGinnes, who was dragging the center table away from the couch and moving it to a corner of the room. Malone mumbled something and followed his date, who now appeared to be spitting mad, into the kitchen.

  The four of us began to dance. McGinnes was spinning and dipping Carmelita. Lee touched my cheek, and we kissed as we moved. Malone raised his voice in the kitchen. McGinnes cackled and turned up the volume.

  Malone walked back into the room, moving to the beat, and started dancing with Lee and me, a fresh bottle of beer in his hand.

  “Where’s your friend?” I shouted.

  “She says I ‘did her dog’ by lettin’ you in,” he said, and continued dancing.

  Another song began that was harder, faster, and, courtesy of McGinnes, louder. This was one of those horn-driven salsa numbers that stop periodically on the beat for two seconds of silence, then begin again. The repetition was hypnotic.

  Carmelita had one palm on her stomach, the other upraised, shaking her shoulders, sliding her feet four steps, then turning ninety degrees and repeating. We all followed, freezing when the music stopped, then yelling out and continuing our line dance as it began again.

  Malone’s tongue was out the side of his mouth, concentrating on getting the steps down, then smiling broadly when he had it, yelling, “No wonder you Latins are so happy. The music be so festive and shit!” Carmelita slapped him on the shoulder. Malone explained to McGinnes, “Carmelita be sayin’, ‘Right on time,’” and he rolled his r in imitation of her accent.

  The music ended. McGinnes yanked the cassette from the deck, put it in his pocket, and said, “Let’s go.” We gathered our things and stood by the door.

  Malone’s date was staring contemptuously from the safety of the kitchen doorway. Malone, who looked genuinely disappointed, said, “Where you goin’? We just beginnin’ to throw down!”

  McGinnes and I walked over to Malone and poured the remainders of our beers over the top of his head. His date spun furiously and strode back into the kitchen.


  I caught one last look at him before we booked. Beer streamed down the front of his face, falling onto his silk kimono. He still had a bottle in his hand, and he wasn’t moving, just staring at us and trying to look hard. But he was fighting a smile, the deep dimples of his smooth face betraying him, threatening to implode. The four of us left him just like that, and fell like sailors out Malone’s front door.

  WE DROPPED MCGINNES AND CARMELITA a couple of blocks from Malone’s, on Seventeenth Street. I watched them walk away beneath the light of a streetlamp, his arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist, until they faded into early morning fog.

  That is the last I remember of being in my car. Lee drove us to her place, where she undressed me and got me into her shower, then followed me in.

  She washed my back, then reached around and soaped beneath my balls. I took the bar from her and noticed with some relief that I was getting a strong hard-on. I began soaping her entire body, lingering on her hard breasts and the insides of her muscular little thighs. I slipped two, then three fingers inside her with ease. She bit my lip and sucked on my tongue with a deft roll of her own. We moved each other around the shower for several minutes, our bodies sliding together, until she put her hands on my shoulders, her back to the tiles, locked her legs around my waist, and pulled me in, arching her lower back to take it all.

  When her breathing became more rapid, and her lips turned cold, I hooked a soapy finger into her asshole and she straightened against the wall, eyes toward the ceiling. She yelped, then shuddered, and buried her teeth into my shoulder, while I shot off with a spasm that traveled down my legs.

  We held each other until the hot water began to expire. She put on her bathrobe and dried me with a large blue towel.

  Sitting on the warm radiator, I watched her in the bathroom mirror as she carefully combed my wet hair. Then I was in a deep, dreamless sleep.

  EIGHT

  I WOULDN’T HAVE minded dying but that would have taken too much energy. I had dry-mouth and my stomach had less stability than an African government. My hands smelled like a woman and my hair hurt. The part about the smell didn’t bother me much.

  Lee roused me, handed me a glass of Alka-Seltzer, dropped two aspirin in my hand, and said that breakfast and coffee awaited me in the kitchen. I sat up and washed down the pills with the seltzer.

  She had folded my clothes for me, and I began to dress, pausing often to sigh and rub my forehead meaninglessly. She was not wearing my shirt, a morning-after ritual that I find neither cute nor practical, and I suddenly liked her even more for that.

  I made it into the kitchen and sat with her at a small table. She looked fresh and was dressed for school in jeans and a gray sweatshirt. I took a sip of the black coffee.

  “So,” I said, “did you take advantage of me last night?”

  “Repeatedly.”

  “And where am I?”

  “Tenleytown,” she said, and after watching my expression as I looked around the nicely appointed apartment, added, “Yes, Mommy and Daddy take care of the bills.”

  “You’re from where? New York? Jersey?”

  “Long Island. And I’m Jewish. And I go to AU. Do I fit the profile?”

  “Yes,” I said, gamely forking in a mouthful of runny eggs. “I usually don’t go out with Jewish girls.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Generally,” I said, “they turn me down.”

  She chuckled and gave me the once-over. “I doubt that. Though I wouldn’t try asking anybody out for a few days.”

  “My eye, you mean? Is it that bad?”

  “It’s not pretty. But it’s not terrible.” I got up to pour another cup of coffee, and she asked, “Anybody going to miss you from last night?”

  “Only my cat.”

  “Johnny told me about your one-eyed cat.”

  “I guess he told you I’ve been married, too.”

  “Yes, he mentioned it. But I would have known anyway. By the way you held me last night when we were sleeping.”

  “Forget about the sleeping part,” I said. “Was I a gentle lover?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Well, sort of. Like a gentle freight train.”

  “Sleeping with my wife—I mean, literally sleeping with her—was probably the best part of being married.”

  “You must miss it. Even the bad parts must seem pretty good now.”

  “Time heals all wounds? Bullshit. I miss some things. But I don’t think I miss the bad parts.”

  I stewed about that for a while, and she let me. After she finished her coffee, she put on her jean jacket and hung her knapsack over her shoulder. “Your keys are on the counter and your car is on the street behind this building. I called Louie and told him you’d be late. Do me a favor and wash the dishes, and lock up on your way out.”

  “Sure, Lee.”

  “I had fun,” she said, in a way that both explained and negated the entire evening. She kissed me on the side of my mouth and exited the apartment.

  IT WAS NEAR NOON by the time I finished my third cup of coffee, read the Post, and did Lee’s dishes. I phoned Gary Fisher in the office.

  “Fisher,” he said, short of breath.

  “Fisher, it’s Nick.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I need a favor. How about we meet for lunch today, at Good Times, say a half hour from now?”

  “Lunch is fine. What’s the favor?”

  “Before you leave, go into my desk, top drawer. Collect all the business cards from the media, I’ve got them all grouped in rubber bands. Bring them with you to lunch, okay?”

  “Why can’t you come in?”

  “I was out last night, things got a little crazy. I got my eye dotted in a bar.”

  “Okay, Nick. Half hour.”

  A LINE AT THE bank machine made me late. When I walked into the Good Times Lunch, Gary Fisher was already seated at the counter, drinking coffee and hot-boxing a Marlboro. A couple of beer alkies sat near him and stared straight ahead.

  I sat on Fisher’s right. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was wearing brown corduroys with a tan poly shirt and a brown knit tie squared off at the end. He checked his cigarette, determined there was some paper left over the filter, took a final drag, mashed it, exhaled, and patted the pack in his shirt pocket.

  “What’s going on, Nick?”

  “Nothing much,” I said, removing my sunglasses. He checked me over and shook his head.

  Kim walked over with a green checkpad in his hand to take our order and gave me his usual blank nod. In the mirror above the register I noticed the poster of Billy Dee Williams, smiling over my shoulder. Public Enemy’s “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos” was blaring from the tinny speaker of the store radio. Fisher ordered a burger and fries. I asked for the fish and a bowl of soup.

  “Mr. Personality,” Fisher said as Kim walked away.

  “He’s the Korean Charles Bronson. It’s a big responsibility.”

  “Here,” he said, handing me a paper bag filled with business cards.

  “Thanks.” I placed the bag on the counter to my right. “So, what’s happening in the world of electronics retailing?”

  He shrugged. “The manufacturers are trying to soften the blow of price increases by policing ‘minimum advertised prices’ in the newspaper. In other words, they’re trying to fix retails by controlling the giveaway artists. It’s a good idea, but the FTC will stop that shit real fast once they get enough consumer complaints. If everybody’s in the paper with the same price, all the business will go to the house with the biggest advertising budget, the power retailers. Let’s face it, the days are numbered for the independents and the ‘mom and pops.’”

  Fisher had been predicting gloom and doom since I’d met him. For him it was just an excuse to work longer hours and smoke more cigarettes.

  “How’s our business been?”

  “We’re up from last October.”

  “What about our turns?”

  “We’re at
about eight turns. But our ‘open to buy’ status shows us at a hundred grand in the hole. I’m telling you Nick, the barn is so full it’s ready to burst.”

  We had our lunch. Fisher ate his quickly, as if it were a barrier standing in the way of his next cigarette. My fish was tasteless, as usual, but the soup was thick with beef stock and fresh vegetables, and I began to feel human.

  “How’s McGinnes?” he asked, pushing his plate away and lighting up.

  “He’s good.”

  “Best retail man I’ve ever seen,” he said almost dreamily. “Sonofabitch could sell an icemaker to an Eskimo.”

  “They miss me at the office?”

  “Nobody’s throwing themselves out the window. Marsha asks about you.”

  “How’s my desk look?”

  “A ton of messages.”

  “Throw them all away when you get back, will you?”

  “That’s very professional of you.”

  “And one more thing.”

  “Another favor?”

  “No, just a question. You remember that kid used to work in the warehouse, Jimmy Broda?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I got back from vacation, he was gone. I borrowed a tape from him, I want to give it back. I heard he didn’t show up for work a few days in a row, they let him go.”

  “I know who you’re talking about,” he said, “but that’s not why they aced him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was a gonif. They caught him with his hand in the fuckin’ cookie jar.”

  I thought that over. “What did he steal?”

  “A third world briefcase, what else? Same thing you would have hooked if you were nineteen. He lost his job for a boogie box.”

  I turned the check over, which came to seven and change, and left ten bucks on the counter. Kim watched me pay up. There was a gleam in his eye as he stared at my shiner.

  * * *

  MY CAT, TRYING TO act bored as I approached her on the stoop of my apartment, blinked her eye and looked away. I sat next to her on the stone step and scratched behind her ear. She lay on her side and stretched. It was a fine, warm October day.