A Firing Offense

by George Pelecanos

  At Dunn, past Fayetteville, I turned off onto 95 and headed north. I offered her a cigarette. She took two from the pack and lit them both with the lighter from the dash, then handed one back to me.

  She smoked while staring out the window. Her shoulders began to shake, and I could see that she was sobbing. I turned the radio on to a country station and left the volume very low. When she had stopped crying, she turned her head in my direction.

  “Who are you guys?” she said. There was that slight Southern accent.

  “We’re taking you back to Washington. I’m Nick Stefanos. The guy in the back is John McGinnes. Who are you?”

  “My name is Kim Lazarus.” She took another cigarette from the pack and lit it off the first. She still had the long brown hair from her father’s photograph, and large, round, blue eyes.

  “You feel well enough to talk?”

  “I think so,” she said, but again began to cry. She shook her head. “Fucking Eddie. Why?”

  I let it go again for twenty minutes. She drank the cold coffee we had saved for her and smoked another cigarette. I kept my eyes on the road.

  “I’m not interested in anything other than Jimmy Broda,” I said finally. “I want you to know that… so you can speak freely. I was hired by his grandfather to find him, and that’s what I was trying to do when I caught up with you. I know he had coke that wasn’t his, and I know you were selling it off as you traveled. But I don’t care about any of that.”

  “What can I tell you? We were partying for two weeks straight. We had sold most of it, and we were doing the rest of it like a last blowout.” She dragged on her cigarette.

  “Keep going,” I said.

  “Jimmy went out for some beer late in the afternoon. Pretty soon after that two guys came into our room. I don’t remember much after that. Either I hit my head backing up or they knocked me out. Anyway, the next thing was, your friend in the backseat was waking me up.”

  I thought about that for a while. “You recognize the guys?”

  “Black dudes,” she said meaninglessly. I didn’t ask her any more questions, and after a short time she fell back asleep.

  I drove on through the night, into Virginia and around Richmond, stopping once more for gas. Kim slept through, though her body jerked occasionally from speed rushes.

  McGinnes awoke outside of Springfield and sat up. He stared out the window for the remainder of the trip. We rolled into D.C. just after dawn on Saturday morning. McGinnes grabbed his gear from the trunk and walked back to the driver’s side, leaning his forearm on the door and putting a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’ll be talking to you,” is all he said. Then he turned and walked into his apartment building, stoop-shouldered and slow, and suddenly old.

  I WOKE KIM LAZARUS and got her into my place. While she showered, I put fresh sheets on my bed. She came out looking clean but still drawn. She had only enough energy to thank me and get into bed. I closed the bedroom door and walked out into the living room.

  The light on my answering machine was blinking. I let it blink. I lay on the couch and pulled the blanket over me. My cat jumped up and kneaded the blanket. I went to sleep.

  I did not dream. But I woke two hours later, thinking of a redheaded boy who looked so horrible in death that I was grateful for never having known him alive. And there was still Jimmy Broda. Either he was caught now, or he was running. I knew with certainty that he was frightened and he was very much alone. The thought of it made the comfort of my apartment seem obscene.

  Unable to return to sleep, I rose, and with great impotence, paced the rooms of my apartment.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ON THE TELEVISION news there was no mention of the out-of-state murder of an area youth.

  I erased the tape on my answering machine without listening to the messages. The phone rang twice during the day but I did not pick it up. In the afternoon I gathered all the liquor, beer, and wine from my apartment and made a gift of it to my landlord.

  Kim Lazarus woke up at around six in the evening. I cooked her an omelette, fried potatoes, cut a salad, and served it with juice and tea. She ate it and returned to bed, where she slept soundly through the night.

  ON SUNDAY MORNING I prepared a huge breakfast. She came to the table, a bit swollen around the eyes, but with color back in her face. She was wearing Levi’s and a blue sweatshirt.

  “Thanks,” she said as I poured her some coffee. One side of her mouth rose as she smiled, her thick upper lip arching lazily above her slightly crooked teeth.

  “You’ve been thanking me an awful lot. It’s no bother having you here. I figure we both need to chill out for a few days.”

  “What day is it?” she asked.

  “Sunday.”

  She ate her breakfast and cleaned her plate with pieces of toast. I refilled her plate and she kept going. She was a big-boned woman with little body fat but plenty of curves.

  When she was finished, the cat, who had already taken to her, jumped up on Kim’s lap.

  “Do you mind?”

  “No,” she said, rubbing behind the cat’s ears. “I like it. How’d she lose her eye?”

  “Catfight, I guess. That’s how I found her. She was hiding outside behind some latticework, and her eye was just hanging out, hanging by a nerve. I got her to a vet, and he took it out, then sewed the lid shut. After that she stuck around.”

  “Kind of like how you adopted me.”

  “Until we figure this whole thing out, yeah.”

  “Don’t you work?” she asked.

  “I lost my job last week.”

  “Where?”

  “I did ads for a retail outfit.”

  “Really. Which one?”

  “Nutty Nathan’s,” I mumbled.

  “I know that place,” she said. “‘The Miser Who Works for You.’”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Your friend John work there too?”

  “Yeah, how’d you guess?”

  “He looks like a salesman. You don’t.”

  “Well, I was—for years. Johnny and I worked the floor together for a long time.”

  “Hard to stay friends and not fight over ups and things like that.”

  “Oh, we fought over ups, believe me.”

  “How did that happen?” she asked, reaching across the table and touching the faded purple area around my nose.

  “Looking for Jimmy Broda.”

  I refilled our coffee cups and put a fresh pack of smokes on the table between us. She shook one out and lit it, then blew smoke at the window. Her mouth turned down at the edges and her eyes watered up.

  “Have you heard anything yet?” she asked.

  “Not yesterday. Not on the news today or in the Sunday paper. Frankly, I’m beginning to think that the ones who killed Eddie went back and cleaned up.” I thought of the dropcloth they had placed beneath him. “I don’t think anybody’s going to find Eddie, not for a while anyway.”

  “And you’re not going to report it?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How did you get involved with those guys?”

  “Cocaine,” she said. “The same way I get involved with every guy I know.” She butted her cigarette and lit another, then looked back at me. “When I moved up to D.C., I didn’t have a job, but I had money. I was dealing for a guy. Then we had a falling out, and my supply and income got cut off. I started hanging out in the clubs. One night at the Snake Pit I met Eddie and Jimmy.”

  “And Jimmy was holding.”

  “Bigtime. And he was generous with it. I think it made him feel like a bigshot, but at the same time he was real nervous about it.”

  “Did you know it was stolen?”

  “I suspected it at first,” she admitted, “and then after a while I was certain. But I’m an addict, Nick. I didn’t care where it came from, only that he had it, and that he didn’t mind handing it out.”

  “Where d
id Eddie fit in?”

  “He wanted me,” she said.

  “Why did the three of you leave town?”

  “Like I said, Jimmy was paranoid. I told him how we could off it and take a vacation at the same time. So we drove south.”

  “Did he ever say where he got the drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Kim, think. Something must have been said. With all the shit you were putting up your noses, there must have been quite a bit of talking going on.”

  “I’m certain,” she said bitterly.

  I stood up and washed our cups in the sink. I could hear her crying behind me. When I turned, her arms were outstretched.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and put my arms around her.

  “I’m so fucked up,” she said. Her tears felt hot on my neck. I was aware of her breasts crushed against my chest, and of my erection. I eased her away.

  “You can stay here for as long as you like.”

  “I could use a glass of wine or something.”

  “There isn’t any booze here,” I said. “I was thinking maybe it would be a good time to start drying out. I could stand it myself.”

  She nodded. “If you’re willing to put up with me. But I’ll need a few things from my place.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I have an apartment in Southwest.”

  “I’ll take you there.”

  “Thanks, Nick.”

  HER PLACE WAS IN a low rent hi-rise near the Arena Stage, two blocks back from the river. We rode the elevator up to the eighth floor.

  Her apartment seemed to be a part-time residence. There were chairs and stereo equipment and a television, but no tables. The walls were bare. Magazines and newspapers were scattered on the floor, along with several full ashtrays.

  As she walked towards the bedroom, she said, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I had a look in before she closed the door. A sheeted mattress lay on the floor. Next to it was a small reading lamp and a telephone, and another ashtray.

  I walked out onto her narrow balcony and lit a smoke. Her view faced north and looked out over other bunker-style buildings. I crushed the butt on the railing and reentered the apartment.

  I could hear her muffled voice through the bedroom door as she talked on the telephone. I browsed through her small record collection, a typically seventies example of dead-end rock: Boston’s debut, REO Speedwagon, Kansas, etc. Her stereo equipment was high-end; her television, state-of-the-art.

  “You ready?” she asked cheerfully, coming out of the room with the suitcase she had emptied, then refilled.

  We got on the freeway at Maine Avenue and headed east for a couple of miles, turning off past the Capitol and driving down Pennsylvania. I parked near the Market.

  We walked to a restaurant near the strip, one of those places that does a huge Sunday brunch business on the Hill. The television set over the bar was already fired up and set on “The NFL Today.” They were moving plenty of mimosas and Bloody Marys, though there was also a fair amount of draught beer being sold to those who were past kidding themselves.

  We lucked into a window deuce and ordered burgers and coffee. When the coffee came, Kim lit a cigarette.

  “Is this going to be your first winter in D.C.?” I asked.

  “Yes.” The sun was coming through the window, finding the three or four strands of silver in her long brown hair. “When does it start getting cold around here?”

  “Sometimes this month. Sometimes not till January.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Practically all my life.”

  “Your folks alive?”

  “My parents live in Greece.”

  “Were you born there?”

  “Yes. But I don’t remember it.” I sipped my coffee. “I met your father, you know?”

  “When you were following us?” Her eyes narrowed, then softened. “He’s a good man.”

  “He is. That home in Elizabeth City might be the right place for you to start again.”

  “My childhood’s over, Nick.”

  “It was only a thought.”

  “How about you?” she asked. “Any plans for a new start?”

  “No,” I said. “I think I’ll just hang around.”

  “And what?” she asked.

  “See what happens.”

  AFTER LUNCH I DROVE across town and picked up Rock Creek Park just above the Kennedy Center. The leaves on the trees had turned completely. With everything, I had not noticed the change of season.

  A car that had been behind us since we entered the park stayed with us as I veered right on Arkansas Avenue. When I made a left onto Thirteenth Street, the car turned right.

  The rest of the day I watched football and paced around the apartment while Kim napped. At one point I pulled a chair up to my bed and watched her sleep, then spent the next fifteen minutes wondering why I had done that.

  I drove to a Vietnamese fish market on New Hampshire and Eastern Avenue, bought two pieces of flounder, and returned to the apartment. I brushed them with butter and lemon and wrapped them in foil. Kim put them on a small hibachi she had set up outside near the stoop. I sat on the steps with my cat and we watched her grill the fish.

  After dinner she washed the dishes while I watched the news. Still no word on Eddie Shultz. Kim entered the living room. She looked healthy and almost beautiful.

  “You’re nearly there,” I said.

  “Goodnight, Nick.” She kissed me on the back of my cheek, where the neck meets the ear. Then she turned and walked into the bedroom. I watched her walk.

  That night I slept on the couch. The cat slept on my bed, with Kim Lazarus.

  THE NEXT MORNING I used my room to change clothes while Kim showered. She had reorganized my dresser into a makeup stand. Moisturizing creams, eye shadows, and lip glosses were mixed in with barrettes and odd pieces of jewelry. A wallet-sized, aged black and white photograph of a German shepherd was wedged in the frame of the mirror that hung over my dresser.

  “I guess I kind of took over,” Kim said as she walked into the bedroom wearing my bathrobe. Water dripped from her hair onto her shoulders and over the top curves of her full breasts. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “I like a woman here. The difference of it, I mean. When I was married, my wife was always putting fresh flowers and plant pieces around our place. It’s something I would never think to do myself. Now it’s one of the few things I remember about our marriage.” I pointed to the picture of the dog on the mirror. “Who’s this?”

  “Rio,” she said. “A shepherd I had when I was a kid.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Really good,” she said. “The mornings are great. I feel so proud waking up, knowing I made it through another day without doing drugs. But the nights are really rough, Nick. I just associate the nighttime with getting fucked up.”

  “You feel like going for a ride today, look at the leaves?”

  “Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I’d like that.”

  We drove out 270 and turned off at the Comus exit, parking in the lot on Sugarloaf Mountain. We hiked the mile to the top.

  It was Monday but crowded due to the peak foliage. We found a rock on the edge that was unoccupied, and had a seat. The air was cool and there was a strong breeze. As the clouds moved across the sun, we watched their shadows spread over the trees below.

  The temperature began to drop. We didn’t speak for quite a while. Kim found my hand with hers and held it. I was thinking of Jimmy Broda and I know she felt it. But she let the afternoon drift by and didn’t say a word.

  THAT NIGHT I FELL asleep on the couch shortly after Kim had gone to bed.

  She woke me sometime after midnight with a long kiss on my lips. She was wearing only a T-shirt. She was kneeling beside me, and the T-shirt crept above her pale, round ass as she leaned in.

  “Aren’t you tired of this arrangement?” she said.

  “Yes.”<
br />
  “Me too.”

  She pulled down my blanket and straddled me, easing me into the folds of her dampness. I pushed her breasts together and kissed them, then her neck. Her hips moved with an even liquidity. I let her take me to it, and when I was there, it was if she were tearing a piece from me to keep in her lambent belly.

  Afterwards I remained inside her. She laid her chest on mine and I listened to her breath.

  We slept in my bed that night, with the cat between our feet. I woke early, showered, and dressed. I shook her awake and told her I was leaving to run some errands, then kissed her. Her eyes had closed again by the time I reached the door.

  When I returned two hours later, she was gone. Her suitcase had been taken, as had all of the makeup and jewelry on the dresser. The rest of the apartment was orderly. There were no signs of struggle.

  The photograph of the German shepherd still hung crookedly on the mirror, the only item Kim Lazarus had left behind, like the last discarded fragment of a childhood long since past.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE WEATHER THAT morning suddenly turned, to the kind of gray, windy October day that is a harbinger of winter. I put on my charcoal wool sportjacket over a blue denim shirt, filled the cat’s dish, secured the apartment, and headed downtown.

  I had the desk clerk ring up Kim’s apartment from the lobby of her building. There was no answer and she had not been in to pick up her mail.

  Out in the street, I turned my collar up and walked into the wind down the two blocks that ended at the river. I entered a seafood restaurant on the waterfront that was just opening for lunch, and had a seat at the empty bar.

  The bartender was a thin man with a thin mustache wearing black slacks and a stained white shirt. He stopped cutting limes, idled over, and dropped a bev-nap on the bar in front of me. Then he ran a waxy fingernail along the edge of his mustache.

  “What can I get you?”

  “A bottle of Bud. And an Old Grand-Dad. Neat.”

  He served me and returned to his cutting board. I downed the shot and lit a smoke, then drank deeply of the beer. When the bottle was empty, I ordered another and a shot to keep it company.