George Pelecanos - Firing offence

“Now this is a bar,” McGinnes said, winking at Lee and smiling to expose some blood seeping from the top of his gum Kop ="3"›“Ns. 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 K3"›r., 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.