George Pelecanos - Firing offence

“I’m pretty buzzed,” Lee admitted, finishing her second vodka.

“So am I. You want to go?”

“Yes,” she said. “Can we stay together tonight?”

“Sure. But let’s go to my crib, okay?”

“Okay,” she laughed. “But aren’t you a little big for a crib?”

We settled up by leaving a twenty on the table. Lee kissed Louie good-bye. Malone, who was whispering something to our waitress, looked up long enough to give us a wink.

McGinnes was behind the piano, one arm around an older woman with raven black hair in the shape of a football helmet, his other hand clutching a precariously tilted tumbler of scotch. He and the others grouped around the piano were laughing and singing along loudly to the Fabulous Buddy Floyd’s interpretation of “Hello, Dolly.”

At the district line I stopped for a bottle of red wine, then headed towards my apartment. We sat in the car in front of my place, talking and listening to some old Van Morrison. When that was over, we went inside.

A half bottle of wine later our clothes were thrown about the living room and Lee and I were writhing all over my couch. We ended it loudly and in a sweat, with Lee inclined in the corner, the tops of her calves locked beneath my ears, the soles of her feet s oe writhpointing at the ceiling.

Afterwards, I slid a pillow under her ass to catch the wetness, and watched t he sweat roll onto her chest and break apart as it reached her large, brown nipples.

My apartment resembled a bombed-out laundromat. The cat had Lee’s underwear on her head and was bumping into furniture. Lee pulled my face down and kissed me on the mouth for a long time.

“I had a good Saturday,” she said sweetly.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.” Then I pulled a white blanket up from the back of the couch and spread it over us, and we slept, holding each other until morning.

Lee asked, “Where are we going?”

After a slow morning of breakfast and the Sunday Post at my place, we were heading south on Thirteenth Street, passing large detached homes with expansive porches. Ahead stood three-story rowhouses crowned with incongruously grand turrets.

“We’re going to visit someone,” I said. “A friend of my grandfather’s.”

I turned right on Randolph and parked halfway down the block of boxy brick houses. There was little color in the trimwork or shutters here. Dogs barked angrily from alleys. Even on bright and sunny days, this street seemed to remain dark.

“This is my Uncle Costa’s place,” I said. “He worked for my grandfather when he was a young man. When he wanted to start his own business, my grandfather helped him out.”

“Let’s go in.”

“I just wanted to explain to you first, before you meet him. Let’s just say that some of these guys didn’t really assimilate themselves too well into the American culture.”

“You’re not ashamed of him, are you?”

“Not at all.”

“Fine,” she said, tugging at my arm. “Let’s just go in.”

As we walked up the steps, I waved to a man coming out of the next house who I knew to be a reverend. Behind us two gangly but tough-looking kids walked down the sidewalk, one wearing a Fila sweatsuit, the other with an Eddie Murphy “Golden Child” leather cap on his head.

A rusted metal rocker with moldy cushions sat on the concrete porch. Black iron bars filled the windows. I knocked on the door and waited, counting three locks being undone. Costa opened the door, looked at me, and smiled.

“Niko,” he said.

“Theo Costa.” I gripped his hand and kissed him on the cheek.

He was shosolesnt sizert and solid, with thick wavy black hair that was gray at the temples and slicked back, and a thin black mustache below his bumpy nose. Though it was Sunday, he wore a short-sleeved white shirt with two pens clipped in the breast pocket.

“Come on,” he said, waving us in with both hands. As Lee passed him, he looked back at me and said in Greek, “Your girl? Very nice.”

“A friend,” I answered, but he winked anyway.

I introduced her and they shook hands. A couple of cats ran by us and into the kitchen. The curtains were drawn throughout the house. Costa switched on lights as we followed him through the living room and into the dining room. The air was dry and very still.

We sat at a large table in ornate chairs with yellowed cushions. On one wall was a mirror covered with a blanket; on the other hung a sepia-tinted photograph of a man and woman that had been taken in the early part of the century. The woman, even shorter than the short man and wearing a long black dress, was unsmiling. The man wore a baggy suit, a very thick mustache, and a watchchain from vest to pocket.

“You want coffee, gleeka’?” Costa asked.

“Thanks, Costa. Nescafe for Lee.”

“One minute,” he said in Greek, jabbing a finger in the air and stepping quickly into the kitchen.

“He’s nice,” Lee said. I nodded and she pointed to the wall. “What’s with the mirrors? I noticed the one in the living room is covered too.”

“His wife died last year,” I said. “He covered the mirrors so he won’t see her reflection.” She raised her eyebrows. “I told you.”

“It’s just that it’s so dark in here, and sad. He must be very depressed.”

“I’m sure he’s a little lonely and misses his wife. But this house was always closed up and dark, even when she was alive. They’re old-timers, that’s all.”

Costa returned with a tray of two Turkish coffees, a cup of instant, and a small platter of sweets, which he set in the center of the table. On the platter were koulourakia, kourabiedes, galactoboureko, and baklava. He pushed the whole thing in front of Lee.

“Don’t be shy,” he said, moving his hands in small circles. “Eat!”

“I like baklava,” she admitted, emphasizing the second syllable as most Americans do, and chose a slice. I took a kourabiede for myself.

We sat and talked for the next half hour, mostly about what we had been doing in the time since I’d seen him last. The tiny cup of coffee had given me quite a jolt. Lee eventually drifted away from the table and began to wander around the house. We heard her steps on the wooden staircase that led down to the basement.

She called upstairs excitedly, “Hey, Nicky, there must be twenty cats down here!”

“Twenty ca"› excitedts, Costa?” I said, and smiled.

“Maybe a dozen,” he said sourly. “Lousy gatas.”

“If you’d quit feeding them… ”

“Aah,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.

Now that Lee was gone we spoke in Greek. Though I understood everything he said, I kept my own sentences simple so as not to embarrass myself with my marginal command of the language.

Costa reached behind him and opened the door of an old wall cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Metaxa and two shot glasses.

“Too early for you, Niko?”

“No.” He poured a couple of slugs with efficiency and we knocked glasses. He sipped and watched as I threw mine back in one quick motion, returning the little glass to the table with a hollow thud.

“You drink like a Spartan,” he said.

“Like my papou.”

“Your papou could drink. But he gave it up when your parents sent you to him.”

“I miss him,” I said.

“He would be proud of you,” Costa said. Like most immigrants he equated my white collar with success.

“I’m doing fine,” I said.

“It’s time you found another woman.”

“I’m not against the idea.”

“The girl you’re with. She’s Jewish?”

“Yes. She’s my friend, like I told you.”

“Friends, okay. And the Jews are good people, very smart in business. But it’s not good to mix, you found that out. Marry a Greek girl.”