George Pelecanos - Firing offence

The guy seemed to contemplate a break but wisely froze. Kim backed him up to the wall, brought the gun to his face, and tapped the steel of the barrel on the man’s front teeth, hard enough so it made a sound.

“You no fuck me,” Kim said evenly. “I fuck you.”

The man, hands up, moved slowly away from the wall with as much pride as he could fake. He helped his partner up and they silently backed out of the store. Kim kept the gun on them until they were gone, then locked the door from the inside.

I thought too late to read their plates. By the time I staggered to the door, their car was a fishtailing blur of smoke and burning rubber. I did notice that the plates were out of state, though all I could make out was a design something like a mushroom cloud.

“No cops,” I said as Kim replaced the gun beneath the register. He nodded and pointed to the back room.

I lay on a cot next to a chest freezer, looking up at a shelf stocked with pickle spears and clam juice, holding a compress to my nose. The bleeding had stopped but the pain intensified.

“Help me up, Kim,” I said as he entered the room. He put a hand behind my back and another around my arm, bringing me to a sitting position. The room caved in from both sides, but soon converged into one picture.

“Okay?” he asked.

“I think so. Thanks, Kim.”

“No trouble in my place,” he said with certainty, then smiled rakishly. “Bad day, Nick.”

“Yeah. Bad day.”

The doctor who worked on me at the Washington Adventist Hospital looked at my paper and asked if I was Italian.

“Greek,” I said.

“Well,” she said cheerfully, “now you’ll have a classic Greek nose to go with your name.”

“Helluva way to legitimize my name. Is it broken?”

“Not badly,” she said, whatever that meant. She wrote out a prescription and handed me the paper. “These will help.”

I took the script. “They usually do. They any good?”

She looked at me sternly. “No alcohol with these, understand?”

“Sure, doc. Thanks a million.”

At my apartment I ate two of the codeines and chased them with a serious shot of Grand-Dad. Then I ran a tub of hot water and lay in it, everything submerged but my head and left hand, which held a cold can of beer.

A couple of hours later I awoke in the tub, now filled with tepid water. The empty can floated near my knee. My cat sat on the radiator and stared at my nose. It was still broken.

I got out of the tu b, toweled dry, brushed my teeth, and switched off the light quickly so that I could not catch my image in the bathroom mirror.

The red light on my answering machine was blinking so I pressed down on the bar. The four calls, in succession, were from Karen, Joe Dane, Fisher, and McGinnes. All of the messages, except Karen’s, were condolences on the loss of my job. Typically, McGinnes’ was the only one with humor and without a trace of awkward sentiment. He ended his pep talk with what I’m sure he considered to be an essential bit of advice: “Don’t let your meat loaf,” he said.

Craving a black sleep, I chewed two more codeines and crawled into the rack.

I first met Karen in a bar in Southeast, a new wave club near the Eastern Market run by an Arab named Haddad whom everyone called HaDaddy-O.

This was late in ’79 or early in 1980, the watershed years that saw the debut release of the Pretenders, Graham Parker’s Squeezing Out Sparks, and Elvis Costello’s Get Happy, three of the finest albums ever produced. That I get nostalgic now when I hear “You Can’t Be Too Strong” or “New Amsterdam,” or when I smell cigarette smoke in a bar or feel sweat drip down my back in a hot club, may seem incredible today-especially to those who get misty-eyed over Sinatra, or even at the first few chords of “Satisfaction”-but I’m talking about my generation.

Because this club was in a potentially rough section of town, it discouraged the closet Billy Joel lovers and frat boys out to pick up “punk chicks.” Mostly the patrons consisted of liberal arts majors, waiters who were aspiring actors and writers, and rummies who fell in off the street.

In that particular year the pin-up girl for our crowd was Chrissie Hynde. When I first saw Karen, leaning against the service bar in jeans, short boots, and a black leather motorcycle jacket, it was the only time that the sight of a woman has literally taken my breath away. With her slightly off-center smile, full lips, and heavy black eyeliner, she had that bitch look that I have always chased.

I felt sharp that night-black workboots, 501 jeans, a blue oxford, skinny black tie, and a charcoal patterned sportcoat-but when I approached her and offered to buy her a drink (hardly original, but I was, after all, in awe), she declined. I cockily explained that she was blowing a good opportunity.

“Then some day,” she said solemnly, “I’ll look back on this moment with deep regret.” And walked away.

But soon after that I caught her checking me out in the barroom mirror.

A few beers later, keeping an eye on what she was doing and what she was drinking, I watched her walk out the back door, alone, to a patio behind the club. Hurrying up to the bar, I ordered her drink (Bombay with a splash of tonic and two limes) and a beer, and followed her outside.

She smiled and accepted the drink and my company. We sat in wrought-iron garden furniture, drinking and smoking cigarettes and some Lebanese hash I kept in the fold of my wallet for special occasions.

As the band grew trashier (a local female rocker who made up for a serious lack of tone by rubbing her crotch throughout the set) and the joint filled up, that time of night came when men were in the ladies’ room pissing in the sink and several minor fights were breaking out. But at this point Karen and I were only concentrating on each other.

Two rounds later we were in the men’s room stall, doing coke off the commode (a half Karen scored from the bartender), laughing because we couldn’t even see the white on white. We dragged each other out of the place and, climbing into another old Chrysler product I was driving at the time, headed across town.

Then we were on the George Washington Parkway, screaming north at eighty miles per, all four windows down, and listening to Madness’s “Night Boat to Cairo” at maximum volume with the radio dead set on 102.3, the old home of the then-ballsy HFS. We were twisted out of our minds and higher than hippies, and Karen had already unzipped my fly and dug in, and I knew it was going to be amazing, that night and maybe longer.

And it was, but only for about six months. By that time I had graduated from college and we had impulse-married and rented a portion of a house on the east side of the Hill. Soon Karen began wearing her hair differently and lost the eye makeup. She diagnosed me (correctly) as a childish romantic, and pushed me to be more assertive at work and “go for” management, which I grudgingly did.

We split up less than a year after we were married. Though it seems as if the explanation for our failed marriage should be more complicated, I know it to be just that simple.

When Karen opened the door of her apartment, located in old Arlington, the look of disappointment was plain upon her face. I had cleaned up early Tuesday morning, keeping the bandages on as an alternative to the damage underneath. But the area below both eyes had begun to swell and discolor.

“Don’t look so happy,” I said. “I thought you wanted to see me.”

“I did, but not like this. What the hell happened to you, Nicky?”

“Can’t I come in?”

“Sure,” she said, waving me forward with her hand. “I’m sorry.”

She had on jeans and an oversized pocket T-shirt, which she dowdily wore outside the jeans. As I followed her into the kitchen, I noticed that her hips and bottom were a little fuller, though she carried it he et well. The wedge cut she was sporting was shaven high and tight on the back of her neck, this year’s stylish but not over-the-top hairstyle for the career woman.