George Pelecanos - Firing offence

“Who are you, son?” he said. “You sure as hell didn’t come here to see my garden, and I don’t believe you’re a friend of my daughter’s. Now I don’t appreciate the company of a liar, especially in my own house. But if she’s in some kind of trouble, I want to know. You a cop?”

“Private cop,” I said, my own words sounding unreal. I was getting tired of telling lies to honest people. Nevertheless, I handed him my phony ID.

He inspected it. “I didn’t think you were a cop. Cops don’t get beat up.”

“So I’ve been told. I apologize for not being honest with you. But I’m not looking for Kim. I’m after one of the boys she was with. She was with two boys, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right. What’s going on?”

“I was hired by the grandfather of one of the boys to find him.”

He studied me. “Where you from, Nick?”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Murder Capitol, huh?” I didn’t answer. “You just get into town?”

“Yessir.”

“Hungry?”

“I could use something to eat,” I admitted. “I really could.”

“ Like it?”

“I like it fine.”

We were sitting at his kitchen table, eating an early supper of grilled chops, fresh corn, and a tomato and onion salad. The late afternoon sun came in through the west window, brightening the colors on my plate. Lazarus brought a glass out of the cupboard and placed it next to my can.

“Here,” he said. “Drink it like a white man.”

I poured the beer into the glass. “What did you think of the boys Kim was with?”

“They only spent the night. The one boy said his name was Eddie, but the younger one called him Red.”

“Redman,” I said.

“That’s right. This Redman was the tougher of the two, a brawler from the looks of him. And cocky, like everything was a joke.”

“What about Jimmy, the other one?”

“He was trying to be tough, but it wasn’t in him. You know what I mean.”

“Where did Kim fit in with the two of them?”

“My daughter was way too old for both of them,” he said bluntly. “This Redman character clearly thought he had a shot at her. Maybe something was going on between ’em, I don’t know. But like everything else, she didn’t seem to be too serious about the situation.”

“What do you mean?”

He stared into his beer can. “Ruth and me had Kimmy late in life. That’s not an excuse, but we were a little old to be raising a girl in these times. When she was in her teens, we thought her wildness was just something she’d grow out of, but she went through her twenties the same damn way. After Ruth passed on, I lost touch with her. She sends me expensive gifts on holidays now, but to me it doesn’t mean much.”

“Do you have any idea where they’ve gone?”

“They were headed to the Banks, I think.”

“They tell you that?”

“I heard them talking about it.”

“Where? Nags Head?”

“That would be a start,” he said.

“She have friends there?”

“She worked there years ago, in restaurants. Worked in beaches all along the coast for a while, from Nags Head down to Cape Fear. Yeah, I suppose she’s still got some friends on the coast.”

“Where did she work in Nags Head? Specifically.”

He tapped his empty can on the table while he thought. “It was a Mex place or Spanish. That’s all I can remember. It’s been a long time.”

“That’s plenty of information,” I said, exaggerating. “Thanks.” There couldn’t be too many Mexican joints on the Outer Banks. I was beginning to get a picture of a smalltown girl, attracted to the resort towns by the money and drugs that came with northern tourists, elements that fed her natural wild streak.

“You like what you do, son?” Lazarus asked.

“I don’t know yet. It’s my first time out. I’m really just bulling my way through it right now. Anyway, it’s not like you see on TV or in the movies, I can tell you that.”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t watched either for years. But a man ought to like what he does.”

We polished off the six, and Lazarus walked me to the door. On the way I stopped at a picture of Kim that was, from the looks of her hairstyle, probably ten years old. Lazarus caught my look.

“She got her beauty from my wife,” he explained.

He shook my hand and wished me luck. I thanked him, feeling almost reluctant to leave. I stepped out into his yard. The dog followed me h alfway to my car, where he turned and loped back up the porch steps. His tail was still wagging as he watched me drive off.

McGinnes was gone when I returned to our room. I washed up and put on a black sweatshirt over my T-shirt. Then I read the note that he had taped to the phone:

Nick-

Behind our room are some woods. Walk straight in and down the ridge until you come to a clearing. I’ll be by the tracks.

Johnny

The ridge dropped gradually and was dense with pine and the occasional cedar. The ground beneath my feet was soft, in some places almost muddy.

At the bottom of the incline were a clearing and railroad tracks, just as McGinnes had described. A narrow drainage ditch ran along both sides of the track. The clearing looked to be only fifty yards in length. Then it ended and the tracks continued into the forest.

McGinnes was standing at the edge of the clearing,="27"›‹ backlit by the sun, which was large and red and dropping quickly below the treeline. He was holding a pint bottle.

“Did you bring any beer?” he asked as I approached him. One of his eyes was covered by a wild strand of hair and the other one told me he was stoned.

I let the knapsack off my shoulder, opened the main flap, and pulled out a cold sixpack. McGinnes reached for one and popped the top. I did the same.

“You’ve been out here all afternoon?”

“Fuckin’ aye,” he said, waving his arm 180 degrees. “This is great. I haven’t had a vacation in years. Here’s to Ric Brandon.” He saluted and took a swig from the bottle, then handed it to me. I hit it lightly, tasted peach brandy, and chased it with some beer.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I hitched to the ABC store,” he said. “Any luck today?”

“A little. I’ll tell you later.”

We had a seat on the tracks. I listened as McGinnes described his day. Occasionally he would stand to illustrate a point, center stage as always.

Twilight came and with it bugs and the sounds of bats and small feet scampering through leaves and brush. I felt warm and relaxed.

A small sound like the ocean increased from a faint to audible rumble. McGinnes put his hand on the rail and led me back to the rightmost edge of the clearing.

“You ready?”

“For what?”

“A ride!”

“No way, Johnny.”

“Why not?”

“It’s stupid, that’s why not.”

“Don’t be such a pussy,” he said as the sound of the train grew louder. “You never did this before?”

“No.”

“All right, listen up. All you do, you pick out a boxcar, an open one if you can, or a flatcar. Then you run alongside it, fast, and grab hold of the ladder or door. Swing up with it, don’t try to let it pull you up. Otherwise, you’ll go down. This run here is only forty, fifty yards before you hit the trees, so you’ve gotta be quick.”

“I’m not doing this, man.”

“Okay,” he said. “Then watch me.”

The train sounded loud enough to be upon us. But a half minute went by before the lead car emerged from the pines and passed. McGinnes dashed out as the lead car vanished into the woods at the other end of the clearing.

He reached it quickly, up the ditch and sprinting alongside the train. He grabbed the ladder of a boxaddfontcar and swung up, dragging a foot out first, then putting that foot on the edge of the open car and looking back in my direction. After that he put both feet on the ladder, held an arm out for balance, and let go, running alongside the train and slowing to a walk just as he reached the trees.