George Pelecanos - Firing offence

I heard faraway voices and the rain. I slid out the door and moved along the wall to Dane’s office door. The knob turned in my hand. I left the door ajar as I moved into the darkness.

Malone and Wayne followed me in. Wayne closed the door behind him. They found me in the rear of the office, sitting on the floor with my back to the wall. They sat near me. I felt clammy and wet. I pulled the gun from my knapsack and tossed the knapsack aside.

A motor kicked in. The sound of it grew louder. A spinning shaft of yellow light approached with the sound. I held the Browning tightly between my legs. Then the sound diminished and the light faded.

“Forklift,” I said quietly and saw Malone nod.

There were more voices. I crouched up on the balls of my feet. Two tallish, thin men I didn’t recognize were standing with the albino thirty yards from the office. They would be the buyers. One of them wore his dreadlocks long and out, and carried a briefcase in his right hand. He kept his other hand in his jacket pocket. So did his partner. The albino and one of the buyers traded unsmiling nods, then were gone behind the last row of stock.

“All here now,” I said.

We listened to the rain and each other’s breathing. Some time went by like that, then Malone spoke.

“We best go, Country,” he said qu” breathingietly.

“Okay,” I said.

I stood up and moved to the door. I undid the safety on my gun. I looked out, saw no one, and opened the door.

Wayne was out without a word, bolting across the floor to the center aisle. He held his gun up next to his head and pressed his back against the cartons. He began to edge his way to the back of the warehouse. I could see sweat reflecting off his forehead.

I walked out and moved quickly to the end cap of the second row. I felt Malone move with me. We glanced at one another. He moved his pistol from his left to his right hand. I wiped my palm across my jeans, got that hand around the grip of the Browning, and jacked a round into the chamber.

The rain had intensified. It beat against the metal roof with a steady rumble. Below that sound was the bass of their voices. We stepped away from the boxes, moved into the aisle, and walked towards them.

They were standing in a group at the end of the aisle. The buyers had their backs to us and the briefcase was at their feet. The other four were facing them. Everyone was armed.

We came within twenty yards of them. Then the loose-limbed Jamaican, the one who had blown me a kiss, locked his eyes into mine and stiffened. I stopped and raised my gun, pointing it in his direction. The buyers turned to face us.

“Don’t nobody move,” Malone said evenly.

Wayne appeared suddenly from the right, stepped in quickly, and put the barrel of the Colt to the head of the South Carolinian who had broken my nose. He pulled back the automatic’s hammer. It locked with a click that rode over the sound of the rain. The man dropped his gun from his left hand and let it fall to the concrete floor.

The Jamaican seemed to study me and then grinned. I squinted and looked down the sight of my gun to his chest, but it wasn’t enough. A cowboy, just like Dane said.

He began to raise his gun from his side. He must have crouched down into a shooting position just as I squeezed the trigger.

The slug tore into him above his shirt collar, on the Adam’s apple. A small puff of white smoke and some fluid shot away from his neck as he was blown back to the floor.

Wayne squeezed a round off into the head of the South Carolinian. His scalp lifted and his forehead came apart like an August peach. Then Wayne moved his gun to the face of the man’s startled partner and shot him twice at close range. As he fell back, I saw a nickel-sized spot steaming above the bridge of his nose. His mouth was moving as he went down, but he was dead before he hit the ground.

Malone had shot the albino twice in the chest. The tall man stumbled, and still standing, pumped off two loads in succession from his shotgun. Malone screamed. In my side vision I saw him falling backwards in a “V,” still firing. The albino was tripping forward. I emptied two more rounds into his long torso.

The dreadlocked buyer was spinning slowly from the rapid fom trire of Wayne’s automatic. The second buyer raised his gun in my direction. I screamed Tony’s name.

I saw fire spitting down from above. I covered my face with my arms. There was the sound of ripping cardboard, splintering wood, and concrete ricochet. Glass exploded around me, and I went to my knees.

Then there was only the sound of the rain hitting the roof. I stood up. Tony dropped the empty clip from above. It hit the floor and bounced once. He slapped in another clip.

Wayne walked towards me through the smoke, his feet crushing glass. He stopped at the second buyer. The man was kneeling with his head tucked between his knees. Wayne pointed his gun at the back of the man’s neck and looked at me. I shook my head.

The powder smell was heavy. I waved smoke from my face and turned. Behind me someone screamed out for Jesus and moaned, then stopped moaning. I knelt down over Malone’s body.

He had taken a blast low in the abdomen and one in the chest. The gutshot had opened him. His upper lip had curled up and stuck on one of his teeth, so that it looked as if he were sneering. I pulled the lip away and down. Then I closed his eyes.

“Let’s move, chief,” Wayne said.

I reached into Malone’s wet trouser pocket and pulled out keys. His blood stained my fingers. I tossed the keys back to Wayne.

“Get the van,” I said. “Pull it up to the warehouse door.”

Wayne walked away. I held my gun on the buyer until Tony made it down to the floor. He nodded, saw Malone, and looked back at me. I picked up the suitcase and turned to the man still kneeling on the floor.

“Get the forklift going,” I said, “and load the van with the goods. Do it and you’ll live.”

He got started. I sat against a carton and smoked a cigarette while he moved the bodies to the side. Tony rode the forklift with the man for several trips until the VCRs were all loaded. Tony walked back and stood over me.

“It’s done,” he said. “What now?”

“Put him in the van,” I said, motioning towards Malone. “Tie the other one up and wait for me. I’ll be out in five minutes.”

I switched on the light in Dane’s office, found my knapsack, and pulled a phone number from its front compartment. I put the Browning in my knapsack and carried it and the briefcase to Dane’s desk. I lit another cigarette and dialed the phone number.

“Hello.”

“Jerry Rosen, please.”

“This is he.” The voice was deep and rich.

“This is Nick Stefanos.”

“I’m sorry, Nick, but it’s very late. If this is about your termination-” m" h="2 “Shut up,” I said. “Don’t say a word, understand? Just shut up and listen.” I heard him swallow. “I busted up your deal tonight. All four of your employees and one of your customers are lying dead in the warehouse.” He cleared his throat. “I own the remainder of your supply now. If you want it back, bring Jimmy Broda with you to the roof of the Silver Spring parking garage tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp. We’ll make the trade there.”

“I don’t-”

“I told you, no talking. Now you’d better get down here. Someone will be waiting for you to confirm everything I’ve told you.” I hung up and stubbed out my cigarette. I grabbed my knapsack and the briefcase, and left the warehouse.

The wipers struggled to clear the rain from the van’s windshield. I was driving south on Eleventh Street, into the darkest center of the city. The liquor and convenience stores were closed now and few of the streetlights were lit. People walked through the rain, drenched and unprotected, in slow, druggy steps.