George Pelecanos - Firing offence

The briefcase was next to me on the seat. Tony and Wayne sat in back, on opposite sides of the cartons. Malone lay between them, covered by the blanket.

Tony pointed me into an alley near a Bible Way church. I stopped at the head of it and cut the lights. A stream carried small bits of trash down the center of the alley.

Tony said, “Wait for me in there, Wayne.”

Wayne exited the van through the back door. He walked into an open garage and was consumed by its blackness. I continued down the alley with the headlights off until Tony told me to stop.

“What you gonna do with all this ’caine?” he asked.

“I’ve got plans for it.”

“You make more at the cookin’ house,” he said, and looked me over slowly. “You got plans for Homeboy’s money, too?”

“Yeah,” I said, and stared him down with all the energy I had left.

“I’ll take mine,” he said.

I counted twenty thousand in worn bills from the briefcase. He shoved the stack into his jacket. I looked at the lumpen figure in the back and then at Tony.

He nodded and pulled the blanket off Malone. I grabbed him under the arms and lifted. Tony held his feet. We stepped out of the back of the van and carried him into the rain.

“Set him down,” Tony said, and we placed him in the middle of the alley.

For some reason I straightened Malone’s shirt. I looked up from where I knelt. Tony was standing over me, dripping wet and staring into my eyes.

“Just another dead nigger,” he said. “Right?”‹ e, d/font›

He turned and walked away. I watched him meet Wayne at the door of the garage. They passed under the glow of the alley light, then disappeared into the night.

I let go of Malone’s hand and returned to the van. I drove slowly to the end of the alley and began to turn out. In my side mirror I saw Malone’s body shift and move, carried by the stream. Then it stopped moving. I accelerated out of the alley.

I drove to upper Northwest and parked on a side street in a residential neighborhood. I moved to the back of the van.

I didn’t sleep. For the rest of the night I stared at the cartons and listened to the rain. And with one wringing hand I clutched the blanket that was smeared with Malone’s blood.

The rain had tapered off by dawn. I started the van and drove north. Just over the district line I stopped at a convenience store that had a public rest room.

I cleaned up in the rest room, then bought two coffees, an orange juice, a bag of nuts, some beef jerky, and a deck of Camels. I returned to the van, drank the orange juice and one of the coffees, and ate the nuts and jerky.

After that, I drove the half mile to the parking garage and took the van up to the roof. I parked next to my Dodge and locked the briefcase in my trunk. I shoved the barrel of the Browning in my jeans and covered the grip with my sweatshirt. Then I drove the van to a sub-roof four floors down and locked it up. I walked back up the open-air stairwell to the roof.

I leaned against my car and drank the second coffee. I had a cigarette with the coffee, then another. The sky was already clearing though the wind carried quite a chill.

A long, late-model Cadillac rolled up the ramp and onto the roof, passing me slowly. Rosen was driving. The buyer we had left in the warehouse was in the backseat. Next to him sat Jimmy Broda. He glanced at me blankly as they passed.

They parked in the far corner of the roof. I remained against my car. A few minutes passed, then Rosen got out of the car and walked towards me. I blew out the rest of my smoke and crushed the butt under my shoe.

Rosen was a heavy man of medium height with a tendency to put on pounds. His scalp showed through his thin permanent, and he wore a beard that only partially masked the fatty rolls of his neck. There were dark semicircles beneath his eyes.

Rosen extended his hand as he reached me. He had on one of those diamond horseshoe rings that are impressive only to the pompous shitheels who wear them. I refused his handshake. He placed his hand back in his cashmere overcoat.

“Nick,” he said solemnly. “Let’s make this civil, shall we?”

“Is everything in order?”

“The warehouse, you mean? Yes. Though you left me quite a mess. Fortunately, the man you left behind decided to join me rather than return to his people empty-handed. He handled most of the mop-up work. No one will miss them. As for the inventory that was destroyed, I’ll have my accountants write that off as pilferage.” He stroked the tip of his beard. “What are you going to do with all the money, Nick?”

“It’s already gone,” I lied.

“That’s right,” he said. “You had to pay off your little army. But you lost one, didn’t you? From my man’s description, that would be your friend Malone, from our Connecticut Avenue store, correct?” I didn’t answer. “My sympathies. Of course, no one had to die. They should have let you take it. We would have settled it later. But they had to make a play. Fucking Schwartzes.”

“You talk too much,” I said.

“I’m sorry. It’s because I’m nervous. This is all new to me.”

“Why’d you get into it in the first place, then?”

“I wanted it,” he said. “When I saw that Ned Plavin’s ambitions were in line with mine, I convinced him to bankroll the operation up here. I chose D.C. for the same reason all the gangs come down from New York. Law enforcement here-face it, Stefanos, it’s a joke. The cops are passing out jaywalking tickets downtown. And the mayor? Well, maybe he could take care of things. If only he could pull his head up off the mirror.”

“Get back to our business,” I said.

“You’re going to think I’m blowing smoke up your ass, but frankly, Nick, you did me a favor last night. I’ve been wanting this whole thing to end. I know where I made my mistakes. It was stupid to try and move the goods through the warehouse. Plus, those guys who worked for me”-he waved his hand in front of his face-“ they killed that Shultz boy, on their own. I never ordered that. And I didn’t know what to do with the Broda kid.” He spread the fingers in both of his hands out to suggest helplessness.

“What else?”

“Like I said, in a roundabout way you did me a favor. I’m going to get my goods back, but nobody has to know that, understand what I’m saying? Now I can turn this last batch over on pure profit. That makes me an independent. Which is what I wanted all along.”

“Let’s go to the car.” We walked in the direction of the Cadillac. “Is the boy all right?”

Rosen shrugged. “He’s an addict, I’m sure of that. Some associates of the ones you took down last night were keeping him busy in a crackhouse. He’ll need treatment.”

“That kind of treatment is expensive,” I said. “And often it doesn’t take.”

“He’s lucky to be alive.” Rosen stopped walking and narrowed his eyes. “So are you.”

“We should get something straight before this is over. Because when I take that boy out of here, it is over. I’ve over. I written several identical letters to my contacts at the Post, explaining in detail the history and players of your operation. These letters won’t be read, unless something happens to me, or the boy, or his grandfather, or anybody I know for that matter. That includes John McGinnes, and Joe Dane, and Dane’s family.”

“McGinnes,” he said, “will have to be terminated. He can’t continue to be employed at Nathan’s. You can understand that.”

“McGinnes can make a living anywhere. He’s a salesman. But he’s not to be touched.”

“Anything else?” he asked, irritated.

“One thing,” I said. “Where’s the girl?”

He chuckled. “You’re so predictable.” He shook his head, but gave me the address.