George Pelecanos - Firing offence

“You see anything?” Pence asked.

I shook my head and admitted, “I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’ll head downtown tonight and ask around. I could use a photograph of Jimmy if you have one.”

“I thought you might,” he said and produced two folded pictures from his back pocket. “One of him’s his graduation picture from Wilson High last year. The other one I found in his drawer. Looks like him at a party or something.”

I took them both. The graduation picture was typically waxen and told me little about the boy, though there was a small skull and crossbones pinned to his lapel which suggestetthich sued a touch of insolence, not unusual for someone his age. I thought his eyes drooped rather sadly at the corners.

The second photo said more about the boy. He stood erect, facing the camera, while his companions danced around him. He was unsmiling, had a cigarette cupped in his hand, and wore black motorcycle boots, jeans, and a T-shirt. A shock of hair hung down over his left eye.

I felt a faintly painful blade of recognition slide into my stomach. Though the T-shirt had changed from Led Zeppelin to Minor Threat, this was me, over a dozen years ago.

“This is how he looks now?” I asked.

“Everything but the hair. He shaved it off a couple of days before he disappeared.”

I put the photos in my jacket as we left the room and walked towards the front door of the apartment. The old man grabbed my arm to slow me down.

“I took the liberty of calling some private detective agencies this morning,” he said. “The average going rate seems to be two hundred a day plus expenses. That will be my offer to you.”

“I’m not a private detective,” I said. “And anyway, I could run into him tonight. We’ll settle later.”

“Yes, of course,” he said halfheartedly. He looked small standing in front of me. My sight lit again on the VCR wires lying unconnected on the floor.

“You want me to hook up that recorder for you before I go?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “Jimmy brought that to me, and he can hook it up, Mr. Stefanos. When you bring him home.”

The old man’s eyes were still on me as I closed the door and stepped out into the hall.

Malone said, “Where you been, Country? I done closed two deals while you were gone.”

“I had to see a friend.”

McGinnes was nearby, waiting on a compact stereo customer. He turned to me, cupped his hand around his tie, and began stroking it feverishly, his eyes closed and face contorted.

Louie was moving slowly down the center aisle, his short arms propelling him forward as they swung across his barrel chest. I could hear his labored breathing as he approached.

“Call your girl from the Post,” he said.

“You mean Patti?”

“Yeah. She sound nice. She look good too?”

“Too young for you, Louie. You’d stroke out.”

“Never too old to gyrate,”man he said, and demonstrated briefly with his hips. “Matter of fact, I’ll be headin’ over to Van Ness in a little while to take care of business. Might take the evening off.”

“Fine with me. Who’s on the schedule tonight?”

“Lloyd just came in. He’s on till six. Malone’s on till six too. Lee takes afternoon classes, but she’ll be back to work on through. That means you, her, and McGinnes will close tonight. That okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Nick,” Malone said. “Check out our boy Void today. He lookin’ good.”

Lloyd was absently bumping into displays as he attempted to light his pipe while making his way to the front of the store. The pipe was a Holmesian prop, an Anglophilic symbol that he believed suggested intelligence, but Lloyd was a pale, painfully thin man with a frighteningly deathlike grin, whose appearance more accurately reflected the high school outcast who hears voices from beyond as he clutches his hall locker. Today his woodgrain crucifix hung on a rawhide string over a lime green polyester shirt, hooked up with forest green bellbottoms.

The boys used Lloyd to run errands and as the butt of their practical jokes, while Louie kept him around to fill in odd hours on the schedule. As a stockboy I had been continually demeaned by him in the presence of customers, when he wasn’t critiquing my heathen lifestyle or trying to convince me of his close personal relationship with Jesus. His full name was Lloyd Danker, though all of us, Louie included, called him Void Wanker.

Lloyd looked me over in that way of his that always expressed superiority. The corners of his mouth spread into a sickly smile, and he yanked his pipe out to reveal a cockeyed row of yellow teeth.

“I see management’s been good to you, Nick. You’ve come a long way.”

McGinnes’ customer, who was walking, reached the front door, turned his head back, and said, “Thanks.” McGinnes, waving to the customer, said, “Thank you.” And then, still waving and in a quickly lowered voice, added, “You piece of shit.”

The customer smiled, waved back, and disappeared down the Avenue.

“Good close, Johnny,” Louie said.

McGinnes shook his head and said, “ Putz. ”

McGinnes, Malone, Louie, Lloyd, and I were standing in a circle near the counter. McGinnes had his arms folded. Louie leaned against a “stack and sell” microwave oven display with his hands in his pockets. Malone had just lit a Newport and was blowing the first heavy drag towards Lloyd, who stood awkwardly in forced casualness with his hip cocked, the pipe hanging from the side of his mouth like some comic-strip hillbilly.

“Yeah,” Malone said slowly, “looks like I might be top dog around here this month.” He gave McGinnes a sidelong glance and held it there rather theatrically.

McGinnes said, “The month ain’t over yet, Jim.”

Lloyd jumped in with, “I’m having a pretty good month myself.”

“Yeah,” McGinnes said, “for a guy who couldn’t sell a lifeboat on the Titanic, you’re having a good month.”

Lloyd blinked hard and pulled the crucifix out and away from his chest, holding it gently as if Christ himself were still upon it. “I wouldn’t really expect you guys to understand, but there’s more to life than closing deals and spasmating your genitals.”

Malone ran an open hand across his own crotch and said, “Maybe so, but I plan on spasmatin’ these motherfuckers tonight, Jack.” He and McGinnes gave each other skin and chuckled. Louie snorted but didn’t look up.

Lloyd smiled hopelessly and shook his head. “Anyone want coffee?”

“Yeah, get me some java while you’re out,” Malone said, then fanned away Lloyd’s outstretched hand. “I‘ll get you tomorrow, hear?” Lloyd left the store, looking something like a human scarecrow.

“Thank you, Jeeesus,” McGinnes said.

“Now that Numbnuts is gone,” Louie said, “maybe we can talk a little business. You girls don’t mind, do you?”

McGinnes looked my way and smiled impishly. His eyes were slightly glazed, undoubtedly the result of several more trips to the stockroom.

“I got a call from the office today,” Louie continued. “The Boy Wonder’s been looking at his computer again. ‘Profit margins have eroded, competition’s fierce,’ blah, blah, blah. Bottom line is, we’ve got to start selling more service policies, and I mean now. Anything you guys have to do to get the job done, you do it. If a customer refuses the policy, reduce the product price on our copy of the ticket, then add the service policy back into it to bring the total up to its original amount- after they’ve left the store, understand?”

“What if the customer finds out later they ‘bought’ a policy they didn’t want?” McGinnes said.

“I’ll handle the complaints,” Louie said with a hard stare at McGinnes, “like I always do.” He glanced out the window. “Now you all have a nice day, and write some business. In case the office calls, I’m out for the rest of the day, shopping the competition.” Then he was gone, out onto the sidewalk and heading south with his short-man’s swagger.