A Firing Offense

EIGHTEEN




BY THE TIME we neared Richmond, traveling south on 95, we had listened to Green on Red’s Gas, Food, Lodging, and on the other side of the tape, Lou Reed’s Coney Island Baby. I slid in a fresh cassette, an instrumental mix from the Raybeats, Love Tractor, and the Monochrome Set, and turned off onto 64, heading east towards Norfolk.

“Jesus Christ, man,” McGinnes pleaded, “pull over! I gotta pee like a racehorse.”

“I’ll pull over when your bladder’s ready to burst.”

“It’s ready now. Anyway, I didn’t know we were being timed on this trip. What is this, the f*cking Cannonball Run?”

I found a Stuckey’s on one of the turnoffs. He was out of the car before I stopped, running through the pounding rain across the parking lot to the store and rest area. I pumped gas into my Dodge under the sheltering overhang.

“Nice weather,” I said to the attendant, an old guy who stood expressionless in his uniform, shoulders hunched up, hands in his pockets.

“For ducks,” he said.

McGinnes trotted back to the car, a paper bag in his hand, and got in the passenger side. I pulled back onto the highway, turning up the volume on my deck to cover the scraping of my wipers.

“Man, that felt good,” McGinnes said. “I’m ready now.” He was pulling assorted candies and pecan logs from the bag.

“Careful. You might have bought something healthy. By mistake, I mean.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “You want a beer?”

“No.”

But an hour later there was a cold can of Bud between my legs and McGinnes was working on his third one.

As we approached the Tidewater area, traffic increased and we crossed several small bridges. McGinnes rolled a joint, which we smoked while driving over and through the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel. We had been on the road for just under four hours.

At Route 17 I headed south along the Dismal Swamp Canal. The leaves on the trees had not yet begun to turn here. The rain had stopped and steam rose off the asphalt up ahead. We rolled our windows down. Jonathan Richman was on the stereo, telling his girl to “drop out of BU.”

I looked over at McGinnes, who was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt with three pens in the breast pocket, a pair of twills, and Chucks. I had never seen him in sneakers.

“I like the shirt,” I said.

“I’m on a holiday,” he said with a Brit accent, holding the shirttail out and pointing it in my direction. “Do you fancy it?”

“Yeah, I fancy it. But what are the pens for? You plan on writing some business while we’re down here?” We crossed the state line into North Carolina, and McGinnes tapped my can with his.

“Just a habit,” he said.

“Hey, maybe you could get some work. Nathan Plavin’s got a brother in the business down here, has a few retail stores of his own.”

“Yeah, I know. Ned Plavin. Ned’s World, it’s called. Jerry Rosen worked for him before he worked for Nathan. But his stores are in South Carolina, smartass.”

“Nutty Nathan’s and Ned’s World. Their parents must be proud.”

“Anyway,” he said, “you’re the one out on his ear. I’ve still got a job.”

“Thanks.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. “I talked to Andre, told him the whole deal. Let’s just say he’s more familiar with the types of people you’re dealing with now. He says the guys who worked you over aren’t going to let that shit lie.”

“What else did Andre say?”

“He said the next time you’re in the way, your Korean buddy won’t be around to protect you. And then they’ll take you down, man.”

“I’m not worried,” I said, and pinched his cheek. “I’ve got you.”


WE REACHED THE ELIZABETH City area before two in the afternoon. McGinnes suggested we drive around to get a feel for the place. In certain residential areas of the city were large Victorians, some with wraparound porches on more than one level. Cypress trees stood handsomely on wide green lawns.

We drove by the waterfront, which seemed to be rundown to the point of decay in several sections. There was little commercial activity on the Pasquotank River that day, though there were a few pleasure boats heading out to the sound.

“This used to be quite a port,” McGinnes said.

“It doesn’t look like it was in our lifetime.”

“Not in our lifetime. I’m talking about in the nineteenth century. Some serious Civil War shit went down in these parts. Naval battles. The Union ended up taking this place early in the war.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

“I grew up in this state.”

“Come on, man,” I said. “You’re not talking to one of your customers now.”

“No, I’m serious. My old man was stationed at Lejeune. So we spent some time on the Carolina coast.”

“Then maybe you can steer us to a motel.”

“Is that an order?” he said, and wiggled his eyebrows.

We found a place off the bypass, a row of cottages that looked like toolsheds with stoops. The sign said Gates Motel. McGinnes kept calling it the “Bates Motel” as we approached it, and insisted we stay there.

The woman in the office had probably seen a few things. But she couldn’t help staring when we walked in, announced by the sleigh bells that hung on the inside of the door. McGinnes had on his Hawaiian retailer outfit and a beer in his hand, and I my crisscross adhesive nose mask.

“We’d like a room, please,” McGinnes said.

“Sure,” she wheezed, her slit of a mouth barely moving on her swollen face. “Eighteen a night, checkout at eleven. How many nights you fellas plan on stayin’?”

“Just tonight for now,” I said. I signed the book and paid her as she suspiciously eyed a smiling McGinnes.

“Anything else?”

“Is there a phone?” I asked. “I’ll be needing to make some local calls.”

She went into a back room and returned with a dial phone and directory, placing them both on the counter in front of me.

“There’s a jack in the room. Number nine.”

I took the key and handed her a ten. “This should cover the phone.”

“That’ll do.”

“Any bars around here?” McGinnes asked sheepishly.

“Sure is, son,” she said with a nasty grin. “But if you was to go into any of ’em, I wouldn’t wear that shirt.”


AFTER A SHOWER I sat on one of the twin beds in the room, with the phone in my lap and the white pages spread in front of me. McGinnes was out walking.

There were four Lazarus listings in the directory for the entire region. I began dialing.

My third call was to a T. J. Lazarus. The man who answered sounded old and either drunk or tired.

“’Lo,” he said.

“Mr. Lazarus?”

“Yes?”

“Kim’s father?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Nick Stefanos,” I said quickly. “I’m a friend of your daughter’s.”

“Kim’s away,” he said.

“I know. But I was heading south on business and stopped in town for the night. Thought I might meet Kim’s folks.”

“Kim’s mother passed on last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t bother yourself,” he said. “But you just missed Kim. She was in town last week.”

“I’d like to drop by and meet you anyway, sir.”

“I don’t know what the hell it is you want,” he said bluntly. “But if you want to come by, come by. And stop and pick up some beer on your way out, will you?”

“Yessir.” I took his directions, thanked him, and hung up.

I shaved and removed my bandages, deciding I looked more vulnerable and less intimidating that way. McGinnes entered the room.

“There’s a train runs behind here,” he said excitedly. “I walked into the woods out back and down a hill to some tracks.” I didn’t answer him. He looked at the keys in my hand. “Where you headed?”

“I found the Lazarus girl’s father,” I said. “I’m going to talk to him.”

McGinnes drew a beer from the cooler at the foot of the bed. “Check you later,” he said.


T. J. LAZARUS LIVED on a street of old bungalows set on large pieces of land. His, a gray and white-shuttered affair, badly needed paint.

I crossed the walkway onto a wide wooden porch, where a black Lab rose clumsily to greet me. He sniffed at my jeans, then my hand, and gave me one perfunctory lick. Then he stood next to me and slowly wagged his tail as I knocked on the door.

The man who opened up and stood before me was well into his seventies. He was tall and thin and rawboned, and wore blue chinos with a faded yellow T-shirt. There was a gardening glove on one of his hands. His eyes were alert and a fluid blue.

“Well, come on in,” he said, taking a good look at me before he shook my hand. “We’ll walk through the house and out back.”

His house was clean and furnished with worn, cushiony armchairs and sofas. A stereo television and VCR were set in the bookshelf, new models that made everything else in the place seem archaic. The dog stayed next to me as I followed Lazarus through the dining room to a back door that led to a screened porch.

“Been in a scuffle?” he said, his back to me.

“Yes,” I said. “Like my grandfather used to say, I zigged when I should have zagged.”

“Well,” he chuckled, “no shame in taking a punch now and again.”

We walked back deep into the yard to a garden that ran the width of his property. I pulled two cans of beer off the six I was cradling, holding the remaining four with a finger hooked through the plastic ring. He took them both and opened them, handing one back to me. Sipping the beer, he kept one eye in my direction.

“What was the name again?”

“Nick Stefanos.”

“Okay, Nick. Mine would be T. J.”

“I’ve been anxious to meet you,” I said.

“You have?” he said almost mockingly. “Let’s step into the garden. We can talk while I do a little work.”

I followed him to a row of tomato plants, where he bent down and untied a stake, tossing it out of the garden.

“Good year?”

He nodded. “Steady rain last spring, hot and wet all summer. Great for tomatoes. I’ve cleared out most of the vine vegetables—squash and cucumbers and that sort of thing. Melons were no good this year—went rotten before I got ’em on the tiles.” He waved his hand around the expanse of greenery. “Still pulling carrots and onions.”

“Kim told me about this garden,” I said, realizing how stupid it sounded as the words were coming from my mouth.

“She did, huh?” That mocking tone again. He squinted up at me. “Funny. She never took a bit of interest in it all the time she grew up here.”

“Sorry I missed her. Was she alone?”

“No,” he said, tired of the game. “She wasn’t alone.” He rose from his knees and stood to face me. “Why don’t we set up on the porch and knock down these beers?”


ON THE BACK PORCH T. J. Lazarus moved two garden chairs together and pulled the remaining beers from my hand, setting them on a low aluminum table between us. He pulled a fresh one off the ring and popped it.

“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 halfway 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