A Firing Offense

TWENTY-SIX




THE BUZZER UNLOCKED the glass doors automatically. I stepped into the building, past the security guard and the woman at the switchboard, and into the elevator. I rode it to the tenth floor and walked the narrow carpeted hallway to Pence’s apartment. The door was open as I arrived.

The final drag of Pence’s cigarette burned between his fingers. The familiar smell of Old Spice and whiskey drifted towards me.

“You look like hell,” he said.

“May I come in?”

“Certainly.” He stepped aside as I passed.

I walked into the living room, hearing his padded footsteps behind me. I turned to look at him. The grief of the last weeks had taken years from him, years he didn’t have.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“No coffee. Why don’t you just get me a screwdriver. A Phillips head, can you do that?”

“Yes,” he said. “I own one.”

“Then do it.”

I heard him rummage through a drawer in the kitchen. I picked up the VCR from the lower shelf of the television stand and moved it over to the dining room table. It felt very light.

Pence brought me the screwdriver. I took it and worked on the back of the recorder. He lit another cigarette and sat watching me from the end of the table. His face was reddening from embarrassment, but there was also a look on him something like relief.

When the screws were off, I lifted the back panel and put it aside. I reached in and felt around, then looked it over with a perfunctory glance. I sat back in my chair and stared at Pence. He looked away.

“It’s empty,” I said. “But you knew that.”

“Yes.” He looked at his lap boyishly and blew some smoke at his knees.

I walked over to the window and raised the blinds. Then I cranked open the casement window and breathed cool air.

“Is my grandson alive?” Pence said in a small voice.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you know, Mr. Stefanos?”

I turned and looked at him angrily. “I know now what you’ve suspected for weeks. The people I used to work for are involved in some sort of drug trafficking. They’re moving the drugs through the warehouse in these VCRs. I think that Jimmy stole one and brought it home. Do we agree so far?”

“Yes.”

“When he got it home and saw it was dead, he opened up the back and found its contents. He was never fired from Nathan’s, he just never went back. But he knew they’d figure out eventually who took the VCR. So he got scared and left town with the drugs and a couple of friends he made along the way. You figured all this out and came to me for help. Then you put the VCR out where I could see it, knowing I’d notice it, right?”

“That’s right,” he said. “Believe me, I’m not proud of how I got you into this. Playing on your sympathies, and so forth.”

“So forth. You mean lying, don’t you?”

“Yes. I’d do more than that, to protect my grandson. When you have children, you’ll understand.”

“I’m not interested in understanding your motives.” I shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit it, then dropped his Zippo on the table. “Why did you come to me?”

“After I found the empty recorder in Jimmy’s room and linked it with his rather erratic behavior and the company he was keeping, I didn’t know what to do. Going to the police seemed out of the question. After all, Jimmy was involved, in a criminal sense. I went to Mr. McGinnes for help—he was the only one in the organization I knew—and he suggested you. When he said your name, I recognized it. Jimmy had mentioned you to me, several times. It wasn’t all a lie, Mr. Stefanos.”

“But why didn’t you come clean with me from the beginning?”

“Obviously there’s more than one person at Nutty Nathan’s who’s dirty,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if I could trust you.”

I raised my open hand without thought, then lowered it. My voice shook.

“You stupid old bastard,” I said slowly. “You just don’t understand, do you?” He stared at me blankly. I butted the cigarette, walked to the door, and turned the knob.

“I’d like to help,” he said weakly.

“No.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Finish it.”

* * *



MCGINNES WATCHED ME ENTER Nathan’s on the Avenue, and kept watching, his arms folded as he leaned against a microwave oven display.

Lee was behind the counter to my right. She was wearing a jade green shirt, buttoned to the top, and a jean skirt, out of which came her stout little wheels. First she smiled, then her brow wrinkled.

“You look terrible,” she said.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Sorry about your job.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lee. Listen, I’ve been awful busy.”

“You don’t have to explain,” she said.

I glanced back at McGinnes. “Lee, I don’t mean to cut you short, but I’ve got to talk to Johnny.”

“Go ahead,” she said. “We’ll talk later.”

I head-motioned McGinnes. We walked the length of the store through the back to the radio room.

“You want a beer?” he asked.

“No.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, and pulled a malt liquor from his usual spot. He popped the tab and drank.

“Where’s Andre and Louie?”

“Andre’s off. Louie’s out making a deposit. What’s up?”

“Can we talk for a few minutes?”

“Yeah, the floor is dead. If this is about the Broda thing, I can tell you that I’ve been keeping an eye on the news, and that Shultz boy was never found.”

“I know. But there’s more.”

I told him everything that I was certain of, and some of my guesses. He whistled softly when I was finished and then stared at his feet. Some color had gone out of his face.

“What do we do now?” he said.

“I only wanted you to be aware of the situation, in case they think you’re involved. They haven’t made any kind of play on me yet. Maybe they think the Shultz murder scared us off.”

“What happened to the girl?”

“She’s gone,” I said. “Listen, Johnny, I need one more favor of you, man, then it’s over for you.”

“What is it?”

“I know you keep a few pieces that you collect, the unregistered kind. I’ll be needing to borrow one.”

He looked at me as he finished his beer. He moved the can around in his hand and then crushed it.

“You come in here,” he said, “and tell me all this shit, and I haven’t even got it all digested yet, and now you want a gun? You’re f*ckin’ nuts, man. Why don’t you just ask me to put one to your head and pull the trigger?”

“Listen,” I said. “I’m going on with this thing. I don’t have any options, Johnny. And I need something behind me if I’m going to get this kid.”

“I don’t think so, Nick,” he said, and shook his head as he walked away. “I gotta get back out on the floor.”

“Think about it,” I yelled to his back. But he was already out the door.


LATE IN THE AFTERNOON I stopped in the Good Times Lunch and had a seat at the counter. Kim came over with a pad in his hand.

“The special, Kim,” I said sheepishly, “and a coffee, black.”

He nodded and returned shortly with a fried-fish platter. I shoveled it in and had a cigarette with my coffee. After that I paid the check that Kim laid in front of me.

“Kim,” I said, and he turned back around. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I was out of control. It won’t happen again.”

“No problem, Nick,” he said. “But you should get rest. You don’t look so good.”


THE RED LIGHT ON my answering machine was blinking when I entered my apartment. I pushed down on the bar.

The first message, from McGinnes, told me to meet him at the store tomorrow. He would have what I wanted. The second message was from Joe Dane. I called him at home, and he picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Joe, it’s Nick, calling you back.”

“Nick, we need to talk.”

“I think it’s time. How about right now?”

“No, not now. I’m busy tonight. Tomorrow morning in the park.”

“Tomorrow’s fine, but not in the park. Someplace more public.” He hesitated. “So it’s like that.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Tomorrow morning at ten, in the bell tower at the Old Post Office downtown.”

“Okay, Nick,” he said. “Ten o’clock.”