A Firing Offense

THIRTY




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. F*cking 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 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.

We reached the car. Rosen signaled his new ally, who got out, threw me a requisite, half-hearted, hard-guy look, and walked around to the other side of the Caddy. He opened the door and helped the boy out.

Jimmy Broda’s color was just short of gray. His trousers were crimped at the waist by a severely tightened leather belt. His jean jacket fit his shoulders as if it were hung on a wire hanger.

The buyer walked him towards me. Broda’s eyes widened almost imperceptively as recognition seeped in. He quickened his step and reached out in my direction. I pulled him in with one hand and put my arm around his shoulder, holding him up. He had the weight of a paper bag.

“You’ve got him now,” Rosen said impatiently. “Where are my goods?”

“Follow me,” I said. “The van is parked a few floors down. Your boy here knows which one it is.” I tossed the keys to the buyer.

Rosen said, “Don’t even consider f*cking me.”

I let him have the last word and, with Broda under my arm, walked slowly across the roof. I was aware that they were still standing by the Cadillac, watching us. I instructed the boy to continue moving in the direction of my car.

I let him into the passenger side and got behind the wheel. His hands were folded in his lap, and he was staring straight ahead. I reversed out of my spot and rolled down the ramp.

They were tailing me slowly. Jimmy turned his head back, saw them, became startled, and looked at me.

“Just look ahead,” I said. “We’re almost out of here.”

We wound around the garage. Four floors down I stopped my car, rolled down the window, and pointed my arm out to the sub-roof. Then I continued down the ramp. I saw them in my rearview, veering off to the right.

I accelerated when I reached the ground floor and blew off the stop sign at the exit. I lit a cigarette and turned down North Portal at the Sixteenth Street circle. WHFS was playing Graham Parker’s “Howling Wind,” and I kicked up the volume. An Afghan hound was running alongside our car, and Broda watched him until he broke stride. Orange leaves blew out of our path as we entered the park.


BETWEEN THE DOUBLE GLASS doors of the apartment house on Connecticut Avenue, I dialed up Pence’s number.

“Yes?” he said.

“Nick Stefanos. Buzz me in, will you?”

“Certainly. Would you like me to meet you?”

“No,” I said. “I’ll be right up.”

We exited the elevator at the tenth floor and followed the carpeted hallway. Pence opened the door on the second knock. His eyes widened and both hands reached out. He pulled Jimmy Broda through the door and into his arms.

The old man shut his eyes and mumbled something as they held each other. Their faces crushed together. I stood in the hallway, my hands shoved into my pockets, and looked down at my shoes.

“Please, come in, Nick,” Pence said finally over the boy’s shoulder.

“I can’t right now,” I said. “But call me later at my apartment. There are some things you need to know.”

“Your compensation. Of course.”

“That, and other things. Good-bye.”

Before he could object, I pulled the door shut from the outside. I stood there for quite a while and listened to the muffled cadence of their voices on the other side of the door. Then I stepped away and walked slowly down the dimly lit corridor.


EARLY MONDAY MORNING I dialed the number for Ned’s World in South Carolina.

“Ned’s World, how may I help you?”

“This is Roy Lutz,” I said, “regional director for Panasonic, confirming my lunch appointment with Ned Plavin. Is he in, please?”

“I’ll see if he’s at his desk. Hold please.” A click, some whale music, then another click. “I’ll transfer you now.”

A gravelly voice answered after two rings. “Roy!” Plavin said with forced excitement. “I didn’t know we were on for today.”

“This isn’t Roy,” I said.

“Well, then, our lines must have gotten crossed—”

“Our lines didn’t get crossed. This concerns the Kotekna VCR deal that got soured up in Washington, D.C., over the weekend.”

“I’m not familiar with any ‘deal’ in Washington,” he said thickly. “Who is this?”

“If you’re not interested in what I have to say, hang up now. If you are, I’ll continue.” There was a silence while he thought it over. “Can we talk on this line?”

“Go ahead,” he said.

“I’m not sure what you’ve been told about the events of this past weekend. I suspect you know only part of the truth. I’ll condense it for you. I was one of the group that stopped the deal in the warehouse. We took the merchandise and the money. I kept the money. I traded the merchandise back to your people in exchange for a boy they were holding.”

Ned Plavin cleared his throat. “My people?” he said. “Who did you give my goods to?”

“Jerry Rosen,” I said. I watched my cat chase a large bug that was crawling across the rug to the safety of the baseboards.

“Do you have any proof of this?” Plavin asked.

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t trust Rosen,” I said. “I want this all to be over with, now. I want Rosen out of Washington. And I don’t think you want a business partner who plans on going solo with goods that you bankrolled. He’s the proverbial loose cannon, Ned. Do something about it.”

This time the silence was longer. My cat trapped the bug under its paw, examined it, then walked away. The bug continued on its path to the wall.

“I’ll look into it,” Plavin said. “If what you say is true, I’ll act on it.”

“Do it quickly, Ned. Good-bye.”

I hung up the phone and lit a cigarette. I dialed the number for the Connecticut Avenue store and got McGinnes on the line.

“What’s happening, Nick?”

“Too early to meet me for a cocktail?”

“Hell, no,” he said. “But things are a little hectic right now. Andre didn’t post on Saturday, or today. Louie’s ready to can his ass. I don’t think I can get out till eleven.”

“Eleven’s fine,” I said.

“Where?”

“La Fortresse, in the back.”

“La FurPiece?”

“Yeah, Johnny. La FurPiece.”