A Firing Offense

FOUR




MCGINNES CHEWED ON a mint and checked out the floor as we walked down the showroom’s center aisle. Malone stood in the Sound Explosion talking to a light-skinned woman in a leather jacket. He had a Frankie Beverly ballad playing through the stereo, and was close up in her face as he made a slow and awkward attempt at moving to the music.

A guy in a hundred dollar suit with disheveled graying hair stood with his hands in his pockets, blinking absently at the confusingly long line of TV screens lit against the wall. He unfolded my Post ad from his jacket, stared at it, then returned his gaze to the wall.

“Malone’s back there talking himself out of another deal,” McGinnes said. “I’ll take that yom over there by the TVs.”

McGinnes walked over to the customer, staying loose but erect. “How are you today?” he said, extending his hand. The customer shook it limply, without looking McGinnes in the eye.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Something special for you today?”

“Yes.” The customer jabbed a finger at a spot on my ad. “I’m interested in the nineteen-inch Zenith for one ninety-nine. Do you have it to look at?”

“Oh yes, it’s right over here,” McGinnes said, pointing at the far left section of the wall and gesturing for the man to step ahead of him. McGinnes turned his head back to me, crossed his eyes and hung his tongue out of the side of his mouth. Following the customer, he dragged one leg like a cripple, recovering his posture just as the customer turned to face him.

“What can you tell me about this set?”

“It’s a fine set,” McGinnes said, “and a good value.” The picture on the set was lousy. McGinnes had attached the faulty antenna lead, the one he switched each week to the advertised piece, onto the Zenith.

By comparison the nineteen-inch Hitachi, which sat next to the Zenith, had a beautiful picture. The customer became distracted by this, his head moving back and forth between the two sets.

“Why does that set have a better picture than the Zenith?”

“Oh, they have a high-contrast tube in the Hitachi,” McGinnes said offhandedly.

“What is that?”

“Here, I’ll show you.” In his shirt pocket McGinnes had clipped two pens, a jeweler’s screwdriver, and a small folding magnifying glass, which he pulled out. He placed it over the tube of the Zenith. The color dots were dull against a pale gray background. McGinnes looked back at the customer for effect, then switched the glass to the tube of the Hitachi. The dots were brilliantly illuminated against a black field.

“Interesting,” the customer said. “How much is the Hitachi?”

“Two forty-nine.”

The customer frowned, then pushed his glasses up over the bridge of his nose. “That’s more than I wanted to spend.”

“Well, if you think about it, you’d actually be saving money by buying this set.”

“How’s that?”

“Electronic tuner. The Hitachi’s got an electronic tuner, no moving parts in the tuner whatsoever. The Zenith, which is a fine set, don’t get me wrong, has an old-style click tuner, the first part to go bad on any TV set.” McGinnes spun the dial on the Zenith harshly. “You do that every day, it’s going to wear out. And when it wears out, it’s going to cost you more than the extra fifty bucks you’re going to spend initially on the Hitachi. Not to mention, of course, the Hitachi’s got a much better picture, which you can see for yourself. With a TV set, when you get it home you’re not going to remember what you paid for it. You’re only going to know whether you like the picture or not.”

“Well…. ”

“Plus the fact that we’re an authorized Hitachi service center for this area. In-home service. And for a small charge, which most customers recognize the value in, you can have a maintenance agreement with Nutty Nathan’s to extend that in-home service.”

“I don’t think I’d be interested in that. Besides, if the set’s as good as you say it is, I won’t be needing any service.” The customer smiled smugly.

“Oh, it’s a gamble, I know,” McGinnes said quickly. “And chances are pretty good you’ll never need the service. But you know what they’re charging now just to walk through your front door? Fifty bucks! Just to step in your house, before they even touch the set! I can give you the names of ten people who’ve called to thank me personally for suggesting a maintenance agreement. Anyway, I’m not trying to belabor the point. You do want the Hitachi, though, don’t you?” McGinnes was nodding his head rapidly, a trick he used to make the customer do the same.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure I do.” Though McGinnes had closed, the customer’s fists were balled defensively in his pockets.

“Where are you from?” McGinnes asked, and smiled.

“From up around Lancaster, P-A.”

“No kidding. I’m from the Allentown area.” The customer seemed to relax as he unhunched his shoulders. McGinnes, an army brat, was from many places, but Pennsylvania wasn’t one of them. “This city’s fine, but I tell you, there’s a lot to be said for my hometown. I miss the slower life, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Let’s just step up to the counter and get you written up.” They walked to the front of the store, McGinnes’ hand gently on the customer’s arm.

The young woman who had walked in earlier carrying her books tapped me on the shoulder and I turned. She was half a foot shorter than me and had a brown speck in one of her very green eyes.

“Hi,” she said cheerfully and smiled. Her front tooth was chipped, just a little. She had on short, black, buckled boots, black patterned stockings, and a jean skirt. Her white oxford was open four buttons down, revealing the beginnings of strong, smallish breasts.

“Hi,” I said.

“You working here now?”

“Yeah. For a little while, anyway. My name’s Nick.”

“I’m Lee. I work the register and sell add-ons up front. Can you take a sales call?”

I looked around. Malone was still in the Sound Explosion and appeared to be chewing his customer’s ear off, literally. McGinnes was up front, writing the deal.

“Where’s Louie?” I asked.

“Out making a deposit.”

“I thought he made his ‘deposit’ in the afternoon.”

Lee chuckled. “This one’s monetary, not seminal.”

“What line?”

“Pick it up on two,” she said, jerking her thumb behind her towards the small appliance wall. “Over there.”

I found the phone and punched in the extension. “How can I help you?”

“To whom am I speaking?” said an effeminate voice, lowered purposely to affect masculinity.

“Nick Stefanos.”

“And your title?”

“I’m in management,” I said emptily.

“Well, then, maybe you can help me. I have a complaint.”

“What can I do for you?”

“My name is Evan Walters. Last summer your company ran a promotion where you gave away an ice bucket with any major purchase. I came in and purchased a VCR, which I’m very happy with, incidentally. The clerk explained at the time that they were out of ice buckets. Frankly, I was warned by friends beforehand that Nutty Nathan’s never lived up to their advertised promises, but I was willing to give you people a try.”

“Who was your salesman, Mr. Walters?”

“A Mr. McGinnes. He promised me he’d get me my ice bucket. At first when I called he repeatedly said the ice bucket was on its way. Then he stopped returning my calls altogether. I know it’s a small matter, but I want what was promised me. And I resent the rather cavalier attitude of your salesman. I don’t want to take this any further. I am a lawyer,” he growled.

Of course. Announcing one’s profession unsolicited was one of the more irritating affectations of eighties Washington.

“I apologize for the delay,” I said. “Mr. McGinnes may have run into some red tape in getting your ice bucket. I happen to know that they are in now. I’ll call the warehouse manager and have him put one on the transfer truck. You can pick it up tonight.”

“Thank you,” he said curtly, and hung up.

I dialed the main office and punched in the extension of Joe Dane, the warehouse manager. I asked him to find an ice bucket and throw it on the truck that day to the Avenue.

I walked over to the cashier’s station where Lee was wiping off the shelves with glass cleaner. McGinnes was handing the customer his receipts.

“Here is a copy of your paid invoice,” he said, “and this is a copy of your extended maintenance agreement. I’ve stapled my card to your receipt in case you need anything. You’re really going to love your set. It’s got the highest IS rating of any set we sell.”

“What is the IS rating on this set?” I interrupted. IS stood for “internal spiff,” a Nutty Nathan’s incentive to step off the advertised product onto profit pieces.

“This one’s rated at twenty,” McGinnes said coolly, then turned back to the customer. “If you’d drive around to the back door, I’ll load you up.”

Lee touched my arm lightly to move me out of the way. I caught a whiff of her as she slipped by. Malone walked his customer to the front door, his arm around her waist, his hand just brushing her jeans above her crotch. They talked softly for a few minutes, then he held the door open for her, giving her his model’s grin.

McGinnes, knocking the dirt off his shirtsleeves, moved quickly up the aisle towards the cashier’s station. Malone arrived at the same time. McGinnes folded his arms and stood straight.

“Yeah,” he said. “Twenty dollar spiff. Another ten bucks commission at four percent. And a fifteen dollar pop for the service policy. Forty-five bucks for fifteen minutes’ work.” He paused to rock back on his heels. “I love this business.”

“I’d love it too,” Malone said, “if I could get an up.”

“You had an up,” McGinnes said.

“That wasn’t no up,” Malone said. “That was just a freak.”

McGinnes said, “If you hadn’t been dickdancing around with her in the back, you could have had my customer up front.”

“That’s all right. I got a date with that redbone tonight. And I’m still gonna smoke your ass this month, Mick.”

“Listen, you guys,” I said, “this is fascinating. But I’ve got to run across the street for about an hour. Tell Louie when you see him, hear?”

* * *



THE OLD MAN’S APARTMENT was in the same disarray as the night before. Sunlight came through the window in a block, spotting the layer of dust that had settled on the cherrywood furniture.

Pence was wearing what appeared to be his only outfit. His hair was slicked down, and he had begun a part on the left side of his head but apparently had given up on the idea halfway through. He smelled of whiskey and Old Spice.

“You want some coffee?” he asked. “I reheated it when you buzzed me from downstairs.”

“Black, thanks.” He marched into the kitchen with short, quick steps.

I avoided my old chair and found another seat. Near the dining room table, on a two-tiered stand, was the color set McGinnes had sold the old man, a middle-of-the-line profit model. Below it was a videocassette recorder that I didn’t recognize. I got up and walked over to the unit to examine it more closely. The nameplate read “Kotekna,” which I gathered to be a Korean brand. Stamped across a metal plate on the back were the model and serial numbers, the model number being KV100. Following industry logic, “KV” stood for “Kotekna Video” and the “100” series indicated that this particular unit resided in the lower end of the line. The recorder was not hooked up to the television.

“Professional curiosity?” Pence asked, returning with two mugs of coffee and setting one down on the small table next to my chair. I got off my knees, crossed the room, and took a seat. Pence sat in his chair, lit a smoke and leaned forward.

“A bad habit of mine, from being in the business too long. My hosts always catch me inspecting their equipment.”

“My grandson bought that recorder for me,” he offered. “Some kind of employee purchase deal he worked out with your company.”

“That’s a new brand for us, then. I didn’t even know we sold Kotekna.”

“You sell it, son. It came from your warehouse. Still have the box.” He dragged on his cigarette.

“When’s the last time you saw Jimmy, Mr. Pence?”

The old man waved some smoke away from his face to get a better look at me. I sipped from the mug of coffee. “It was the last Monday in September. He left for work at the usual time, near eight.”

“And you haven’t heard from him since?”

“No. Your personnel lady called two days later, on a Wednesday.”

“And you made no effort to contact anyone about this until you reached me, two weeks later?”

“That’s right.”

“You must have been worried.”

“You’re damn right I was worried,” he said, agitated. He butted his cigarette. “Let’s go on.”

“When he said goodbye to you that morning, was there anything unusual about the way he acted, something that may have made you suspicious in any way?”

“I’ve thought about that a lot since he’s been gone, as you can imagine. Jimmy wasn’t one to show his affection. But on that last morning he kissed me good-bye and squeezed my hand.”

“Like he knew he wouldn’t be seeing you for a while?”

“That maybe. Or he was in trouble and asking for help.”

“Was he carrying anything with him that morning? A suitcase?”

Pence laughed sharply. “I’m old, Mr. Stefanos, not senile. He only had a small knapsack, and he carried that with him every day. Kept a radio in it with earphones.”

“Is his suitcase gone?”

“No.”

“Mind if I have a look in his room?”

“Of course not.”

I followed him down a short hallway. We passed Pence’s room on the way. The shades were drawn and the air was stale with cigarette smoke. Pictures of his dead wife and daughter sat on his nightstand, facing an unmade bed. I walked on.

Jimmy’s room was brighter than the old man’s. The single bed had been made up neatly and clean underwear had been folded and placed upon it. Posters of postpunk bands like the Minutemen and Husker Du were crookedly tacked to the wall. A bulletin board hung over his dresser, on which were tacked ticket stubs from concerts. Many of the stubs were from larger halls, like Lisner and DAR. A few were from the Warner. But the majority of them were small red tickets with black stenciled lettering, reading “The Snake Pit.”

“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 suggested 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.