George Pelecanos - Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go

Little, Brown and Company

New York Boston London

A contemporary classic. Pelecanos is a fresh, new, utterly hardboiled voice. A Firing Offense is full of virtuoso scenes of imaginative sex and substance abuse, suspenseful action, and brooding meditation on a newly lost generation.

Pat Dowell, Washington Post Book World

This particular entry in the series is as tough as they get: an urban nightmare of greed, betrayal, and kick-ass revenge.

Bill Ott, American Libraries

Nick and his incomparably seamy milieu, in their third outing, get an A.

Kirkus Reviews

Tough and skillful. There are action scenes as fierce as any you will read and street talk that hits the ear as smart and accurate.

Paul Skenazy, San Francisco Chronicle

The Cut

The Way Home

The Turnaround

The Night Gardener

Drama City

Hard Revolution

Soul Circus

Hell to Pay

Right As Rain

Shame the Devil

The Sweet Forever

King Suckerman

The Big Blowdown

Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go

Shoedog

Nicks Trip

A Firing Offense

FOR PETER

L IKE MOST OF the trouble thats happened in my life or that Ive caused to happen, the trouble that happened that night started with a drink. Nobody forced my hand; I poured it myself, two fingers of bourbon into a heavy, beveled shot glass. There were many more after that, more bourbons and more bottles of beer, too many more to count. But it was that first one that led me down to the river that night, where they killed a boy named Calvin Jeter.

This one started at the Spot, on 8th and G in Southeast, where I tended bar three or four shifts a week. It had been a hot day, hazy and soup-hot, like most midsummer days in D.C. The compressor on our ancient air conditioner had gone down after the lunch rush, and though most of our regulars had tried to drink their way through it, the heat had won out. So by ten oclock it was just me behind the stick, lording over a row of empty bar stools, with Ramon in the cellar and Darnell in the kitchen, cleaning up. I phoned Phil Saylor, the owner of the establishment, and with his okay shut the place down.

Ramon came up the wooden stairs carrying three cases of beer, his head just clearing the top carton. He was smiling stupidlyhe had just smoked a joint in the cellarbut the smile was stretched tight, and it looked as if he were about to bust a nut. Ramon in his cowboy boots stood five two and weighed in at 129, so seventy-two beers was pushing it. He dropped the cases at my feet and stood before me, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a red bandanna. I thanked him and tipped him out.

For the next fifteen minutes, I rotated the beer into the cooler, making sure to leave some cold ones on the top, while I listened to Ramon and Darnell cut on each other back in the kitchen. Through the reach-through, I could see Ramon gut-punching the tall and razorish Darnell, Darnell taking it and loving it and laughing the whole time. Then there were loud air kisses from Ramon, and Darnell saying, Later, amigo, and Ramon motoring out of the kitchen, through the bar area, toward the door.

I finished with the beer and wiped down the bar and rinsed out the green netting and put the ashtrays in the soak sink, leaving one out, and then I washed up and changed into shorts and a T-shirt and high-top sneakers. Darnell shut off the light in the kitchen and came out as I tightened the laces on my Chucks.

Whasup, Nick?

Bout done.

Any business today?

Yeah. The catfish went pretty good.

Used a little Old Bay. Think anybody noticed?

Uh-uh.

Darnell pushed his leather kufi back off his sweat-beaded forehead. You headin uptown? Thought maybe Id catch a ride.

Not yet. Im gonna call Lyla, see what shes doing.

All right, then. Let me get on out of here.

On the nights we closed together, this was our routine. Darnell knew I would stick around, usually alone, and have a drink; hed always try and get me out of there before I did. A stretch in Lorton had straightened him all the way out, though no one mistook his clean lifestyle for the lifestyle of a pushover, least of all me; I had seen what he could do with a knife. Darnell went out the door. I locked it behind him.

Back in the main room, I counterclockwised the rheostat. The lamps dimmed, leaving the room washed in blue neon light from the Schlitz logo centered over the bar. I found WDCU on the house stereo and notched up the volume on the hard bop. I lit a cigarette, hit it, and fitted it in the V of the last remaining ashtray. Then I pulled a nearly full bottle of Old Grand-Dad off the call shelf, poured a shot, and had a taste. I opened a cold bottle of Bud, drank off an inch or two of that, and placed the bottle next to the shot. My shoulders unstiffened, and everything began to soften and flow down.

I looked around the room: a long, railed mahogany bar, mottled and pocked; several conical lamps spaced above, my own smoke swirling in the low-watt light; a rack behind the lamps, where pilsner and rocks and up glasses hung suspended, dripping water on the bar; some bar stools, a few high-backed, the rest not; a couple of vinyl-cushioned booths; a pair of well-used speakers mounted on either side of the wall, minus the grills; and some artwork, a Redskins poster furnished by the local beer distributor (1989s schedulewe had never bothered to take it down) and a framed print of the Declaration of Independence, the signatures of our forefathers joined in various places by the drunken signatures of several of our regulars. My own signature was scrawled somewhere on there, too.

I finished my bourbon and poured another as I dialed Lylas number. Next to the phone was a photograph, taped to the yellowed wall, of a uniformed Phil Saylor, circa his brief stint as a cop on the Metropolitan Police force. I looked at his round face while listening to Lylas answering machine. I hung the receiver in its cradle without leaving a message.

The next round went down smoothly and more quickly than the first. During that one, I tried phoning my old buddy Johnny McGinnes, who had gone from electronics sales to mattresses and now to major appliances, but the chipper guy who answered the callGoodes White Goods. My name is Donny. How may I help you?told me that McGinnes had left for the evening. I told him to tell McGinnes that his friend Nick had called, and he said, Sure will, adding, and if youre ever in need of a major appliance, the name is Donny. I hung up before he could pry his name in again, then dialed Lylas number. Still no answer.

So I had another round, slopping bourbon off the side of the glass as I poured. Cracking a beer I had buried earlier in the ice bin, I went to the stereo and cranked up the volume: a honking session from some quintet, really wild shit, the Dexedrined drummer all over the map. By the time the set was over, I had finished my shot. Then I decided to leave; the Spot had grown hellishly hot, and I had sweat right into my clothes. Besides, my buzz was too good now, way too good to waste alone. I killed the lights and set the alarm, locked the front door, and stepped out onto 8th with a beer in my hand.