A Firing Offense by George P. Pelecanos Page A

pale head. Heripped the ticket in half and returned the stub with his soft hand.
    The main room was half-filled with young people dressed in dark clothing, blending in against the black walls of the club. They were an odd mixture here of artsy college students, punks, black hipsters, geeks, and even a few rednecks who dug the music. An overweight computerscience major who haunted used record stores could fit in just as well at the Snake Pit as the latest trendy.
    I moved past the main bar and stage and headed for the back bar, which was located at the end of another long hall. The DJ was blasting through a set of garage rock, segueing from early Slickee Boys to the Hoodoo Gurus. The volume lessened as I entered the back room.
    I removed my jacket, hung it on a peg, and took a seat on the wall stool at the far end of the bar. Cocktail napkins were fanned out on the bar like white flowers blooming randomly from the dark wood.
    Bartenders at the Snake Pit generally had the look of the undead. The one who placed a coaster in front of me had thin, druggy arms and was sloppily dressed in purple on black. Her face was bloodless and set off by eggplant-colored lipstick, though not entirely unpleasant.
    “What can I get you?”
    “A Bud bottle,” I said, “and an Old Grand-Dad. Neat.”
    She hooked me up with a quick and professionally deft handling of the bottles. I thanked her and suggested she pour one for herself. She opted for Johnnie Walker Black in a rocks glass. I like scotch drinkers, when it’s a woman doing the drinking. We tapped glasses and drank slowly.
    “Who’s playing tonight?” I asked.
    “The Primitives,” she said coolly. “Blondie via the Jesus and Mary Chain.”
    “A lot of feedback?”
    “Yeah,” she said. “Feedback and angst.”
    “Who’s opening?”
    “The Deaf Pedestrians.
Pedestrian
describes ’em.”
    “I’m looking for the little brother of a friend,” I said, pulling out the shaven picture of Broda and sliding it in front of her. “I think he hangs out with some of the skins here.”
    “Fuckin’ skinheads,” she said viciously and looked at the photo. “I don’t know him. But you might ask those assholes.” She pointed out the entranceway towards the stairwell, where two head-shaven boys were leaning against the wall smoking cigarettes. “They’re always here.”
    “Maybe later. How about another shot?”
    She poured one for me and moved down the bar to take an order. The place was getting denser and smokier. I had a warm, even buzz.
    The DJ was playing something hard and fast. The bartender sauntered in my direction and leaned in towards me, her forearms resting on the mahogany bar. There was color now on her cheeks.
    “Anything else?”
    “No, thanks. Cash me out.” She pulled my tab from between two rum bottles on the call rack.
    “Nine dollars,” she said.
    I put thirteen down on the bar. “See you later, hear?”
    “Sure. I’ve seen you around.”
    I grabbed my jacket off the wall and walked out into the hallway. The two skins were heading down into the narrow stairwell that led to the john and cloakroom. They were of average size and both wearing black jeans and black, steel-toed workboots. One had on a flannel shirt, the other a black T-shirt. I followed them into the stairwell. The DJ had kicked in Sonic Youth’s “Teenage Riot.”
    I said, “Hey,” and they turned, four steps down, to face me.
    They looked smaller and more vulnerable now. The one wearing the flannel shirt had eyelids at half-mast and his mouth hung open. The other had pale, girlishly veinless arms that hunglike strings from the sleeves of his T-shirt. Both were trying to look tough, but I recognized them for what they were—pussies with crewcuts.
    “You guys mind if I ask you a couple of questions?” I used the friendliest tone I could stomach.
    “You a cop?” the one closest to me asked, but before I could answer his friend spoke up.
    “He’s no cop. Cops don’t get black