A Firing Offense (12 page)

“We know
all
the skins, man,” he said defensively. “You know that graffiti—you can see it on the Red Line near Fort Totten—says ‘United Skinheads’ over an American flag?” I nodded that I had seen it.
“I
did that.”

“That’s a nice piece of work. But there must be somebody else I can talk to who might know a little more.”

He looked at his friend, then at me. “It will cost you another ten.”

I pulled out the bill and slapped it together with the twenty.

“There’s a rowhouse on Ninth and G, Southeast, got a red awning over the porch. The dude you want to talk to is John Heidel. But don’t tell him we turned you on to the address.” I handed him the thirty, and he eyed me suspiciously. “You sure you’re no cop?”

I looked him over and said, “If I was, I would have called for backup by now.”

“Damn straight,” he said, missing the irony and walking, with his friend, down the stairs to hang out in the cloakroom.

I followed them down but veered off into the men’s toilet. I stood at the urinal and drained, reading the names of bands and slogans etched into the black walls.

Below an anarchy symbol, two words were dug deep into the heart of the plaster. “No Future.” I buttoned up my fly and flushed the head.

T
HE RED-AWNINGED ROWHOUSE
stood in the middle of G between Ninth and Tenth, just as flannel-shirt had said. I parked in front of it the next morning somewhere around eleven o’clock.

Real estate salesmen pitched this area as Capitol Hill, and it was, though a far cry from the connotations that such a prestigious name would suggest. There were residential homes here, struggling group houses, neighborhood bars and shops, and a few marginally upscale businesses that quickly came and went.

I opened a chain-link gate and stepped along a concrete walkway split and overgrown with weeds and clover. A mongrel shepherd in the adjacent yard was on the end of its tether, up on its hind legs and growling viciously.

I stepped up onto a small porch with brown brick columns and knocked on a thin wooden door. A dirgelike bass insinuated itself through the walls of the house.

I knocked again. The door swung open and a girl stood before me. She was taller than me, even allowing for the fact that she was up a step. Her legs were long and her hips immaturely narrow. Through the sides of her green tank top I could see the curvature and bottom-fold of narrow, sausagelike breasts. Her tired eyes bore the mark of experience, though her childlike bone structure put her at around seventeen.

“I’m looking for John,” I said. “Is he in?”

Leaning in the doorframe, she looked behind her, then back at me, and said, “Which one?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was more than one. John Heidel.”

“There’s a lot of people live here, man, on and off. Johnny’s in his room, upstairs and through the second door on the left.”

I thanked her, but she was already walking away. The sound of several loud male voices came from the kitchen, where she was heading. From the mismatched, worn furniture in the living room to the requisite black and white television with foil antenna, the place resembled a student group house without the books.

I grabbed the loose wooden banister and took the steps slowly. At the top of the stairs I passed a room where a kid sat in the window box smoking. He didn’t return my nod.

My knock on the second door was hard enough to open it halfway. A young man lay on his back on an unmade bed, reading a paperback. Smoke rose slowly from behind the book. An emotionless voice told me to “come on in.”

He lowered the book and, squinting from the smoke of the cigarette that was planted in his mouth, cocked one eyebrow as he sized me up. He sat up on the edge of the bed and butted the weed in an overflowing ashtray set next to a radial alarm clock. From the looks of his wrinkled jeans, this would be the first time he had risen from the bed that day. His shirtless upper body was thick and naturally strong, without the artificial bulk obtained from weight machines, and there was a crescent scar half-framing his right eye.

“What is it?” he asked, slowly rubbing the top of his shaven head.

“John Heidel?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Kevin DeGarcey from the
Washington Times.”
I flashed him a card imprinted with the
Times
logo, not giving him time to read DeGarcey’s title of advertising account executive. I extended my hand and received a grip weak with suspicion.

“What do you want?”

“The
Post
ran an article several weeks ago about the local skinhead movement that in my opinion was very negative. My editor feels they only captured, or chose to print, one side of the story.”

“I would agree with
that.”

“He’s assigned me a different type of story on you guys. I’ve been working on it awhile now, doing interviews, talking to different people.”

“Why did you want to talk to
me?”

“I heard you knew most of your peers on the local level.”

“From who?”

“Two younger guys I met at the Snake Pit last night. I didn’t get their names. One of them wore a flannel shirt, the other one was a little guy. They looked like they could have been in your group, but I have to admit, they were very eager to sell information.”

“They’re ‘wanna-bes,’ not skins. I’ll have to speak to those two about giving out my name.”

“What are you reading?” He seemed to warm to the question as I pulled a wooden chair next to his bed and had a seat. I took a pad and pen from my jacket.

“The Territorial Imperative,”
he said, “by Robert Ardrey.” He spelled the author’s name for me as I wrote.

“Any good?”

“Interesting ideas. The man doesn’t judge violence. Violence just
is.”

“What do you think about violence?”

“In what sense?” He smirked. He was probably smarter than the majority of his friends, but it was a relative intelligence. There was something stupid in his dead eyes and slack jaw.

“Skinhead violence, specifically,” I said. “The
Post
said your group beats up gays, the occasional black who gets in your way. Is that true?”

“You and me, they call us human, but we’re really animals, right? And even though we’re animals, we’re supposed to suppress our natural instincts to preserve and protect our turf.” He paused to rub his head. “It just boggles my mind that there isn’t
more
violence out there, that people aren’t wasting each other wholesale in the street. I’m saying that since violence is a natural instinct, it’s amazing that there’s so little of it happening.”

“Why gays, though? Why blacks? The
Post
article said that the recent P Street Beach beatings were done by the skinheads.”

“Look,” he said, leaning in, “here’s the thing. We don’t care what people do in their own homes. We really don’t. But take that part of the park—P Street Beach—that’s
my
park too. I should be able to walk through it without stumbling on some freak faggots. So they get stomped once or twice, maybe they’ll take that shit back indoors where it belongs. As for the blacks, we send them a message every so often to remind them that we live here too. Fuckin’ bootheads act like they own this town.”

“Do you personally approve of these acts?”

“I’m not even saying we do the violence ourselves. But it
is
understandable. It’s a matter of protecting your turf.”

“I interviewed a guy they call Redman,” I said abruptly.

“You mean Eddie Shultz?” Heidel looked surprised and a little sad.

“That’s him.” I wrote the name. “He made some interesting connections between the music you guys listen to and the violence. Any thoughts on that?”

“Yeah. My thought is that anything Eddie Shultz says is bullshit.” He looked at me sourly and flipped open the top of his
hardpack, put a smoke in his mouth and lit it, then absently threw the blown-out match onto the nightstand.

“I thought he was one of you guys.”

“He ain’t shit. Eddie was okay once, but he fucked up.”

“How so?”

He looked at me warily. “You writing a story about Eddie or the skins?”

“The skins. But that’s the point. If I find out why someone falls out of favor in your group, I find out more about the group itself. Maybe the article will be more sympathetic.”

He dragged hard on his cigarette. “Eddie started hanging with the wrong kinds of people. I mean, we just don’t get into the drug thing here, as an unwritten rule. We do consume some alcohol, though.” He smiled for the first time, revealing chipped and dirty teeth.

“The times I interviewed him, he was with a younger boy and a good-looking woman.”

His smile faded. “That’s what I’m talking about, man. He started running with this kid, and they were using a shitload of coke, and flashing it around like there was quantity. Then the chick starts hanging out with the two of them, and Eddie falls for her. I told him that the bitch had no interest in him or his friend, she just wanted to be around the drugs. It was so obvious.”

“What was her name again?”

“I have no clue, man. Never wanted to know.”

“The boy?”

“Uh-uh.”

I was losing him. “You don’t know where I can reach any of them now, verify my facts?”

He snorted. “You ain’t verifyin’ nuthin’ with Eddie. He left town with those two a couple of weeks ago. Headed south is what he said, whatever that means. I don’t know where he is.”

I didn’t bother to try and shake his hand. Heidel was staring out the window as I left, smoking and squinting, as if straining to see his friend Redman walking down the street.

At the foot of the stairs I noticed the girl who had answered the door, sitting with her legs draped over the arm of a shredded easy chair. She was watching a game show on TV while listening to Joy Division on the stereo. I walked in and turned the amplifier’s volume knob down. She looked over at me, only mildly bothered.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey.”

“John said it was all right to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a reporter.” An image of Jimmy Olsen came to mind.

“What do you want to know?”

“I need to talk to Eddie Shultz and the girl he was going around with.”

“Eddie left town,” she said, looking out the corner of her eye at the interchangeable horse-toothed host on the television screen.

“I know. You wouldn’t happen to know where they went?”

“Uh-uh. He and Kimmy just split, with that Jimmy kid. A couple of weeks ago.”

“Kimmy.”

“Yeah. Kim Lazarus.”

“She a local?”

“I don’t know,” she said, anxiously shifting her gaze to the screen. “Why don’t you ask Redman’s old lady. They live in Prince Georges County someplace. I was there with him once.”

“You remember the address? The street?”

“Something ‘wood.’ Edgewood, Ledgewood, some shit like that.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Eddie and John were pretty tight, weren’t they?”

“They were, until this Kimmy chick came around.”

I readjusted the volume on the stereo, walked to the front door, and stepped out. I breathed cool, fresh air as the funereal bass trailed behind.

M
ARSHA PICKED UP
and responded in her usual cheerful manner when I phoned her from my apartment.

“Nutty Nathan’s,” she nearly sang.

“Hi, Marsha. It’s Nick.”

“Nicky! Where are you?”

“Home. Taking the day off.”

“That’s nice,” she said.

“Marsha, I need a favor.”

“Sure, Nicky.”

“Go to service dispatch and borrow their
Hanes Directory,
you know, the ‘crisscross.’”

“Okay.”

“Now write down this name.” I spelled
Shultz
for her. “In P.G. County, locate all the Shultzes for me who live on streets that end with the word
wood,
like Dogwood Terrace or Edgewood Road. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s it.”

“Okay, Nicky. Want me to call you back?”

“Please. You’ve got my number?”

“Yup. I won’t be long,” she promised, and hung up.

I pulled the metro phone books from the hall closet and laid them out on my desk. There were about forty total listings for the last name of Lazarus, and I began calling.

It was early afternoon and many people weren’t in, though I left messages on their machines. Those that were home generally muttered the “wrong number” response and hung up quickly; a couple of elderly folks were eager to talk, but these too were not the homes of Kim Lazarus.

Two hours later I dialed the final listing and received the same treatment. I called Marsha back.