hall to shake my hand and wish me luck. Though he was wrongfully despised by many employees for the cutbacks he was constantly forced to make, he was the only one that day with the guts to say good-bye.
A young woman wearing a Redskins jersey was sitting at the switchboard in Marsha’s place. I gave her a questioning look.
“She’s in the bathroom,” she said accusingly, “crying.” She popped her gum and looked me over.
“Tell her I’ll talk to her later,” I said.
“Sure, Nick. Take it easy.”
I turned and walked down the stairs, out the door, and across the parking lot, the plastic bag of novelties (the summation of my career) in my hand, a weird grin on my face. It was only eleven-thirty, and therefore a bit early for a cocktail. A cold beer, however, would do just fine.
I WAS HAMMERING MY second can of Bud at the counter of the Good Times Lunch when I noticed a primered Torino parked on the east side of Georgia Avenue. Two men were in the front seat, and one of them was smoking and staring in my direction. Kim was pulling my lunch out of the deep fryer with a pair of tongs.
“I lost my job today, Kim,” I said. He turned his head, looked at the can in my hand, then into my eyes. “I’m a free man.”
A man seated at the end of the counter wearing an army jacket raised his beer to me in a toast. The radio was playing a half-spoken ballad by a teenage soul singer, barely audible above the jetlike sound of the upright fan.
My lunch was a breaded veal patty with a side of green beans and fries. I ate it quickly, especially rushing through the tastelessness of the veal.
After the lunch crowd had gone, I stayed and had another beer. Once, when Kim walked by, he almost spoke, but passed with only a nod. The primered Torino was still across the street, its occupants still staring into the Good Times Lunch. The last customer walked out as I finished my fourth.
The two men got out of the Torino. I watched them hustle across the street. They were very dark and wiry. They entered the store and moved quickly in my direction.
“What’s going on?” I asked in a friendly tone, rising instinctively to face them.
The lead man threw a quick, hard right into my belly that dropped me to one knee. I coughed, fought for breath, and spit up a short blast of beer. I saw his foot coming but was unable to block it. The instep of his boot caught me solidly across the bridge of my nose. I felt the cartilage collapse and a needlelike pain as the force of his kick knocked me back into the base of a booth against the wall.
Kim must have made some sort of move. My attacker looked back and said, “Fuck you, Chang. This here is our business,” then turned back to face me. I tasted warm blood pouring down over my lip and into my mouth.
“You can stop all that shit with the boy,” the lead man said. “Understand?” My nose felt as if it were pointing upward, and the man in front of me got blurry and then it was black for a few dead seconds.
When my vision came back, Kim was vaulting over the lunch counter, a black snub-nosed revolver in his hand. Just as his feet hit the floor, he swung the pistol, striking the second man in the temple with the short barrel and dropping him to the floor. Then he quickly pointed the piece towards the stunned face of the man who had smashed my nose.
The guy seemed to contemplate a break but wisely froze. Kim backed him up to the wall, brought the gun to his face, and tapped the steel of the barrel on the man’s front teeth, hard enough so it made a sound.
“You no fuck me,” Kim said evenly. “I fuck you.”
The man, hands up, moved slowly away from the wall with as much pride as he could fake. He helped his partner up and they silently backed out of the store. Kim kept the gun on them until they were gone, then locked the door from the inside.
I thought too late to read their plates. By the time I staggered to the door, their car was a fishtailing blur of smoke and burning rubber. I did notice that the plates were out of state, though