Canary (29 page)
Authors: Duane Swierczynski
Three sad beers in, Kevin Holland comes to the revelation that he’s been completely dropping the ball when it comes to his firstborn child.
He wants to call Laura in Mexico City (even though he knows she’s not there, it’s just easier to pretend she is) and confess to her that he’s been parenting on auto-pilot, assuming that everything is okay. Sarie was supposed to be the stable one, she’s always been the stable one. In fact, when Sarie started at St. Jude’s U., she treated it like high school—report for classes, drive straight home, do homework, do chores, go to bed, repeat process. Which struck Kevin as the wrong way to do it. Bizarre as it sounds, Kevin started fighting with Sarie over staying on campus longer, while she insisted on coming home. Was she just being petulant about not being able to go to UCLA? Who knows.
Now she’s taking the opposite tack, staying out all hours doing God knows what (with that kid Drew—
had
to be that fucking no-good-news kid), and, ha-ha, joke’s on you, Dad. Because you did this to your parents, too, didn’t you? How does it feeeeeeel, his inner Bob Dylan whines.
Well, Laura, I promise, swear to God, enough of this shit.
When she comes home Kevin’s going to have that hard talk with her. That if she fucks up her grades now it’s going to make transferring to UCLA all that more difficult. Yeah, he’ll have to ruin the surprise (the possible job out in L.A. was by no means a sure thing but is looking good). Then again maybe the prospect will help snap things back into place. He cracks another can of Yuengling and perches on the couch, flipping channels, waiting for his daughter to text to let him know when she’ll be home.
He falls asleep before she does.
In the car, D. goes through the tapes in my glove box again, saying we need appropriate party music. I’m not thinking about parties. I’m thinking about the mismatched button on my shirt that’s transmitting everything we say to Wildey’s ears. When I picked up D. and he heaved himself into the passenger seat, I put a finger to his lips and widened my eyes. But he misunderstood and kissed my fingertip. I pulled my hand away and shook my head. What, he said, then I handed him a Post-it note I’d scribbled beforehand: DON’T SAY ANYTHING YOU DON’T WANT RECORDED. He looked at the note, looked at me, looked at the note, then made some frenzied, bug-eyed gesture at his chest that I assumed was the universal sign for, Oh fuck, you’re wearing a wire? I said nothing, snatching the note from his hand and crushing it up into a tiny ball that I shoved deep into my jeans pocket.
So tonight on my to-do list:
1. Get Chuckie talking business
2. Buy Oxys
3. Buy a gun
4. Prepare for my 8:30 philosophy final
Wildey follows the Civic down icy Broad Street, careful to keep a few car lengths of distance. He loses sight of it half a dozen times between campus and City Hall. Okay, yeah, he’ll admit it: Tailing somebody is not exactly one of his strengths. Wildey didn’t learn how to drive a car until he was twenty-five—where he grew up, you didn’t really need a car unless you were involved in the life. Five years later, he’s still very like a new driver.
Not that he needs to follow Honors Girl so closely; he has the address. But what if this is a setup? And someone takes a run at her between campus and the address?
Funny how Honors Girl still won’t admit to the existence of the boyfriend—even though there he is, in the passenger seat. He listens in, though they’re not saying much that Wildey can understand.
Your dad has rad taste in music.
Yeah.
Holy shit, he has Jim Carroll. Catholic Boy.
Yeah?
Those are people who died, who died, all my friends, they died
…
You okay, Sarie?
Uh-huh. Just got a lot on my mind. Eight thirty exam tomorrow.
Who?
Curnow.
Oh man. But here’s the trick with Curnow. He doesn’t do this all the time, but sometimes he’ll throw in a trick to see if you’re paying attention. Make sure you skim all of the questions first before you answer any of them. You might see a question, like, “If you haven’t made a mark in your blue book yet, just answer the last question and turn in your exam and enjoy the holidays.”
Times like these, Wildey is very glad he never bothered with college. Sounds like a lot of mind fucking.
Oh, you’re going to want to park off Front, near Ninety-five. Chuckie says it’s impossible to find a spot anywhere near his street.
Okay.
… all my friends, and they died …
Damn. This means Wildey is going to have to trail them for five blocks without being spotted.
But that’s okay, because he has backup this time—Kaz loaned him Streicher and Sepanic, a two-man surveillance detail from the NFU-CS. They’re already in an unmarked van on the edge of Dickinson Square Park, just two blocks from the target house. Everything Wildey hears, they’re hearing. Something goes wrong, they’ll be able to call for backup while Wildey goes in.
Honors Girl parks under I-95 in a no-charge lot for a nearby movie theater. Luckily someone plowed most of it this afternoon, after the snow stopped falling. Wildey pulls his car into a spot on the opposite side and watches them. This is one of these slowly changing neighborhoods—oldheads call it South Philly, hipster-gentrifiers want to call it Pennsport. Here along Front and Second streets, you can see the progress. The tiny, cramped blocks are decked out with Christmas lights and tinsel and ornaments. But venture a few blocks west and things change rapidly. There are sharp boundaries within Philly neighborhoods. You may not be able to see them, but you can definitely feel them.
The target is 527 Vernon Street, a small brick row house in the middle of a block.
Get ready, Chuckie. We’re coming for you.
I park the Civic and hear the roar of the highway above us. It’s freezing, and there’s a lot of snow and ice on the ground. Take the wrong step onto some black ice and you’d go down fast. I loop my arm through D.’s for stability. (Well, mostly for the stability.) We walk west on Vernon Street. Cute blocks, lots of lights and decorations. Then the phone in my pocket starts vibrating. My real phone. Probably Dad. But when I pull it out I see that it’s actually Partyman, which is completely random. The text, though, sends a chill through my veins:
—Morphine knows.
What the hell? How does he even know Chuckie Morphine, let alone know what he (allegedly) knows? Shit shit shit …
D. nods at my phone.
—Who’s that?
—Nobody.
—It was that cop, wasn’t it? I don’t mean to be paranoid, but we’re going to have to handle this cop thing very care—
—Shut up, it was Tammy. Hang on.
How does Partyman even know where I am? How does he know Chuckie Morphine? Worry about that later. Focus on what I know: Partyman is involved in the local drug trade. He knows me. Somehow, he knows where I’m headed. Which means he knows things I don’t know.
—C’mon.
—One second.
I text back: Knows what?
D. is practically dragging me by the arm.
—Seriously, Sarie, I don’t want to be late.
We cross Second Street, passing a bar on the corner called Dugan’s Den, which is the only sign of life out here tonight. I have about three blocks to make a decision. If I leave the wire on and Chuckie finds it, the two of us are fucked. If I remove the wire, then this whole thing will be for nothing. I glance behind us. Wildey is out there somewhere, following us. I could break away from D. right now and go running back, have Wildey get me the fuck out of here …
And then what, genius? What’s your next move? Watch D. get busted, and then be forced to testify against him? This is your chance to make all of this right.
So I decide to leave the button where it is. Even though it clearly doesn’t match. Wildey, you’d better be fucking right about this.
Partyman, you’d better text back quick. What does Morphine know?
We arrive at 527 and it’s kind of a shithole, at least compared to the other houses on the block. The marble steps are stained and chipped, the tin trim on the top of the house is rusted and flaked, and the windows look fogged over. A big step down from Chuckie’s previous place, I must say. Which bugs me. Why would he throw a party here? As if on cue, my real phone buzzes again. I look down at the message:
—He’s going to check you for a wire.
The man Sarie Holland calls Partyman places his cell on the bar top and orders another Budweiser. Nothing on tap in this place, which is disappointing, so he sticks to bottles. Aside from a few modern-day Eagles and Phillies banners on the rafters, everything here has that frozen-in-time look. Otherwise, as they said in
The Apartment,
it’s Dullsville. The paint is dull, the floorboards dull, the vinyl on the stools dull, the conversation dull, the drone of the TV dull. The only thing that shines is the bar top, polished to a high sheen by millions of elbows rubbing against it since the Great Depression. He loves it all. He thanks the bartender, Sherry, for the Bud, takes a long pull, then checks his phone. No reply.
What’s he doing, exactly? Why does he care?
He could explain it to his superiors easily enough, he supposes. Following leads, testing the local waters, pushing one side to see what the other would do. Stirring it up. But there’s a deeper truth, he realizes, one he’d never admit to his superiors.
He likes the girl. He doesn’t want to see her end up with a bullet in her head and dumped into some ravine.
So when her name came up on the back chatter of Big Bust V (Christ, you’d be surprised how many dealers talked openly in those chat rooms, like they’re all the first ones to think of that particular joke), he wrestled with his decision. Wrestled hard. Then he determined that a world without Sarie Holland would be a much more dull one.
He orders another Bud, cracks a joke with Sherry, asks her if they have some kind of menu. Sherry says she’ll see what she can do.
—Heyyyyy! D-Train!
The moment I see him, I realize that D. isn’t kidding. There is something very strange and familiar about Chuckie Morphine.
He turns out to be a seriously older dude (at least in his fifties) with slicked-back hair and a suit, standing in the middle of an empty living room surrounded by four gruff older dudes who could play any number of roles. Put hard hats on them and they’d be construction workers. Put blue shirts on them and they’d be cops. But now they’re wearing leather jackets, boots, and jeans, so they look like bikers. And not the kind who are in the mood to party.
But what’s strange is that Chuckie looks soooo fucking familiar. …
—And this must be the lovely Sarie! So great to finally meet you.
—Hi.
D. nudges me on the shoulder and smiles.
—So? Does his face ring a bell?
I stare at D., my eyes pleading for help, because, yeah, he does look familiar, but I seriously can’t place it. Before I can speculate, though, Chuckie waves his hands dismissively, then puts an index finger to his lips. D. blinks, confused.
—Proper greetings first, brother.
A biker guy with long, skunklike hair steps forward, small black gizmo in his hands. My gut sinks. Partyman was right. They’re going to sweep for surveillance. And in a few seconds, that gizmo is going to go off when it comes near my fake, oversized, ill-matching button.
Wildey is huffing cold air, hanging by a thread, waiting for Honors Girl to speak.
Doesn’t he look familiar?
the boyfriend said. And then … nothing. So wait—does Honors Girl know this guy after all?
Come on, somebody say or do
something.
There’s only one thing I can do: empty my bucket, just like Wildey taught me … and fill it back up with a little bit of crazy.
Chuckie must have seen me flinch, so he tries to reassure me this will all be over in a second, you understand, a guy like me has to be careful. I channel my inner excited puppy dog.
—Oh this is just like the movies! So fucking cool!
—Just a precaution, sweetie. You understand.
—Hang on, hang on! I know exactly what to do.
I smile and take a step back and start unbuttoning my shirt.
Pretty much every eye in the room—including D.’s—is fixed on me in total surprise. They can’t believe what I’m doing. To be honest, I can’t believe it, either.
—Sarie, what are you …
—Trust me, big guy. I know what I’m doing.
—Are you drunk?
One, two buttons, and when I reach the third, the mismatching bug, I do a playful little twirl on my heel.
