Long Bright River: A Novel (19 page)

Back in my car, I radio to Dispatch that I’m done with lunch. Then I sit in my car, fuming.

If I disliked Sergeant Ahearn before, now I revile him. The way he spoke to me was uncalled for. The way he sat there, imperiously, nodding as if he knew it all already. I think of every possible retort I could have made. Then, feeling impotent, I check my phone.

One voicemail from Truman Dawes.

I listen.

—Mick, he says. Call me as soon as you can.

My hands begin shaking. I call him back. As I wait for him to pick up, I head for the Avenue.

—
Answer,
I whisper.
Answer. Answer.

He doesn’t. I call him again.

On the last ring, he picks up.

—Mickey, he says. Where are you?

—Front and Coral, I say. Heading north on Front.

—I’ll meet you at Emerald and Cumberland, he says.

I’ve already almost missed the turnoff for Emerald, and I swerve dangerously to make it. I briefly turn on my bubble gums, causing two cars nearby to screech to a halt.

I hardly recognize myself these days.

—Is she all right, I say to Truman.

—I don’t know, says Truman.

He’s changed when I pick him up. The only thing I recognize is the backpack he is holding, which now, I presume, contains his undercover attire. He’s back in his jeans, his knee brace now visible; he’s lost the scarf and the sunglasses and even the down jacket.

He gets in, lowering himself painfully into the passenger’s seat. He glances around as he closes the door.

—Why don’t we get out of this neighborhood, he says.

Probably a good idea. I drive southeast again, toward Fishtown.

—What happened? I say.

—I bought a syringe off him, Truman begins. I told him I was in from Bucks. I asked if he could tell me where to score.

I nod. This is the beginning of a familiar story: it’s how half the overdoses in the district happen. People venture in from the suburbs, looking for a fix, and getting more than they or their bodies bargained for in the process. Potent, deadly fentanyl has found its way into most of the heroin for sale around here, and it’s killing even the most experienced users of the drug.

—
Follow me,
he said, says Truman. He started walking north along the Ave.

—Was he talking to you? I ask him. Did he say anything about himself?

—He said,
You’re not a cop, are you?
says Truman. I told him,
Fuck that, I hate cops.
He didn’t say anything else.

Truman clears his throat and glances at me. Continues.

—He took me down an alley off a little street called Madison. You can get in through the back doors of a couple abandos there. So no one else is around now, and Dock starts talking about what he’s got, starts telling me it’s the purest stuff I’ll ever shoot. Asks me how much I want, what I have to spend. Tells me he’s the doctor, he’ll shoot me up if I pay him for it.
That’s all right,
I say.

He looks at me kind of hard. Says,
You sure? You can do it inside here if you want.

I’m getting nervous at this point, thinking about ways out. Thinking he knows I’m a cop. When I was on Vice, I’d have a backup team, I’d be wired, I’d have an exit plan.

I’m good,
I say.

So I give him some money and he takes it. Tells me to wait there.
You’re not gonna run off with that, right?
I say to him.

Nah,
he tells me.
I’d be out of business in a minute if I did that.
So he goes inside, pushes aside a piece of plywood that’s covering the door and disappears.

I interrupt Truman.

—Did you get the house number? I ask.

—I was trying to figure it out, he says, but I couldn’t. It’s a house with white siding on it and there’s graffiti on a board over one of the back windows that says
BBB.
Three letters.

Anyway, says Truman, as soon as he disappears inside I go up to one of the windows and try to get a look inside. I’m peering through cracks
in the boarding. But it’s dark in there. I can’t see much. I think I can make out at least four people, maybe more. Everyone’s in different states of nodding out. One of them looked dead. Might have been dead, Truman says.

I have seen houses like this more times than I can count. To me they look like a circle of hell.

—I’m listening, Truman says, and from inside I hear what sounds like someone pounding up a staircase. A second later he comes back down and suddenly I see this guy Dock walking toward me, toward the back of the house. I jump back, turn around, and pretend to be minding my business.

Here,
this guy goes.
You sure you don’t want me to shoot you up? Five bucks.

Nah,
I tell him.
I got it.

He eyes me up.
Don’t shoot up near my house,
he says
. And test it first.

I thank him, go to leave. I’m wishing I could get one more look inside. And maybe he notices me hesitating, because he says to me,
You looking for something else?

Like what,
I say.

A girl,
this fucker says.

I get cold. Truman watches me a little before going on.

—I said,
Maybe.

He says,
You want to see pictures? I got pictures.

I said I did. He takes out his phone and starts flipping through photos of girls. And, Mick. I saw Kacey.

I nod. I knew this was coming.

—
See anything you like?
this shithead says. I say I do. But I want to get fixed up first. I tell him I’ll be back another time. He gives me his phone number.
Call me when you need something,
he tells me.
I’m your guy, okay? I’m the doctor.

I’m looking straight ahead.

—You okay? says Truman.

I nod. What I am feeling is a loathing that begins very deep inside me.

—How did she look, I ask Truman, but I realize only after I say it that I was too quiet to be heard.

Again I ask.

—What do you mean? says Truman.

—In the photo. How did she look?

Truman sets his jaw. She was, he says. She wasn’t wearing much. She was skinny. Her hair was dyed bright red. She looked like she was maybe roughed up. One of her eyes was swollen. I couldn’t get a good look.

But alive, I think. But maybe she’s alive.

—One more thing, says Truman. Right when I was about to leave, someone comes around the corner. Tough-looking guy, tattoos everywhere, looks like a friend of Dock’s. He points right at Dock, happy to see him, and goes,
McClatchie. How you been?

—McClatchie, I say.

—Right, says Truman.

—Connor McClatchie, I say, remembering the Facebook photo,
Connor Dock Famisall
underneath.

Truman nods. Then nods toward the MDT on the center console.

—May I? he says.

—Go ahead, I tell him. It feels like old times: like my partner, doing the paperwork while I drive.

Truman’s login is disabled while he’s on medical leave, so I give him mine. Using it, he runs a search in the PCIC.

I keep trying to look while I drive, and I almost swerve into oncoming traffic.

—Jesus, Mick, says Truman. Pull over.

But I don’t want to. Not until we’re far enough out of the neighborhood so that Truman won’t be recognized either. I keep scanning the road ahead of me, glancing in my mirrors, waiting to encounter a colleague. Or Sergeant Ahearn.

—Just read it aloud to me, I say.

Truman reads to himself for a while. Then he says, All right, here we go. McClatchie, Connor. DOB March 3, 1991, Philadelphia. Youngster, he says, glancing over at me.

—What else, I ask him.

He gives a low whistle.

—What? I say. Tell me.

—Okay, says Truman. We’ve got everything from armed robbery to assault to illegal possession of a firearm. Guy’s been incarcerated three—wait, four—five times.

Again, he pauses.

—And? I say.

—Looks like he does have a charge here for promoting prostitution, says Truman.

Pimping. Unusual, actually: most of the women in Kensington work for themselves. But there’s always an exception to the rule.

He pauses. He also has a warrant on him, he says. That could be helpful somehow.

—Could be, I say.

I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s close to the end of my shift. Almost time to rescue Thomas from Mrs. Mahon, and Mrs. Mahon from Thomas. I also haven’t answered a call in too long.

—Where’s your car? I ask Truman, and he tells me.

For a while, I say nothing.

Then, at last, I ask him. Do you think she was in that house? I say.

Truman thinks for a long time.

—I don’t know, he says. She could have been. I didn’t see her
downstairs. But there was a second floor, and I know something was going on up there.

I nod.

—Mickey, says Truman. Don’t do anything stupid.

—No, I say. I wouldn’t.

Truman’s phone rings then, and he glances at it before telling me to pull over, saying that he’ll jump out where we are.

—I can drive you all the way to your car, I say.

—It’s okay, says Truman. It’s not far.

He seems antsy to get out. The phone keeps ringing.

He taps the roof of the cruiser, once, as he’s leaving.

It’s only then that I realize that I never even told him about my meeting at lunch with Ahearn. If anyone would have advice on this front, it’s Truman—but Truman has already answered his call.

I watch him for a while as he walks away.

I wonder, again, whom he’s speaking to.

At last, the day is over. I worry the whole way home about how Thomas’s day has been. I yearn for the release of reconnecting with him after a time apart: a quick hit of dopamine that lowers the shoulders and slows the breath.

It’s already close to pitch-black when I arrive at home, and it’s not even five p.m. I despise these days: the darkness of the darkest part of winter. Every glint of sunlight feels edible, something sweet to swallow and store for the long cold night.

The first thing I notice when I arrive is that there are no lights on in Mrs. Mahon’s house. My stomach clenches, just a bit. I exit the car and trot through the snow, up to the front door. I ring the doorbell. Without waiting long enough, I knock, too.

I press my face to the glass at the side of the door, trying to see anything inside. Where are they? I’m ready to kick down the door. I’m back in work mode, my hand near my weapon.

I’m about to knock again when the door swings open. Mrs. Mahon is on the other side of it, the room behind her dim. No Thomas. She looks at me, blinking through her large glasses.

—Is Thomas here? I ask.

—Of course, she says. Are you all right? That pounding on the door, good lord. You almost gave us a heart attack.

—I apologize, I say. Where is he?

And just then he appears next to Mrs. Mahon, a strip of red above his upper lip. He’s been drinking something sugary. He’s grinning.

—I hope you don’t mind that I gave him Kool-Aid, says Mrs. Mahon. I keep it in the cabinet for when my great-nephews come over.

I have never seen Mrs. Mahon’s great-nephews in the entire time we’ve been living here. No, that’s fine, I say. Special treat.

—We’ve been watching a movie like in the movie theater, Thomas says, his voice shrill with excitement.

—He means we made popcorn and turned the lights off, says Mrs. Mahon. Come in, you’re letting cold air into the house.

Inside, while Thomas is getting his shoes and jacket on, I notice a picture hung on the wall of the entryway: it looks like a class photograph, grainy and worn. There are many rows of children, ranging in age from kindergartners to young teenagers. The rear two rows are nuns, dressed in cardigans and skirts and simple head coverings, like the nuns in the parish school Kacey and I used to go to. The photograph is black-and-white and difficult to date. It’s hard to imagine that Mrs. Mahon was ever a child, but the image says differently. Quickly, I scan the children to see if I can recognize her, but suddenly Mrs. Mahon touches my elbow.

—While he’s off getting ready, she says quietly, I should tell you that the man stopped by again.

My heart sinks.

—Did Thomas see him, I say.

—No, says Mrs. Mahon. I recognized him out the window, so I told Thomas to go upstairs for a moment. And I told him you no longer lived here. Just as you asked.

Relief.

—How did he react, I say.

—He seemed disappointed, says Mrs. Mahon.

—That’s fine, I say. He can be as disappointed as he wants. He believed you?

—Seemed to, said Mrs. Mahon. He was very polite.

—He can be, I say.

Mrs. Mahon sets her jaw and nods.

—Good for you, anyway, she says. Most men I have no use for.

She thinks a moment and then adds, One or two of them, I tolerate.

Thomas is full of stories when we enter the apartment.

—Mrs. Mahon let me watch
E.P.
, he says.

—What’s
E.P.?

—A movie. It’s a movie about a guy who goes on a kid’s bike.

—A guy?

—A monster.

—
E.T.,
I say.

—And he says
E.P. phone home.
And Mrs. Mahon showed me how to do that with my finger, like this.

He extends his little pointer finger toward me, and I touch it with mine.

—Like that, he says again.

—Did you enjoy it? I ask.

—Yes. She let me watch it even though it was scary, says Thomas. He’s wired from the movie and, probably, from too much sugar.

—Were you frightened?

—No.
It
was scary.
I
wasn’t scared.

—Good, I say. I’m glad to hear it.

But later that night, after I put Thomas to bed in his own room, I am awakened by the pattering of little feet, and there is Thomas, wrapped up in a blanket, looking, in fact, much like the protagonist of the movie he watched today.

—I’m scared, he announces, solemnly.

—That’s all right, I say.

—I lied because I am scared after all.

—That’s all right, I say again.

He pauses, biting his lip, looking down at the floor. I know what will come next.

—Thomas, I say, warningly.

—Can I sleep in your bed? he says, but in his voice there is resignation. He already knows the answer.

I stand and go to him. I take his hand and walk him back down the hallway to his room.

—You’re nearly five years old, I say to him. You’re getting very grown up. Can you be brave for me?

In the darkened hallway, I see him nod.

I steer him into his room and turn on the night-light for him. He climbs into his bed and I tuck the blankets over him and put one hand on his head.

—Guess what, I tell him. I talked to Carlotta’s and Lila’s mothers to invite them to your birthday party.

He’s silent.

—Thomas? I say.

He won’t look at me. Just for a moment, I hesitate. And then I think of everything I’ve ever read about how one instills strength and self-sufficiency in a child, how teaching a child confidence and independence young is essential to ensure the child will ultimately be a well-adjusted citizen and adult.

—They said yes, I tell him.

Then I give him a kiss on his forehead and quietly leave the room.