No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (13 page)

“Bonita, put out the cigarette and go help Gladys, please.” Bonita sauntered off and Carla turned back to me. “Prison-Work program. She’ll get the hang of it. Let’s talk in here, hon,” she added, pulling me into the privacy of the back room.

A fresh pot of coffee sat on the counter. Carla picked up two Styrofoam cups, filled each of them three quarters of the way full, and doused hers with Half and Half. I did the same. She sat down at the table and eyeballed me. “Don’t take this wrong, Sweetie, but you look awful.” Tell me something I don’t know. Any moment now I expected a telegram from the Early Edition News in L.A. saying, “Heard you look awful. You’re fired.”

“Brandy, you can’t fall apart like this. It’s the last thing John would want.”

I nodded in agreement. “You’re right. I’ll take a nap when I get home, but Carla, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything. You know that.”

I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Okay. You know a lot of edgy people—I mean that as a compliment,” I added, hastily. “It shows how accepting of people you are. So, anyway, I need you to introduce me to someone.”

“Who?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. Look, some really weird things have come to light lately, and—” I paused dramatically and lowered my voice to barely a whisper. “I have reason to believe that John was murdered.”

“
Murdered?
Why on earth would you think he was murdered?”

“It’s a long story and I really don’t have the energy to get into it now, but trust me, I have my reasons.” I must have looked positively deranged, because Carla seemed doubtful. She didn’t say anything for a minute. She just walked over to the counter and dragged the entire pot of coffee over to the table. She poured us each a refill. At that moment, Gladys peeked her head in.

“Mrs. Russo says she doesn’t want Nonie to set her hair. She says the last time she left the rollers in too long and it made her look like a French Poodle.”

“Tell Mrs. Russo to kiss my ass. No, don’t,” she added, quickly. Turning to me she whispered, “Gladys doesn’t really get the concept of ‘venting’. I’ll be right back.”

When Carla returned she had a determined look in her eye. “Listen, Brandy, I’m sure you have your reasons for believing what you do. But if all that you think is true, then you have to go to the police and tell them what you know.”

“Carla, I can’t. I tried to go to the cops.
John tried to go to the cops
. I think that’s what got him killed. There’s a major cover-up going on and I have to find out what it’s all about.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t. And I wish I could explain it to you, but right now you’re better off not knowing.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “You can’t go to the cops. Then what about Bobby? I know you have issues with him, but you know you can trust him.”

“I can’t go to Bobby. He may be in on it too.” I was sounding nuttier by the minute. Soon I’d be talking about the Lone Gunman and the Grassy Knoll. “Carla, I do know this sounds like the ravings of a sleep deprived maniac which, I’ll be the first to admit, I am. But please trust me on this. I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t certain that I’m right.”

Carla gave me a long look. “Start at the beginning,” she said. “And don’t leave anything out.” Bless you, Carla.

I filled her in as best I could on the Konner Novack murder and how John had stumbled upon some clues. She listened, mouth agape, as I described Bobby’s recent behavior, the blatant lies and the break in at Johnny’s. I ended with the missing evidence.

“So, you can see why I can’t go to Bobby. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“Honey, this is too much for one person to handle. I know you want to avenge John’s death, but you can’t do this alone.”

“That’s why I came to you. Frankie told me once that you have a—a rather
colorful
family.” Colorful being a euphemism for “connected,” Philly style. “And I thought maybe you’d know someone who could help me gather the information I need. You know, take me places where I wouldn’t ordinarily fit in. Someone who really knows the streets.”

Carla leaned forward on her elbows and studied me for a moment. She scratched her head with the tips of her highly lacquered fingernails. She rolled her eyes heavenward, as if to ask for divine guidance. She sighed. And then, she spoke. “There’s this guy I know.”

“Yeah?” I leaned forward as well, eager for her to continue.

“Nope,” she decided, shaking her head. “Can’t do it. Your uncle would kill me.”

“Who? Who is he? Come on, Carla, he sounds great.”

Carla laughed, a slow, pure rumble of pleasure. “Oh, he is.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

She leaned forward even closer and looked me directly in the eye. She spoke slowly and distinctly, as if addressing a backwards three year old. “Nicholas Santiago is trouble. Do you know how to spell TROUBLE?”

I sat there, mesmerized by the notion of this mystery man. A man of danger. A man of
trouble.

“I’ll have to think of somebody else.”

“No, I want him!”

“That’s what all the girls say, hon.”

According to Carla, Nicholas Santiago is Robin Hood, Al Capone and Che Guevera all rolled into one explosively sexy package. Part saint, large part sinner and as elusive as an honest politician he is the stuff neighborhood legends are made of.

He owns a martial arts studio on Spring Garden, but rumors regarding other ventures abound. Some say he’s got a thriving hit man business. Others believe he runs guns to South America for obscure rebel causes. Nobody knows for sure, and Nick does nothing to dispel these notions. The cops hate him on principal. He has a finger on the pulse of the city, has friends in high places and can crawl along on his belly with the curbside dwellers. He knows things the cops don’t and can do things the cops can’t. He’d do anything for a friend. Couldn’t say what he’d do if someone crossed him. No one’s ever been brave enough to find out.

“How do you know this guy, Carla?”

“Through my cousin, Benny. They had some business dealings.” She shrugged. “I don’t ask and Benny don’t tell. It’s better that way.”

Carla and I came to an agreement. We agreed not to tell Frankie, and she would set up a meeting for me. After swearing on Carla’s St. Christopher medal that I would be careful, I left the beauty salon and headed home.

Three cups of coffee had really taken a toll on my internal organs. I flung open the door and raced up the stairs two at a time, barely making it to the bathroom before the dam burst. In my hurry to find the toilet, I’d inadvertently left the front door open. I finished up in the bathroom and was all set to go back downstairs and microwave some popcorn, when I heard a soft knocking at the front door. A moment later someone was calling my name.
Holy Crap. It’s Bobby.

My senses went into panic mode. He’d found out I knew he’d lied. He was on the take, he was the serial killer, he blew up the boat, and now he was here to kill me too. What do I do? What do I do? I was hopping around like a crazy person, pulling up my jeans the rest of the way and grabbing a comb out of the drawer. Even if he
was
here to kill me, I still had some pride.

Bobby called my name again. He didn’t sound like he was going to kill me. He just sounded tired. “Okay,” I conceded. He probably wasn’t here to do me in, but I just wasn’t prepared to talk to him. Not until I had some more answers.

I tiptoed over to the banister and peered over the railing. He had gone into the kitchen. I scurried into the bedroom, unlocked my window, heaved it open and crawled head first, out onto the trellis. I righted myself and shimmied down the rest of the way, hopped into Paul’s car and took off like a bat out of hell.

I drove several blocks out of the neighborhood, and then I pulled over to the curb and waited for the return of rational thought. My cell phone began to ring and I dug around in my pocketbook trying to locate it.

“Hello?”

“Why’d you drive away?”

I sighed, feeling more annoyed than scared. “How’d you get my cell phone number?”

“Paul gave it to me.”

“What do you want?”

“Why’d you sneak away from me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t sneaking away from you.”

“No? I guess you always leave your house by way of the second story window.”

I didn’t really have an answer for that one so I sat there, saying nothing.

“Brandy, I have to talk to you. It’s important.” Just then my cell phone beeped. I was getting another call.

“Hang on a second. I clicked over to the other line. “Hello?”

“It’s all arranged,” Carla stated without preamble.

“Hang on.” I beeped back to Bobby.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Brandy,
please.”

Damn, damn, damn.
I was starting to cave. “I’ll talk to you, later,” I said, and clicked backed to Carla.

P
hiladelphia is a city teeming with slums. Not just “impoverished neighborhoods,” but honest to God war torn disaster areas complete with condemned, burned out buildings, decayed and crumbling houses and boarded up storefronts. Graffiti covers every micro inch of wall space. People live in these uninhabitable places. Kids play “Double Dutch” in the street, while addicts sit on the stoops of disintegrating structures, bargaining for heroin and shooting up. Gang members roam their turf, protecting their territory and their reputations.

Periodically, someone will come in and decide the neighborhood is ripe for gentrification. They will buy up the real estate, refurbish the old buildings and either move in, or resell the properties at quadruple the price. The economic tide slowly sweeps in and washes away the impoverished, relocating them into another less desirable corner of the city. I passed many of these neighborhoods now as I cruised down Delaware Avenue. Although I had grown up accustomed to seeing these neighborhoods it never failed to surprise and sadden me.

At Spring Garden I hung a left and continued on past Fifth Street. Nick Santiago’s studio was nearby. I began looking for the address. The street was deserted. Not a lot of “through” traffic on this end of town. The address Carla had given me was attached to a two story red brick building, sandwiched between a check cashing store and a bail bonds office. The windows were the mirrored kind you see in psych wards and police stations; one way observation jobs, tinted a pearl gray. Graffiti graced the store on the left and the store on the right. It reminded me of a dog lifting its tail to mark its territory. Oddly, the martial arts studio was untouched. I wondered if it was considered a neutral space or if Nick’s reputation won out over adolescent posturing.

I cut the engine and scanned the area. Two Latino guys in their early twenties lounged against the side of the building. Both had shaved heads, one had a decorative design tattooed over his ears. The other was talking on his cell phone. He looked up and saw me staring at him. He snapped the phone shut and nudged his friend. They both smiled, showing a lot of gold teeth.

I didn’t want to seem unfriendly so I gave a little finger wave, but remained firmly rooted to the driver’s seat. The shorter of the two sauntered over to the car and leaned against the bumper. He very gently began rocking the back end, slowly at first and then a little harder. I debated my options; put the car in gear and drive off, or politely ask him to stop doing that. I decided not to be such a wuss and went for option number two.

“Um, excuse me.”

“You talkin’ to me?” He had to be kidding. Good. I like a man with a sense of humor.

“Uh, I was wondering if you’d mind getting off the car. You see, it’s my brother’s and he’d kill me if anything happened to it.”

The taller guy, the one with the tattooed head walked over to join his buddy. He was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes looked eerily empty. My stomach dropped and
not
in a good way. He came closer and I could see a four-inch scar at the base of his neck. It looked fresh. I gave an involuntary shutter. His friend came around to the other side of the car, and I twisted the key in the ignition.

“You want me to stop riding your bumper?” he leered. “No problem.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a five-inch blade. It had a chrome handle that glittered in the sunlight. My hand began to shake so hard I couldn’t wrap it around the car key. The two could smell my fear and they began to laugh, openly taunting me. The one with the knife bent down, and I realized with sudden clarity that he was going to slash my tires, and then quite possibly, my throat. Without thinking, I threw the car into reverse, effectively putting an end to his fun and games.

“You dumb bitch!” he screamed. “You ran over my hand.” He held it up to his chest. It was all bent out of shape and it looked like it really hurt. He grabbed the driver’s side door with his good hand and began pounding away, trying to get it to open. His friend stood on the sidelines, convulsing with laughter. I tried desperately to shift into first gear, but I couldn’t get my damn hand to stop shaking. So I leaned on the horn and honked the living crap out of it.

The door to the martial arts studio opened and out walked a man. He looked to be around thirty. He wasn’t especially tall, maybe five feet ten inches or so, with a lithe, yet muscular body. He wore loose black sweats, and a tight white tee shirt, which only partially covered well- defined Abs. On his left wrist was a silver band. A small, silver cross hung from his right ear. It gleamed against his caramel colored skin.

Everything about this man seemed a study in contrasts. There was power and grace in his movements, which were unhurried but purposeful. His hair was a long, wavy mass of brown, swept back from his face by his hand. He had the beginnings of a beard, just a few days old, the beard of someone who had forgotten to shave but would remember, eventually. His full, sensuous mouth was upturned slightly into a wry smile. He was the least self-conscious person I had ever seen and the most compelling. I could not take my eyes off of him, and I wasn’t the only one.