Authors: Duane Swierczynski

Canary (15 page)

While on the phone, Wildey tries to keep the frustration out of his voice.

And then what to his wondering eyes should appear but his own CI, moving briskly up the block. Huh. Where you speeding off to this time of night, miss? He considers just telling her he has to split, hanging up, then maybe following her, seeing where she’s headed this time of night. But he doesn’t like his chances out here. It’s a quiet block. She’d see the car pulling out. And following her on foot isn’t smart, either. Neighbors in a white hood like this tend to notice a man of Wildey’s size and complexion moving swiftly behind a young woman.

She’s closer to Wildey now and looks distracted, eyes darting all over the place.

“Where are you headed in such a hurry, anyway?” Wildey asks.

Sarie stops moving. He flicks the high beams at her twice.

“See me? Come on, let’s talk for a minute. I won’t keep you long. I know it’s a school night.”

How long has Wildey been parked on my street? Did he see D.? Shit, maybe he’s already in cuffs and tucked away in the backseat, and Wildey’s simply luring me closer to arrest me, too. Two-for-one sale: dumb fucking college students.

When I open the passenger door I’m relieved that there’s no sign of D. inside. Unfortunately, there’s still Wildey to deal with. He leans over and waves me in, making me feel vaguely hookerish. Red-faced, I lower myself into the seat and my knees bang on the glove box.

Please, don’t let Dad take this moment to look outside to check on me to make sure I picked up D. Good luck explaining that one.

—How you doin’, Honors Girl?

—Tired.

—Going for a walk to wake yourself up?

—Yeah.

—Nice neighborhood. You know, I don’t spend much time up here in Fox Chase. Why do they call it that, anyway?

—From the Inn.

—The what now?

—The Fox Chase Inn. It was built here in 1705, I tell him. Hunters from what is now Center City, Philadelphia, would travel up here to hunt foxes through the nearby woods.

Wildey leans back in his seat. Awestruck by my brilliance, no doubt.

—Foxes, huh? How do you know that?

—I wrote a report for high school.

—Foxes.

Wildey gazes out of his windshield at the duplexes and sidewalks and streetlights.

—Huh. Three hundred years ago. City was a much different place then. Hell, I guess it was different months ago, you look at it a certain way.

Now I’m pretty much at the edge of my seat, trying to will myself to stay calm. Calm and polite. Do not piss him off. Do not tip your hand …

—Sorry for asking, Officer Wildey, but …

—Ben. I told you to call me Ben. You keep mispronouncing my name and it’s just going to piss me off. It’s will-dee, for the record. But for real, call me Ben.

—What are you doing here? In my neighborhood? I thought this whole thing was supposed to be kept secret!

—Easy, easy. Can I ask you something?

I close my mouth and lean back into the seat. Of course he can ask. He can ask anything he wants, can’t he.

—You think you’re smart, don’t you?

The way he spits out the question makes me whip my head around.

—W-what?

—Ryan Koolhaas is no good to me.

—You keep saying that, but I don’t understand. I did exactly what you wanted. I found you a drug dealer. Which means I’m done.

—No. You’re pretty far from done.

Wildey turns his big body around to face me. He’s got that tractor-beam cop glare going.

—Koolhaas is nobody. And he’s sure as hell not the cheesesteakeatin’ sprinter I chased through the park last week.

I say nothing. Wildey sighs.

—Let me put my cards on the table. I’ll tell you the same thing I would tell a judge. Last Wednesday night, around midnight, I was watching the house of an alleged midlevel narcotics dealer. I’m watching, and I see this silver Honda Civic pulling up to the usual spot—up near the corner, where the valet guy lets all of this dealer’s customers idle for a bit. This guy in red pants, about twenty or twenty-one, I’m guessing, green backpack slung over his shoulder, launches himself out of the passenger seat, goes up to the house, knocks three times, door opens. But he wasn’t alone. There was someone driving.

Now Wildey looks down at his thin reporter’s-style notebook.

—Female, maybe eighteen or nineteen, I’m guessing at the time, but hey, some people are blessed with youthful looks. Hair up in a ponytail. I write down the plate number, but I can’t run a search, since I don’t have a laptop in the car.

Then he shows me the page. Scrawled at the bottom: DRK-1066.

—Recognize it?

I say nothing, but of course it’s my plate.

—Anyway, I’m sitting there watching. I’ve been watching this house for a while and getting tired of it.

I’m getting tired of hearing things I already know. So I go on the offensive.

—Why can’t you just go up and knock on the door? I mean, you’re an undercover cop. Can’t you just go up and make a buy yourself?

—That’s not how this guy works. It’s referrals only. I knock, they not so politely tell me to go fuck myself. That’s not the way you take down a dealer like this. What you do is, you find somebody who works for them, then you recruit them.

—Like you recruited me.

—Exactly.

—So why follow us?

—Truth be told, because of you.

—What?

—You didn’t fit. Most of the guys who roll up into that place look like they’re in the game. You didn’t. If you’re an amateur, I figure your boyfriend there is an amateur, too. Otherwise he wouldn’t have brought you along. Plus there was that green backpack. I had a good feeling about that. So I followed you.

—Hoping to pull us over.

—Absolutely.

Wildey rubs his chin slowly, feeling his stubble.

—This Chuckie guy is serious bad news, Sarie. I wouldn’t be spending so much time on this if I thought otherwise.

—How bad?

Wildey lets a smile slip for a millisecond before resuming his grim cop face. There’s an opportunity here. A good fright goes a long way.

“I can’t talk about an open case,” he continues. “But if I were you and your boyfriend, I’d stay as far away from that house on Ninth Street as possible. I’ve seen what he’s done to people.”

Wildey leans in.

“Nothing’s going to happen to your boyfriend, Sarie. I promise you. He talks to me, I can protect him. I make the charges go away.”

“I have to go back,” Sarie says. “I have a paper to finish.”

“This is not going to go away,” Wildey says. “I’m not going to go away.”

Marty is half-asleep when he hears a car door slam. He fumbles over to his bedroom window, tripping over piles of his own shoes and clothes, then rubs away some condensation with the sleeve of his shirt. Down on the street is his sister, climbing out of a car he doesn’t recognize. She hurries back up to their house. The car glides down the street, but Marty’s vantage point is bad; he can’t make out the plate.

This is not good.

One thing Marty detests above all else is being treated like a little kid. Even before Mom died his parents regarded him as the baby of the house, unable to handle “grown-up” topics like Sarie could. And after Mom was gone, it became even worse. Now he’s the poor kid without a mom who needs constant looking after. It’s annoying.

Sarie was different. She never talked down to him or assumed he couldn’t handle something. That is, until Mom got sick, and Sarie kept it from him. He was angry for a long time about that. She, of all people, should have known better. And when it happened, it was a bigger shock than it should have been. Marty was completely blindsided.

Now Sarie had a secret of her own. And it involved a mystery guy in a busted-up-looking sedan. A boyfriend? Maybe. But Dad wasn’t the overbearing break-their-legs type. If it was a boyfriend, and Sarie didn’t want Dad meeting him, then he must be some kind of serious jerk.

But no, this isn’t boyfriend drama. Sarie’s involved in something bad and Dad’s apparently zoned out again and Marty Holland refuses to be blindsided again.

DECEMBER 4

This morning, looking at D.’s messy hair and jeans he probably slept in, I wonder what would have happened last night if Wildey hadn’t shown up. Maybe I would have caught up with D., dragged him back to my house, introduced him to Dad, sneaked a quick kiss good night before heading upstairs. Maybe we would have agreed on a smart course of action.

Of course, that’s not what happened. Because instead we’re freezing our asses off near Independence Square and I’m telling D. what I have in mind.

D. doesn’t react the way I thought he would.

—What? That’s insane! No way. Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.

—How? You have until, like, tonight.

He averts his gaze, swallows.

—Actually I have until, like, right now, because I have to catch a bus upstate in two hours.

The air is freezing, but that doesn’t stop hundreds of tourists, Asian mostly, from milling around Independence Hall, snapping digital pics and waiting for the next bus departure. My hands are already numb because I forgot to bring gloves.

We’re being super-careful about meeting in person after Wildey’s surprise visit to my neighborhood last night. I have to assume he might be lurking at any given moment. I can practically hear him now: Oh so THIS is the boyfriend, as he stands up from behind a shrub on the quad, handcuffs in hand. So no more meetings at my house, and I can never go to D.’s house.

D. comes up with the idea to set up phony Twitter accounts to communicate. Wildey would have to be psychic to intercept, right? We agree to meet at the Liberty Bell. His idea. He’s such a tourist.

Now that we’re walking around the Bell pavilion, it all feels so weird.

—Why here?

—I mapped it out online. This is pretty much right between my next two stops: Chuckie’s place and the bus station.

I do the math in my head. It doesn’t add up.

—Wait. Chuckie’s place is down in South Philly. The bus station’s like six blocks away. How is this in the middle?

D. looks at me, hesitating, then decides to open his mouth anyway.

—Chuckie’s place moves around, week to week. Sometimes every few days.

—He has that many places?

D. shakes his head, gives a grim smile.

—You have no idea.

—How do you know where to go? I mean, does he call you or something?

Again D. hesitates, like he’s a fucking cold war spy hating to give away his secrets.

—We have another way of communicating. It’s all safe, no one can listen in.

—You’re on Twitter with him.

—No, it’s not Twitter.

I decide to drop it for now. Why do I even want to know about this stuff, anyway? Feels like the more I know, the worse the situation gets. Wildey would probably be able to sniff it on me. “You know something new, don’tcha, Honors Girl.” Fuck that. Except that I kinda DO want to know. How could I not? D.’s wrapped up in this world I’ve been sucked into—isn’t it natural to be curious about how it works? Knowing more means I’m protecting myself. Maybe even D.

—I’d better go. I just wanted to let you know where I’d be so you didn’t worry.

—I’m even more worried now.

—Why?

I bug my eyes out at him. Duh!

—That’s sweet of you, but seriously, I’ll be fine.

—Look, can’t you ask this Chuckie guy for an extension?

—What, like with a paper in class? It doesn’t work that way. Dealers will always front you product as long as you pay them back on time. If I ask for more time, he’ll know something’s up, I won’t get any more product. Without that, I have no hope of paying Chuckie back. Or the school. I might as well start running now.

—Shit.

—Yeah. I do seem to be buried in it, don’t I?

We continue in silence until we reach the old slave quarters exhibit at the corner of Sixth and Market. I look both ways before crossing. D. seems lost in his own head. After we’re safely on the other side of Market Street I tell him.

—No. You’re not.

The idea hit me the moment I opened my eyes this morning. I could steal two grand from the student organization I co-founded.

The thought surprised me. Last night I was racking my brain for other ways to come up with $2,000—a loan from my dad (but no, he’s still dealing with Mom’s cancer treatment bills, he doesn’t have it), a new student loan (nope, Dad would find out), a personal bank loan (with what as collateral?). I went to bed obsessing over it, and in the morning the answer was waiting for me.

A felony.

Yes an honest-to-God felony. I looked up the code in the school library, just to be sure:

(a.1) Felony of the third degree.—
Except as provided in subsection (a), theft constitutes a felony of the third degree if the amount involved equals or exceeds $2,000, or if the property stolen is an automobile, airplane, motorcycle, motorboat, or other motor-propelled vehicle, or in the case of theft by receiving stolen property, if the receiver is in the business of buying or selling stolen property.

Two grand. The exact amount D. needs to avoid being mauled by a drug dealer with a ridiculous name. It’s almost as if Pennsylvania code knows this, and is fucking with me.

I could try to rationalize things by saying I’m merely borrowing two grand, but the truth is, it’s straight-up stealing. The money from this theft goes to D., who will take it to Chuckie Morphine to satisfy his debt. D. will receive more pills to sell. He’ll ask for a larger package than usual. Over the next two days, D. will hustle like fuck to move them, making enough to satisfy his debt to the university by Friday and pay me back before anyone knows the money is missing.

This is stealing, isn’t it?

I take the envelope from my jacket and hand it to D. A puzzled look remains glued to his face until he thumbs open the flap and sees the bills inside.

—Whoa.

—Two grand worth of whoa.

—Where’s this from? Did you borrow this from your dad?

—Don’t worry about it.

—C’mon, I have to know. What did you do?

—You have your secrets, I have mine.

D. doesn’t know what to say. He looks at the envelope, then me, then the envelope again. The gratitude is practically oozing out of his pores. But, surprise, surprise, he’s not done asking for favors.

—I need you to do one more thing.

—Wait … what?

—Make a date with Wildey.

—Why would I do that?

—Because he knows most dealers re-up on a weekly basis. I got my package last Wednesday, so he’ll probably be watching the house. What if he recognizes me?

—Shit. So you need me to draw him away from his surveillance.

—Yeah. If you don’t mind?

There’s an awkward silence. We need to separate, because things are moving fast now, what with the felony and the imminent drug pickup and distracting the narcotics cop, which probably falls under the category of aiding and abetting, right? But I also want to linger with him. I wish we were just a girl and a guy who met at a party and we could just go and do normal stuff in the city, nothing hanging over our heads. Maybe it can be that way soon.

I reach out and grab D.’s arm, sort of my lame prelude to a hug. He doesn’t get it. D. just looks at me.

—What?

—Do you like doing this?

—Doing what? Taking a bus upstate?

—You know what I mean.

—Yeah, I know. But I told you. I need the money for tuition.

—I’ve been thinking about that. There are other ways to make money.

—Are there?

—Umm … yeah. There are.

—You ever hear about Cindy Schraff?

—Who? Are you changing the subject?

D. shakes his head.

—Cindy Schraff was an honors student, graduated last year, so I guess you wouldn’t have known her. Four point oh—yeah, even with the honors triple—activities out the ass, volunteers, the whole thing. Pretty much the perfect student. She doesn’t want to go on to law school or medical school or dick around with graduate school. She just wants to graduate, get a job, move into her own place. Home sucks, but who cares, because she’s worked hard to earn her own way out. Cindy graduates, sends out a billion resumes, scores a few interviews, but nothing. Like, for months on end. Her student loans are due, and if you default on those, you can’t erase that with bankruptcy. Her parents are no help. They’re of the opinion that she did this to herself, and nobody helped them out back in college. She keeps plugging away, spending more money on these leadership and job seminars, hires a headhunter, everything. But nobody’s hiring. You know what she did next?