Authors: Duane Swierczynski
Canary (26 page)
Marty is curled up on the couch when Sarie returns home. Dad’s given up—too many beers did him in—but Marty crept down here an hour ago to keep up the vigil. The back of the living room couch faces the door, so she can’t see him. He listens to her lock the door, sigh, peel off her coat, drape it over the easy chair, then walk into the kitchen. The light snaps on. Marty realizes that for a moment she’s forgotten the phones. He has to act now. She rarely allows her phone out of her sight, and Marty is convinced the clues he needs will be on them. Especially the cheap one.
Summoning his inner cat, he creeps over to Sarie’s jacket, reaches in, feels around. It’s her iPhone in this pocket. Crap. He tries the other, finds the cheap one, flips it open. The tiny light feels like it throws a mega-watt spotlight on his face and the entire darkened living room. He cups it while flipping to the little text message icon. Presses it.
Holy shitballs.
Marty’s eyes are bugging out of his head. He didn’t expect her to forget to clear the texts. Every time he’s stolen a peek it’s already been wiped. But here it is: an actual exchange.
how about 10 am up here somewhere? I have to sneak away fine, tell me where
but please don’t be fucking around with me
I promise I’m not
Marty thumbs up it for a second before remembering he doesn’t have much time. Sarie’s probably just making coffee or tea, preparing for more final exam cramming tonight. He fumbles for his iPod, hits the camera app, aims it … shit, wait! He forgot to turn down the volume. He does. Then he snaps two photos of the text exchange. He’s just slipped the cheap phone back into her pocket and turned around when Sarie walks out of the kitchen.
“Marty? What are you doing up?”
Almost busted. He fakes a yawn. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Jesus, it’s after midnight, dude.”
“You’re up late, too.”
“I’m not twelve years old.”
“I don’t have finals this week.”
“Gah, you sound like Dad.
Go to bed.
”
Marty goes upstairs to his room, but he does not go to sleep. He’s too busy thinking about tomorrow morning, 10:00 a.m.
Something big.
The last thing I expect to see this morning is D. sitting at the kitchen table across from Marty.
—Hey.
D., with his hair neatly combed (as best as he can), shirt tucked in, wearing pants that were probably even washed recently. Bright-eyed. Smiling. The perfect boyfriend, if only he were: a) perfect and b) my boyfriend.
I blink a few times to make sure I’m not still asleep or having a weird paranoid dream. Unfortunately, this is reality, and I happen to be wearing my dumpiest T-shirt over a pair of pajama bottoms. My hair is like a fright wig. Marty, meanwhile, has a stormy look on his face, as if to ask why this strange dude has to be at the breakfast table first thing in the morning.
—Uh, hey.
I whisper-mouth:
—What-the-fuck-are-you-doing-here-talk-quick.
Dad is moving sausages around a frying pan trying not to burn them. I don’t believe he is succeeding; the smoke and grease woke me up. He turns around grinning like, ho hum, this is just a usual Sunday morning with some dude sitting at our table.
—Sarie Canary! I’m making some meat for the boys, but can I put some oatmeal on for you?
—I’m okay, Mr. Holland, seriously. Sarie and Marty here can have the sausages.
Marty gives D. a withering look.
—You don’t know she’s vegan?
D. nods as he processes this.
—I did not know that.
I try to prevent the situation from spiraling out of control.
—So … I really wasn’t expecting you this morning, D. I thought we were meeting up later?
D. reaches into the pocket of his jacket, which is draped over the chair behind him, and pulls out a paperback book. He shows me the cover. All black except for the title
Naked Lunch,
which pops out of the darkness in a kind of 3-D effect.
—I brought you this.
—I already have a copy.
D.’s eyes plead with me. Come on, work with me here.
—I know, but like I told you, this copy has my annotations in it. Might help you with Chaykin’s final. And it’s not cheating, because you’re allowed to discuss the novel with other students, and that’s what we’re going to do.
—Oh.
Marty reaches up for the book.
—Naked what? What’s this about?
—Wait, chief …
D. tries to pull the book away, but Marty is too fast. He’s also a little too clumsy. It slips out of his hands, bounces off the table, then lands on the kitchen floor, pages open. And out of its pages come a series of hundred-dollar bills that fan out everywhere. Marty’s eyes bug. D.’s jaw drops. And by this point Dad, pan of sausages in hand, is looking down at all of the money on the floor, too.
—That’s a lot of cash. Hope you’re not going to try to bribe your professor.
—Oh shit, sorry!
D. launches out of the chair and sweeps up the money with his hands. Dad and Marty look at me, but I keep my focus on D.
—Forgot that was in there. I owe some tuition money …
—You pay your tuition in cash?
—Ha-ha, not usually, but Dad has a cash business and he just thought it would be easier, since it’s kind of late and everything.
Needless to say, breakfast after that seems kind of strange. Apparently D. just knocked first thing this morning; Dad, who’d crashed out on the couch, stumbled to the door surprised to see the mystery man in his daughter’s life. After what must have been a surreal conversation, in which D. assured my father that he did not throw a bottle at our house Friday night, Dad invited him to stay for breakfast. Which, you have to admit, Mom, is a total Kevin Holland move. Keep your enemies close, and all that. Wait to see if drug money comes tumbling out of paperback copies of incomprehensible Beat novels.
Much as I would like to stick around and savor the awkwardness, I have a meeting with Wildey in about twenty minutes.
—Hey, you wanted a ride to the train, right?
I kick D. under the table before he can ask, I did?
Out in the car we can finally speak freely. He gives me the two thousand dollars he borrowed, all in hundreds. I thank him coldly and head toward the SEPTA station.
—I don’t understand why you’re so mad at me.
—What are you doing here?
—I’ve never met someone who didn’t want to be paid back.
—It could have waited until tomorrow.
—True, but there’s something else.
—What?
D. plays with the knob on the glove box. God help me if he pulls a cassette tape out right now. I speed up a little, a not-so-subtle indication that his time is running out.
—Look, I’ve been up for the past two days straight thinking about this. I hate that I got you mixed up in all of this, and I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of how to get you out of it. And then it came to me. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner.
I raise my eyebrows. And …?
—I want you to meet Chuckie.
—Chuckie the violent drug dealer?
—He’s not violent. Who told you that? He’s a business dude. Christ, I think he’s a grandfather. Look, once you meet him you’ll understand. And he can help us get the cop off your back.
—What exactly will I understand?
—Look, you just have to meet him. Once you see him, you’ll know what I’m talking about. I’ll set it up.
Nothing like a last-minute save, just under the wire.
The gray skies are pregnant with snow. Forecast says it’s supposed to be just a lawn-and-car storm, not one of those milk-and-bread storms that send people scurrying to the Wawas, but Wildey’s not so sure. Looks like it’s about to really cut loose. He sits in one of his cars, idling in the cold doughnut shop parking lot, trying to keep warm. He doesn’t do coffee but needs the caffeine, so he nurses a Diet Coke. Which doesn’t do anything to keep him warm, but whatever. It’s going to be that kind of morning. He doubts Honors Girl will put up a fight, but he knows for damn sure that she’ll cry. And that’ll be a really shitty start to his week. Wildey sips his Diet Coke, trying to gear himself up for the task at hand. Honors Girl arrives right on time, slides into the passenger seat.
“Surprised you wanted me out here, in your neck of the woods,” Wildey says. “Just because you’re on home turf doesn’t mean I can’t arrest you.”
“You’re not going to arrest me.”
Wildey’s eyebrows lift.
Yeah? You pretty sure of that?
“In fact, after I tell you what I’ve found, you’re going to want to kiss me.”
Wildey looks at her, not sure of how to respond to that one.
“You guys might even want to give me a job,” she says, beaming.
“Will you spit it out already?”
“I can get you Chuckie Morphine.”
Wildey narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“So you’re finally giving up that lowlife friend of yours.”
“I have a friend who’s helping me, yes. But he’s not your source, he’s mine. You don’t touch him, that’s the deal. Instead I’m the one who makes contact for you. I’ll help you land Chuckie.”
Wildey asks her how she plans on doing that, and she gives him a withering stare like he’s a fucking moron.
“By going undercover and buying drugs and getting it all on tape? I mean, is there another way to do it?”
“How do you know he’ll talk business in front of you?”
“Don’t worry. I can do it. But that’s not all. I’m onto something else. Something big.”
“Hang on, now. I don’t care about anybody else right now. Let’s keep our focus on Chuckie Morphine.”
“So you don’t want a mustard tub?”
Wildey finally allows a smile to creep onto his face. “Girl, you know I’m all about the mustard tubs.”
“If I’m right, I can score you one of the biggest mustard tubs you’ve ever seen.”
Wildey has to admit: This is not how he saw this morning playing out. Don’t get him wrong; if even half this shit is true, it’s an embarrassment of riches. But how’s he gonna sell this to Kaz? The Loot was pretty dead-set on this whole someone-in-cuffs-by-Sunday-morning thing. Wildey eases back into the driver’s seat, knowing he’s going to regret this, knowing that even before he’s finished sighing.
“Tell me about this mustard tub.”
“I will. Just give me forty-eight hours.”
There it is. The catch.
“Come on, you’re killing me with these extensions, already! Your professors let you get away with this shit?”
“You know I’m good at this. I just need the time to do it right.”
Wildey turns to face her and gives her a long, deep cop stare. Nothing in her eyes says she’s playing him. She’s actually excited. Look at her. Wrapped up in her cases. Wildey recognizes the look. He reaches out for her shoulder and she flinches.
“What are you doing?”
Her sudden movement freaks him out in return.
Was
he doing something? Just reassuring her, establishing trust, just like he does with all his CIs. With anyone he’s trying to connect with. It’s a normal human response, right? Instead, Wildey puts his hands back in his lap.
“Okay, Honors Girl.”
“Okay what?”
“Let’s talk about you wearing a wire.”
Surprise snowstorm this afternoon, Mom. Three inches falling per hour. Nobody saw it coming. You’d love this storm, especially because it’s a Sunday and nobody’s out. Dad and Marty are watching the Eagles-Lions game upstairs, which is apparently wild because Dad is yelling a lot. I steal a glance every time I go to the kitchen to make myself another cup of tea. The grounds crew has to keep brushing the snow off the yard lines so that the players can see what they’re doing. Some commentator says that Detroit has the advantage because their uniforms are white, but another says you can’t underestimate the Birds on their home turf. I’m not a big football fan, as you know, but this game looks like it’d be fun to watch. (Even though the more beer Dad drinks, the louder he gets; even Marty seems annoyed.) Much as I’d like to blow off the afternoon, I have a lot of work to do. There is much to figure out.
The baggie of pills Partyman gave me is full of bright colors and perfect shapes. D. would probably love it. I still don’t understand the allure of taking what is essentially medicine. Girls in high school had plenty of pills, and I was offered my fair share. They’d look at me like I was crazy when I turned them down. Everyone was using them—I wasn’t being fair to myself if I didn’t take them, blah, blah. Want to know what kept me away?
You, Mom.
I know back when you were still Laura Gutierrez you were an addict. If you hadn’t been, I wouldn’t be alive right now. Your addiction brought you to Dad’s clinic in San Diego, and that miserable experience somehow brought you two together, and boom, out of all that came me. (And later, of course, Marty.) So I should be thankful to drugs, right? Yay drugs, makin’ the world go round.
But I think that your addiction is what eventually killed you. I thought about this the first time I saw you have a seizure. Growing up, I would hear nonstop about the terrors of overdosing, and it was exactly how I imagined it—eyes rolling back in their sockets, body contorted in unnatural ways, veins bulging to the point where I could easily imagine them exploding. Suddenly, you just weren’t there. You were replaced by some alien being that possessed your body.
I know you didn’t O.D. It was brain cancer. But sometimes I can’t help but wonder if you were paying for some earlier sin in your life.
Our drug talks at the dinner table—starting when I was twelve and Marty was five (and pretty much clueless at first)—were weird. Beneath the scary stories, Dad would seem a bit wistful about the allegedly bad old days. What I did was wrong and you should never try drugs alone, Sarie, blah, blah, blah … but they were also kind of fun, I’m not gonna lie to you.
Your stories, however, were right out of Edgar freakin’ Allan Poe. All darkness and being out of control and terrified every moment. You would get so excited you’d lapse into Spanish (which Marty and I would tease you about, sometimes mercilessly: Ay! Dios Mío!). Dad would listen to your stories with his jaw clenched tight, clearly pissed to be hearing them again. Bad memories all around, I get it. Yet you guys would trot out these stories on a regular basis, especially when Marty got older. I always thought it was clever, the two-pronged approach. And it worked. I’ve never popped so much as an Adderall.
Looking at these pills now, though … I have to wonder. Maybe they’d help me focus. I am, after all, leading a double life. Maybe they’d help me to keep everything straight in my head.
Nope. Can’t do it. Still scared straight.
Mom, you should be proud. I guess children really do grow up to rebel against their parents.