Canary (30 page)

I heel-smash the bug, popping it like a tick. I stumble a little, as if I’m a silly girl who’s had a vodkatini or three, laughing to disguise the sound of the crunch. To me, the pop echoes throughout this empty living room. But they’re too busy looking at my bra to notice. I hope. Chuckie Morphine locks eyes with me.

—Not that I didn’t enjoy that show, but we’re going to sweep you anyway. It’s not like the movies, darling.

—Chuckie, man, you don’t have to do this, Sarie’s cool.

—I’m totally not wearing a wire! Well, maybe an underwire.

D. gawks at me like I’m insane. Perhaps I am—wearing a bra, a crushed police surveillance device under the heel of my shoe—joking around with a drug kingpin.

—Sweep ’em, Keith.

Keith, the maybe-biker with the frizzy skunk hair, sweeps us, lingering on my tits for some strange reason. After he’s been cleared, D. stoops down to retrieve my shirt and gives me the puzzle-eyes as he hands it back.

—Here.

(Eyes all going: What the fuck was that?)

—Thanks.

(My eyes going: Trust me.)

In the end, Keith finds nothing interesting, not even noticing the broken button on the floor. Chuckie nods.

—Okay, Keith, good stuff, why don’t you and Drop head outside and make sure our girl doesn’t have an older brother waiting outside.

D. is insulted.

—Chuckie, man, for real? You don’t have to do that.

The more I analyze the features of Mr. Morphine, the more the webs in my brain clear away. He is familiar and it’s starting to kill me. So, so familiar. But from where? Maybe if I’d had more time, it would have come to me naturally. Instead Chuckie Morphine himself clues me in.

—So, you take my brother’s final exam yet or what?

D. smiles like a lunatic.

—See? I told you, once you met him, you’d understand!

And now I do.

“Chuckie Morphine” is actually Charles Chaykin … brother of Professor Edward Chaykin, my honors lit teacher. As well as D.’s honors lit teacher, from two years back. Chuckie is the “yuppie scum brother” Professor Chaykin refers to in class whenever he goes on a tear about the antimaterialistic Beat poets of the 1950s (his personal heroes). Makes sense and it doesn’t make sense at the same time. I feel like my entire world just tilted a few degrees to the left.

—Come on back, kids. Let’s talk about your little police problem.

Chuckie leads us back, along with two other biker dudes. Along the way D. explains, excitedly, like he’s been bursting to tell me. The whole thing started at a holiday party for honors kids that Chaykin (the professor, not the kingpin) held at his house up in Mt. Airy after finals. (Presumably I’m to receive the same invitation after my lit final this Friday—that is, if his brother doesn’t kill me tonight.) Toward the end of the night, after the crowd had thinned to almost nobody, Professor Chaykin offered a joint to D.; D. took him up on it. One thing led to another and soon D. was scoring from Professor Chaykin, for himself, then for friends, and then at another party the following summer Professor Chaykin introduced D. to his supplier—his brother.

I grab D.’s arm.

—You said nobody knew Chuckie Morphine’s real name.

D. looks at me, half sheepish, half proud.

—I was protecting you.

The three of us sit around a foldout table in the kitchen. The two bikers take up posts at the doorway and a back exit, presumably leading to a tiny yard.

—Cozy, I know, but what can I do?

—I thought this was a party, Chuckie …

—Do you live here, Mr. Chaykin?

—Please, sweetie, call me Chuckie. Mr. Chaykin was my father, and thank fuck that perverted old sadist is buried in de cold, cold ground. Anyway, as to who lives in this domicile, nobody at the moment. So we have it all to ourselves for the time being. And no, Mr. P., I’m not exactly in the mood to party.

—Chuckie’s in real estate. That’s how he—

Chuckie raises a chiding eyebrow at D.

—You sure do like to narrate, don’t you, D. What else did you tell your girlfriend, hmmm?

—Nothing, man! You know that.

—He hasn’t told me anything, Mr. Chaykin.

—What do I have to do for you to call me Chuckie? Take off my shirt and tie, be less formal? Believe me, you don’t want to see that spectacle. I was already fat and sagging the day you were born.

There’s an awkward moment of silence as our eyes flit back and forth. Chuckie’s eyes flit on fast-forward, like he’s trying to take us both in, brain-scan us, analyze us.

—Okay, Serafina Holland, my man here tells me you’re good people. But here’s the weird thing, and maybe you can illuminate some things for us? We heard a rumor that some pretty young Latino girl was busted near Pat’s Steaks on November 27 and subsequently began to work for the Philadelphia Police Department and—

—I’m not—

—Please don’t interrupt me, sweetie, it’s rude. I know you’re working with the PPD. Tall, handsome, and stoned here told me as much. But you’ve been feeding them everybody but me.

D. turns red, won’t look at me. Son of a bitch. He told Chuckie/Chaykin here that I was a CI! Why did he do that?

—D.? What the hell?

D. finally has a mea culpa look in his eye.

—Look, Chuckie can help us, I told you that. That means being completely honest and open with him about—

—You asshole!

—Sarie, seriously, this is the only way we can—

Chuckie tap-tap-taps the table with an oversized gold ring.

—Kids, you can fight later. What I want to know is more about this cop, what’s his name, Wildey—

—Will-dee.

—I’m sorry?

—He pronounces it
will-dee.

—Well, thank you for that, sweetie. It’s always important to know the correct pronunciations of the names of people who wish to prosecute you. Did you know my surname should be pronounced SHAY-kin, as in, what’s shakin’, baby? But everyone does the hard chuh, drives me fuckin’ bonkers. Which is why I go by my admittedly silly alias, which I came up with in Cabo back in eighty-nine … but that’s another story. Back to Will-dee … see, once you point it out, I won’t forget. Will-dee maintains his Gamera-sized hard-on for me and won’t leave you alone, is that it?

—He’s very interested in your business, yes.

—And you’ve told him as little as possible about my business, yes?

—She hasn’t said a thing!

—Hey. Boychik. Shut the fuck up and let the girl answer.

I swallow and empty my bucket. No time for the cray-cray anymore. Now it is time to fill it with 100-proof sincerity.

—He’s right. I haven’t said a thing. I’m working for them but targeting other dealers. I’m doing all this to protect D.

The way D. looks at me when he hears those words—as if he’s just clued into this fact for the very first time.

—Well, let’s be sure about that.

And that’s when the tools come out.

The skunk biker behind me grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks it back. Something cold and sharp touches my neck right below the left earlobe. The biker standing behind D. also grabs a fistful of his hair and jerks back, only he doesn’t have a knife or ice pick or whatever. Instead he’s holding a hammer, wrist slightly turned so that he’ll be able to bring it up and give it a good THWOK at a moment’s notice.

D. doesn’t see this. He’s too busy arguing with Chuckie.

—Chuckie … what the fuck … you said you could help us!

—D., my good friend, for the remainder of this conversation I’d very much like you to shut the fuck up. Now, Ms. Holland, I do apologize for the theatrics but this is business, and sadly, sometimes this is how one must conduct business.

—You don’t have to threaten us!

—Everyone always says that. But the truth is, sweetie, I do. I really do. Just like you felt that you had to do that silly little striptease out there in a vain attempt to build trust between us. But, see, you didn’t just reveal your pert little bosom to me. You revealed a great deal more. You revealed that you’re not the wide-eyed innocent that D. thinks you are. And that worries me. So why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here, Ms. Holland?

I swallow, try to stay calm.

—Just like D. told you, we came here for help.

Chuckie Morphine nods. The fingers in my hair tighten to hold me still and I feel a jab in the side of my neck. I gasp because my skin processes it a second before I do. I’ve been stabbed. This guy stabbed me in the side of the neck. D. bucks in his seat.

—Chuckie you fucking asshole!

Blood trickles down my neck and around my clavicle. Every instinct tells me to twist my head away, but I can’t. My hair is being held in an iron grip. Chuckie leans forward, locks eyes with me.

—Lie to me again and it goes all the way in.

In this moment, Mom, I know things will never be the same, that I will never be the same. Since I got (sort of) arrested I’ve been pretending, just playing a role, telling myself that none of this is permanent. That I can go back to the way things were. But there’s no going back now. I suppose I’ve known that for a while. So I fill Wildey’s proverbial bucket with a few gallons of I Don’t Give A Fuck, the only thing I have left, and dive in.

Despite the hand in my hair and the pointy object at my throat, I narrow my eyes and lean forward a little. Just a fraction of an inch, but I want him to know I’m not afraid.

—You’re afraid they’re coming for you, aren’t you, Chuckie?

His carefully composed face drops a little.

—Afraid? Afraid of who?

—I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about drug gangs getting hit by strike teams. And you’re wondering if I’m the scout dog, sniffing you out, setting you up for an attack.

Chaykin laughs.

—Oh, D., where did you find this one? She’s a scream! Wait; don’t answer that. You’re supposed to be shutting the fuck up. Okay, Ms. Thing … and I can’t believe you’re really going to make me ask the question … but are you the scout dog?

—No.

—But you are a confidential informant for the Philadelphia Police Department.

—Not anymore.

He laughs, but it quickly dies in his throat.

—I’m sorry, what?

—Because now I’m working for you.

The howl of laughter that rolls out of Chuckie’s mouth fills the kitchen and startles all of us, including the guys holding the knives, which is not good. I briefly wonder what the fuck I think I’m doing. I have no secret weapon, no trick to play. I’m winging it. Chuckie’s laughter dies down and he says softly, almost as if muttering to himself:

—Working for me, huh.