Canary (36 page)

After endless freezing blocks forever, clutching my purse close to my side, I reach Chuckie Morphine’s little drug house. The lights are out; there’s a strong chance the place is already abandoned. And I’ll knock and no one will answer and I’ll freeze to death out here.

But Chuckie promised … so I knock, timidly at first, and then I pound as hard as I can. Doesn’t matter; my hands are so cold they feel like they’re on fire.

To my astonishment, someone answers. It’s Keith, the biker thug guy who punctured my neck. Only now he’s lost the leather jacket in favor of a puffy parka and a pair of dad jeans.

—Oh, it’s you.

—I n-need to see Ch-Chuckie.

My teeth chatter like a piano trill. I don’t know if I’m hyperventilating because of my near-death experience or the walk. Either way, I’m a cold mess. Keith, with the skunk hair, just stares at me, unable to make up his mind. I take a step closer, hoping to feel just a little bit of the warmth inside.

—Please, it’s fucking f-freezing out here.

—Chuckie’s not here.

—He’s going to want to hear what I have to say.

There’s another decade of indecision until he finally says, yeah, okay, then steps out of the way. I have never been so glad to enter a house, even if it does belong to a drug kingpin. The place is unheated but feels to me like the dead center of a pizza oven. I rub my hands, purse tucked under my arm, as Keith makes a call to Chuckie.

—Uh-huh … Yeah, I’m right in the middle of that … Uh-huh … Just now … Yeah … You sure? She says she has something important for you to hear … Okay … Right on.

Keith looks at me with weariness in his eyes.

—He says whatever it is, you can tell me.

—No. That’s not the deal. I tell him directly.

—He’s not coming down here, and I’m not taking him to you.

—And I want to see D. first.

Keith sighs, which pisses me off. Like I’m some big inconvenience? What other pressing business does he have here, sitting in a dark, empty, unheated house in the middle of South fuckin’ Philly?

—I’m not going anywhere until I do. And you can tell your boss that.

Keith’s shoulders sag, as if he’s the most put-upon drug underling ever. But there’s a cold gleam in his eye, too.

—You want to see your boyfriend? I’ll take you to see him.

—Good.

—Follow me.

—Wait, he’s here?

I follow Keith down a set of wooden stairs into a basement, but a cold, hard ball of ice is forming in my guts. Part of me is starting to understand what I’m about to see—but the other part of me doesn’t believe it. The part of me that is screaming at me WRONG MOVE WRONG MOVE WRONG MOVE. I reach into my purse and pull out the dull black gun I took from Peter D’Argenio.

A few steps down and I see it, in the middle of the basement floor: an icy-blue tarp covering something vaguely human-shaped. Oh God, let this be my imagination. Next to it are chunks of foundation concrete that were presumably chopped away to expose the dirt beneath. A sack of mortar mix, a mixing pan, and a trowel. Please don’t let this be what I think it is …

I point the Glock at Keith, who’s a few steps below me.

—What’s under that tarp?

Keith stops, turns around, looks up, sees the gun, smiles.

—How about you put that thing down, honey.

—Tell me what’s under there.

—I don’t know. What do you think it is?

—Tell me or I’ll shoot you right now, I swear to Christ!

Keith puts his hands up. There’s a small plastic bag in his right hand with something wadded up inside. More of his plan becomes clear. Shit, he’s not even trying to hide it.

—You didn’t actually think Chuckie was gonna let you live, did you? He was playing around with you two, figuring maybe he’d score some info. But you were never gonna walk away from this. You have to know that, right?

—This is your last chance.

—I’ll tell you one thing. Your boyfriend did the full-court press for you. Begging, pleading, offering to spend years working it off, all just to let you walk away. When that didn’t work, he tried to split. And that’s how he ended up down here.

—No.

—Yeah. And the same thing’s gonna happen to you.

That last word is still coming out of Keith’s mouth as he lunges up the stairs for me.

I squeeze the trigger. There’s a click but nothing happens. Fuck! No, no, no, this can’t be happening.

I stumble backwards. My ass hits the wooden edge of a step. Keith pounds up the stairs so hard I can feel them shaking. He’s about to grab my arms when I scream and pull the trigger again. This time there’s a loud bang. I’m not even aiming, but the front of Keith’s face explodes.

His body tumbles backwards, down the stairs.

I wait until I’m sure he won’t move ever again. Then I pull myself up, using the rail. I’m shivering so hard it’s almost like I’m on the verge of an out-of-body experience, and any second my soul is going to be flung away like a kid from a carousel. Somehow I force my legs to cooperate. Down a step. Down a step. Down a step. I step over Keith’s body and move closer to the tarp. The hole next to it isn’t six feet, but deep enough. When I crouch down I’m surprised to see the dull black gun is still in my hand. I reach out with my other hand. The surface of the tarp is rough and cold.

I’m crying by the time I lift the edge and pull it back.

I am no longer Sarie Holland.

I am Confidential Informant #137.

Confidential Informant #137 walks through the snow-and-ice-covered streets of South Philly in numb shock. She doesn’t remember leaving the house or the route she takes. Streets go by in a blur. She’s not supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be on a sunny California college campus, not in a neighborhood where people bury other people in basements. Even the weather conspires against you in a neighborhood like this—the narrow blocks, the biting wind, the broken street lamps. You could lose yourself forever in here. There is no escape. There is only temporary refuge.

So CI #137 takes it when she sees it. She wanders into a corner bar, Dugan’s Den, which is only half full. She takes a stool. The bartender is a blonde with frizzy hair, probably a young grandmother, still doing her makeup like it’s the 1980s. Maybe CI #137 will be carded and kicked back out into the cold.

—What can I get ya, hon?

CI #137 orders a Diet Coke. The bartender nods, asks if she wants to see a menu. She declines, not even sure how she’s going to pay for the soda. No purse, no phone, no car keys, no identification, no nothing. But it’s good to be out of the cold, even for a few minutes.

One thing she knows: She can’t go home. Because the death that is stalking her will follow her there, and she can’t do that to her father and brother. So what now? What’s your move, snitch? Call the police?

—Here you go, hon. Sure you don’t want something to eat?

CI #137 shakes her head.

She keeps things basic. She soaks up the warmth of the bar. Listens to the Dr. Dog song blaring in the background. Takes tiny sips of Diet Coke, trying to make it last. The longer it lasts, the longer she can sit here, among the living. The guys in the bar steer clear, as if they can tell she’s doomed by just looking at her. Every guy but one.

—Hey. Mind if I join you?

When CI #137 turns to see who’s speaking, her body goes numb. Fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s the guy from the mafia kill building—the thug who was supposed to “do her.” Now he’s sitting right next to her, within immediate strangling/stabbing/shooting range. Looks like CI #137 is not going to survive this neighborhood after all.

The stool groans as he eases his weight onto it.

—Hell of a night, huh.

CI #137 didn’t get a good look at him in the kill room. Out there he was just the two-legged embodiment of bloody murder—your prototypical goon, thug, bruiser. But now sitting just a barstool away, his face in profile, she notices the nose, hooked like a hawk’s. His eyes, though, are softer and kinder than she remembers. Maybe that’s how Death works. Charms you a little before snatching away your soul.

CI #137 takes a sip of her soda and asks quietly, calmly:

—Are you going to kill me.

A statement more than a question.

—Are you actually daring me to kill you? Hah! Or whatever it was you said. Best line I’ve ever heard! Anyway, what are you drinking?

CI #137 tells him. The bruiser makes a sour face, then says we can’t do that. The night they’ve had, they need a real drink, the best bourbon a place like this has to offer. Which turns out to be Wild Turkey, neat. He orders two, slides one over my way.

—How did you find me?

—Well, I know you didn’t go straight to the cops, because after I strangled Little Pete to death, I sat there for a good long while, waiting for the law to show up.

—You … you killed him?

—Long story. No, actually, it’s a short story. He was an asshole. Fuck him. Whatever. I’m over it. Back to you. Once I realized you didn’t call the law, I figured you’d be out here somewhere. So I went looking for you.

CI #137 takes a moment (and another sip) while she digests this information. Something doesn’t add up.

—So your random search of South Philly brought you to this bar?

—Well … no. I saw you truckin’ down Two Street like your pants were on fire. I couldn’t figure out how to stop you without you screaming or freaking out, and before I knew it you went into that house on Vernon Street. I thought about knocking, but then you came out looking like a zombie. So I followed you here. Figured you wouldn’t freak out as much in a public place. And by the way, thank you for not freaking out in a public place.

CI #137 takes a sip of Diet Coke, ignores the booze. The bruiser knocks back his Wild Turkey, shrugs, then does hers and orders another. The rest of the bar ignores them. Probably figure it’s some father-daughter shit and none of them want to get involved in something like that.

—So if you aren’t going to kill me, why did you follow me?

—I’ll explain that in a minute. But can I ask something first?

—What?

—Your name.

Confidential Informant #137 tells the bruiser her name, her real name, figuring, What does it matter now? She’s been outed. The bruiser, in turn, shares his real name (Richie), as well as his nickname (Ringo) and its origin (his nose). She tells the bruiser he doesn’t look like a Beatle at all. The bruiser seems to appreciate that. They agree to call each other by their birth names. Richie orders another Wild Turkey. CI #137 orders another Diet Coke and a bag of potato chips.

—Serafina … that really is a beautiful name, by the way … okay, here’s what I’m guessing, and correct me if I’m wrong. But you’re a snitch, right?

—I prefer canary.

Richie allows a sly smile to sneak out.

—Okay, Lady Canary. But you do have a deal with the cops, right? Don’t answer. I’m gonna assume you do. In fact, I’m counting on it. Because, you know, killing a guy like Little Pete isn’t something that’s easily forgiven. I’m pretty much fucked sideways, and my only way out is through immunity. So I’m hoping you’ll bring me to your cop. Let me make a deal, too. Maybe you’d put in a good word for me, how I helped you and stuff?

CI #137 knows there is no “deal” to be had. Wildey fucked her over, left me for dead. But the neighborhood is cruel and cold and

CI #137 could very much use a friend.

Death can go fuck itself—CI #137 wants to live.

Strike that—I want to live.

I want to punish the motherfuckers who killed D.

I want to hurt the police for what they did to me.

And you can’t do that dead.

I drain the rest of my Diet Coke and turn on my stool to face my new best friend.

—Are you hungry, Richie?

He smiles.

—Starving. But the food here is crap. C’mon, my truck’s down the street.