Hiding Among the Dead

by Chris Bauer

  Finished, she wiped off her mask with an enzyme-treated rag, lifted the mask above her head, and sat on a lounge chair she’d covered with heavy plastic. Her phone gave her the time: one twenty-two a.m. One more task, then she could pack up the rest of her things and leave. It was something she’d decided to do for herself at this and future jobs until further notice; an outcome of her ogling the Blessid Trauma website.

  The sauna interior, top to bottom, was finished cedar—walls, ceiling, and raised floorboards resembling shipping pallets, cut to fit the space. Underneath the pallets were layers of flooring: vinyl, then hardwood, then brick, a drain passing through all of it. She knew the floor’s constitution because she’d tugged a corner of it up, because this was where all liquids settled at a crime scene. Here one would find the human sweat, the blood, and the other body refuse, all of it going layers-deep if left to fend for itself, becoming a longer-term biohazardous nightmare. Cleaners who knew their stuff would clean the drain plus dig deep into the flooring to solution the biohazard, sometimes even carve out and remove the underlayment if necessary. Whatever service the cops or a homeowner would use to clean up this toxic space, to do it right, the cleaner would need to pull apart the floor and clean all layers containing seepage. This was where she left the message. She’d do it again at future sites—some crime scenes meant to be discovered, some not—expecting at some point that one cleaning service in particular would be assigned one of the jobs. The website info, about the personal trauma this Patrick-Stakes-from-Alaska young man had experienced, hadn’t flipped the switch for her, but his warrior dance at the car dealership had.

  She’d seen the celebration before, a haka at a graduation event for US military training, in Hawaii.

  The kid was Hawaiian, also might be a soldier, and was apparently unaware of either of those facts.

  The bag with the reconfigured maid stuffed inside was heavy. A muscle in Kaipo’s back grabbed as she dragged the luggage piece step by step up to the first floor. She returned to the basement for the second bag and one last look inside the sauna, for a confirmation about the victim.

  She lifted his head. Asian, with a hooked nose, tanned face, moussed hair and a mustache.

  Oh my.

  Here was her off-stage admirer from the Chinese restaurant tonight, the one who watched her eat her dessert. Another mob contractor who wanted her to do for him what she did exclusively for his and her mob bosses. She could have gone for a guy like this. Attractive, and for him to be such a great dessert artist, he was probably a good cook as well. A pity.

  Out of her biohazard overalls, she now appeared as she’d originally entered the house, a professional woman in a skirted business suit. Kaipo slid the suitcases out the door, locked up, and returned the key to the lockbox.

  A glance left then right, then she started her trek back up Elfreth’s Alley. New snow had fallen. She retrieved her phone, stopping to key her parting cryptic “all-clear” message to Olivier. A hesitation before she sent it, discomfort, again, from a sixth sense.

  She turned in time to catch someone standing under a streetlamp half a block away, where Elfreth’s Alley ended at an intersection. He danced from foot to foot, tamping the snow while keeping warm, watching her, her studying him as intently as she would a painting. Behind him a SEPTA bus slowed while driving past. She heard the wheels squeal when its breaks engaged as it neared the corner. Her admirer hurried off, the bus doors wheezing open then snapping close.

  She couldn’t give chase on foot, her baggage the reason, but she might cruise the streets a bit in her van in search of that bus. She’d been seen leaving a job. This would need to be addressed.

  15

  Tonight at her condo apartment in Conshohocken, Lola had been crazy-nice to Philo sexually, even after he’d been preoccupied and again less than attentive to her during their lovemaking. Then he announced his news: he was making himself scarce for a bit; Blessid Trauma was about to get very busy.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, slipped on some panties and a sleeveless white tee and left the bedroom, headed for her kitchen at the end of the hall. The kitchen light went on.

  “It’s temporary,” he called after her. “I’ll be off-grid a coupla weeks, three weeks tops. They released Grace Blessid from the hospital, but she’s still out of commission.”

  Philo knew Lola couldn’t care less how shorthanded Grace’s illness made him. She’d heard too much about the Gore Whore’s affliction already.

  A kitchen cabinet closed, not softly. A ceramic mug kissed the granite countertop with equal gusto, then he heard dripping coffee, then nothing. She’d gone cold, had tuned him out and slipped into the now-quiet midnight recess of her kitchen. Her Zippo lighter snapped open, flicked once, and snapped shut. If she was smoking, she was thinking. About him and her. Her, with him. Them as a couple. Life, and love, and sharing, and other deep thoughts, which meant he was fucked.

  It was the new project. His plea to her had been for understanding, that the project would demand all his attention. An old grain elevator on a pier near the Navy Yard in South Philadelphia was scheduled for demolition, but it needed biohazard curing beforehand. Blessid Trauma did deals like this before, was accredited to prepare smaller warehouses and corner stores for repurposing when property titles changed hands, but never a deal this large. Lola’s rebuttal, a repeat of every past conversation they’d had about his busy schedule, was she was plenty busy too, with her high-profile legal career, and she was tired of being an afterthought.

  Grain elevators at waterfront docks were a simple concept. Buckets scooped up large quantities of loose grain at pier level, ran the grain up a conveyor, and deposited it into silos multiple stories high, ready for redistribution inland. This one elevator was last operational in the midnineties: six above-ground levels, one below, over one hundred eighty feet tall and backing up to the Delaware River, the rubble surrounding it making the multi-acre property appear post-apocalyptic.

  Implosion of the building was scheduled for late April. Biohazard remediation would prevent a repeat of the disastrous 1956 explosion and fire that destroyed another Tidewater Grain Company grain elevator, one that was next to the Schuylkill River. Philo researched it. The force of that blast was the equivalent of eleven hundred pounds of dynamite, and required six alarms plus fireboat support. Three dead, eighty-five injured. The blast and fire rocked block after block of downtown Philadelphia, and was felt miles away in the suburbs. The cause: grain dust, which was highly explosive. The summer after the blast and the fire, a small crop of corn grew out of the ashes, nature’s response to the disaster, a bit like stuffing daisies into soldiers’ rifles.

  A casino consortium planned to develop the property on the waterfront. A demolition company had the contract to implode the building, and they in turn subcontracted to feeder outfits like rubble removers, metal and wood recyclers, and Philo’s biohazard restitution company, Blessid Trauma.

  He’d waited to fess up to the project until after their Friday-night lovemaking, his timing more from procrastination than self-interest. Regardless, she had to hear it tonight. He didn’t tell her, couldn’t tell her, the more significant reason for his limited availability: that he’d decided to fight bare-knuckles again, and he needed to train. She was an assistant district attorney in the Philadelphia DA’s office; she couldn’t be party to it, bare-knuckles boxing being illegal and all.

  The grain elevator demolition was undeniably real, now part of the local news cycle. Needing help for the massive remediation job was also real. The part about needing to work twenty-four seven, with little time for recreation, that too was true, but it was also an excuse. After busting his ass all day on what he knew would be a monster of a project, Philo would need to go to a gym to reawaken his boxing appetite, to get his game face on; to resurrect and sharpen dormant skills, and focus on Wally Lanakai’s fifty-thousand-dollar proposition.

  The Hawaiian mobster put his underground promo machine in motion quick
ly, locally and internationally, and was honoring Philo’s request that he make the fight sooner rather than later. It was set for a Saturday night in early April, three weeks from tomorrow. In pro boxing, this was almost too short a notice for getting into fighting shape. Not so for bare-knuckles matches, where training for your next fight was often the number of minutes your previous fight had lasted. Three weeks’ notice was a palatable luxury—but only for someone who fought a lot more recently than fifteen years ago.

  He’d already heard rumblings about the fight at a few watering holes in South Philly and the Mayfair section of Northeast Philly, and was proud of himself for keeping his identity and his ego out of the conversations. The bar chatter had been entertaining, warts and all:

  “Undefeated Northeast bare-knuckle brawler. Fucker’s coming out of retirement.”

  “The kid rose from the ashes of 9-11, been out there executing ragheads in the Middle East, now he’s back.”

  “…doesn’t stand a chance. Fifteen years since he was last in the game? No fucking chance.”

  There was a convenience to the excuse part. Philo wanted a break. From being a couple with Lola; from Lola and the phenom she herself was becoming.

  Lola Pfizer. Probably the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he was blowing her off. An incredible mind with a hot-shit legal career. A stunning redhead, other physical gifts as well. A bundle of energy in bed, a dynamo on the local scene, and a woman who’d make a fine politician one day, her associates kept telling her, and that was the problem. She was listening to these people, and Philo had never met a politician he didn’t want to punch in the throat.

  She was wise beyond her years, too, and wise way beyond Philo’s, even though he was older than her by almost a decade. She knew what this temporary absence thing meant for their relationship better than he did.

  He pulled up his jeans, climbed into his sweater, and found her in the kitchen, still chilling. It was nearing one a.m. She lit another cigarette then sipped coffee at her center island, contemplating her mug, a spotlight illuminating her hands. The cigarette went to an ashtray, the smoke swirling before her faraway eyes. She ignored his entrance, played with her lighter, snapping it open and closed, open and closed, until he spoke.

  “Lola, honey.”

  He told her more. How he would need to scramble, might even need to parcel out some of the work to other biohazard companies, or at least add some help. That the project was dangerous, and it was making him anxious, and people were counting on him, and he was feeling a lot of pressure, and yada yada yada. The more he added, the more he sounded uncomfortable as hell about…something. Lola knew it, and he knew she knew.

  “Methinks,” she said, “the weasel doth protest too much. I’ve had enough of this.” She flicked her cigarette lighter on, eyed the flame. “So here’s another thought. Why don’t you go set your dick on fire and feed it to your cat.”

  “Lola, please…”

  “Just get out.”

  “Look—honey—”

  “Leave your key then get the fuck out, Philo. We’re done.”

  She tossed her Zippo onto the granite top, put out her cigarette in the mug, and left the kitchen. At the end of the hall, she closed her bedroom door.

  On his way home in his Jeep, he turned off his phone. Just how screwed up was he, not wanting to get too close? Not wanting emotional attachments, with women, men, kids, anyone, except maybe his father, now that his father was gone. And his cat.

  Cats were resilient. Survivors. Which made a cat less likely to get croaked if it were in his company, nine lives and all, and less dependent on him. If, or more like when, his military past caught up with him, if he didn’t get close to other people, other people wouldn’t die. He wasn’t screwed up, he was being practical. And being practical meant he’d miss out on some things, like healthy relationships.

  He was getting maudlin about being maudlin. He chose an easier topic to stress about: the Lanakai fight.

  Wally Lanakai said he’d let Philo select the fight venue. Earlier today, the mobster sent him a text to let him know he’d scoped out Philo’s choice, the grain elevator.

  Dangerous. Just like my fighter. I like it.

  Location, location, location, convenient by air, land, and the Delaware River. Philo and the Blessid team would clean the grain elevator during the day, plus work other projects as required. Philo would personally head back to the silo at night to further prepare the place. It wouldn’t take much. The bottom floor, where they’d hold the fight, was perfect, closed in from the elements and from prying eyes by heavy tarpaulins, and accessorized by jobsite lighting hanging from the ceiling. He’d begin prep shortly, to accommodate the anticipated small, select crowd of bloodthirsty fight fans who typically showed for these spectacles. Maybe fifty folks or so, there to watch two bare-fisted fools wail on each other for four minutes, five minutes tops, his goal, his intended outcome being him standing over a horizontal opponent, telling him he’d be better off if he didn’t try to return to his feet. Also, as an expected outcome, and supremely important: two healthy lungs for Grace Blessid. Oh, and a fifty-thousand-dollar purse for him.

  Two a.m. now, and the lateness of the hour might let him drift asleep more easily. His Jeep coasted down the back alley to the rear of his house and entered his short driveway. On the walk to the back door, he turned on his phone.

  Messages. He scrolled through the numbers, listened to the first few words of each until he got to the call from Detective Ibáñez, the close-talker. A few of the words in her message made him take notice: “significant meat value.” He replayed it, listening more intently the second time.

  “Rhea Ibáñez, Northeast Detectives. About that photo of the door at the abandoned dealership. I have info I can share, but only in return for your feedback on a week-old crime scene the Sixth District is working. Significant meat value. Call me in the morning.”

  Her word selection was calloused and inappropriate as hell, but she’d sized him up correctly as someone who didn’t wilt easily. The Sixth District wasn’t hers, was downtown, encompassing Independence Mall, the Liberty Bell, and Old City.

  Tough little fresh-faced bruiser, this detective was, with language that made her sound so…practical. He could use practical right about now. He’d call her back in the morning.

  16

  “Ibáñez, Northeast Detectives.”

  She related her request: Philo should meet her early afternoon in the Sixth District office on North Eleventh street in Old City. She’d take him to a crime scene remedied by another service, he’d see some pictures, then he’d tell her what he saw.

  “If you’re planning to eat lunch before we meet, Mr. Trout, don’t.”

  Philo’s next call before his trip downtown was to get a certain ball rolling, to coordinate it with his visit into the city with Detective Ibáñez. The good news was, the phone number he dialed, a landline, was still in service after fifteen years, but the bad news was it wasn’t getting picked up, and it wasn’t going to voicemail. After ten rings or so, his patience paid off.

  “Hello,” a male voice said, followed by a guttural, phlegmy clearing of throat. “Fargas here.”

  Still alive. Excellent. “Hump. It’s Philo Trout. Long time no talk.”

  “I don’t know no Philo nobody. I’m hanging up now.”

  Benito Fargas, father to Chuckie Fargas, Philo’s former manager/promoter, may Chuckie rest in peace. Benito was “Hump” to people in the fight game. On the phone now, his grunting response sounded grumpier than a bear poked with a stick. One concern Philo had was, at Hump’s age the denial of familiarity might not have been an act.

  “No, Hump, wait. How about ‘Buick’ Temple? Remember him? Went about two-sixty? I kayoed him in fifteen seconds, Vogt Rec Center, Northeast Philly, early 2001. And Daniel Dorian Gray, two forty, thirty seconds, Saint Martin de Tours Church basement, New Hope. Or cruiserweight contender Oleander Clarke. Less than two minutes at the Saint Louis Armory,
just before 9-11, before he turned pro—”

  “Fine. So it’s the prodigal Philo Trout. Quite a surprise, son, considering you’re dead. You died in Turkey.”

  “Funny. I heard the same about you, but on a beach in Tahiti.”

  “Then someone didn’t hear so good. I was on a bitch in Tijuana, heh-heh. Yeah, a real heart attack, that woman. How the hell are you, Philo?”

  Chiding Hump Fargas for his insensitivities toward women would have been a waste of time, and lately, who was Philo to cast stones? He really should have stayed in touch after the fight fifteen years ago, felt super bad about it now. Hump lost his son twice because of it, the first when Chuckie bolted, the second time with no chance of a father-son reconciliation, considering Lanakai’s people had found Chuckie first.

  “I’m doing well, Hump. You?”

  “I’m seventy-eight and I piss thirty times a day, but there’s still some major lead down there. Doing my best to fuck myself dead, Philo. If I have my way, it’ll still happen.”

  The stories about Hump and women, and him telling boxers to stay away from their girlfriends while training for fights, because having sex weakened an athlete’s legs: Hump swore he personally started that infamous rumor, just so he could have all the women to himself.

  “A favor, Hump,” Philo said. “I’ve got an engagement in two weeks and I need somewhere to work out. A place with equipment where I can train, alone. Any suggestions?”

  “Shit, man, you fighting again? Damn. Numero uno bare knuckler, making a comeback. Ha! ‘I’ve got an engagement,’ he says. What, your blue collar’s all worn out, so now you talking like you’re corporate? You’re fucking killing me, Philo. ‘An engagement’? Fucking funny.”

  “It’s not a comeback, Hump. Relax. It’s one fight.”