Philadelphia Noir

by Carlin Romano

  Nicky drains his drink, and Janet is there with a fresh shaker of Fizz.

  She follows Nicky’s gaze. “Well, that didn’t take you long.”

  Lester Dent lets out an awful laugh as he wraps an arm around Stacy.

  “They are so fucking,” Janet says.

  “No way,” Nicky says.

  “Never underestimate a woman’s love for power and money.”

  Nicky lets his jaw drop in mock astonishment. “Not Stacy Fredericks.” Janet sneaks her shot, and Nicky follows suit with a good slug, secretly eager to get the scoop, egging her on: “She already has power and money.”

  “Especially the ones with power and money, honey,” she says.

  “I guess I’m out of luck,” Nicky says.

  “Hardly, sweetie. You’re cute. Cute trumps everything.”

  She fills his glass, and his heart swells. Still, his eyes return to Stacy Fredericks, who in one splendid motion twists at the waist, finishes her drink, and sets her martini glass on the bar. Before she turns back to the dull network crew, Nicky can swear she locks eyes with him, but his mind is playing tricks, of course. He feels as if he knows her, ever since last year when she spilled her guts at the end of that broadcast, tearing up, still battling a broken heart, she said, grateful for the city’s welcoming embrace. Welcoming embrace, his ass. Still, Nicky fell for the whole bit, hook, line, and sinker. Two divorces. A woman in a man’s business. From the South, no less. He remembered what it was like to be new in the city. He defended her against the cynics who thought the performance a ploy, a false confession, meant to dupe hard-hearted Philadelphians who’d dubbed her Ice Queen.

  After that, Nicky started TiVo-ing the news, fast-forwarding through the Lester Dent parts. He studied her expressions. He imagined her at home with her dogs, kept his eyes out for her on Spring Garden, caught a glimpse of her a few times on the sidewalk, heading from the network building to the parking garage, always appearing sad and alone, despite her buoyant gait, that gleaming smile as she clapped her cell phone shut, the white Land Rover sailing out from the shadows in a kind of triumph over her broken heart—it was all a mask.

  A month ago, when she went national, gushing with Oprah about her abusive deadbeat exes, commiserating about the dearth of men capable of loving a strong woman, it was as if she were appealing directly to him, confessing her shyness, her hope that some such man would emerge from some unlikely place, as Nicky went on hiding in the shadows, his encounters limited to flybys as he hauled a bus tub to the kitchen. And yet, he has always maintained the belief that she could go for a low-life like him—or a nice guy with a shit job and no prospects. After all, her two husbands had been a hack disc jockey and some strapping clod stuck in the minors—not exactly high-class millionaires. In those brushes in the barroom, he swears he sensed a subtle leaning, a longing to shake these studio geeks and let loose.

  “I see you all the time,” she says, the familiar voice electroshock silky in his ear. “I mean, where have I seen you?”

  The majestic swoop of hair falls into view, elbow lands, a finger floats, and now she might as well be slipping into Nicky’s Inquisition Fizz.

  “Yeah,” he says, dizzy, but not stupid-drunk enough to look up and give away his low-class identity too soon. Milk this moment to the end of heaven, he thinks. There’s a part of him—beyond his own shame—that wants to spare the girl her own embarrassing moment when she realizes he’s the busboy on his night off. Still, Stacy Fredericks walked over here on her own, Nicky reminds himself, just as Lester Dent barks, “We’re outta here, Stace,” hovering nearby. “You comin’?”

  Nicky utters, “I see you all the time too,” and in a flash he can hear her glossy grin, smell the metallic glint of her silver-skull earrings, taste the waxy scent of this whole leather masquerade—just as he feels Lester Dent huffing and fleeing into the altered night.

  “1-800-INJURED!” she blurts, and now it’s too late—he’s looking right at her, giving her the full view. “You are everywhere. Oh my God, every SEPTA bus—the billboard on 17th, near the studio.” She smiles, awaiting some confirmation, which Nicky is too stunned to offer. “Stacy Fredericks,” she introduces herself.

  Nicky shakes her hand.

  “You seem surprised. Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you for free legal advice,” she says, beaming. “You must get that all the time.”

  Nicky nods. “I’m not sure I’m the kind of lawyer you need.”

  Her smile sinks.

  “Sorry,” he says. “It was a compliment—a ridiculous one. I just mean you don’t appear to be injured.” There isn’t the slightest thing wrong with her physically. “You’re even more beautiful in person.”

  He’s hit a soft spot, apparently—to think, a blushing anchorwoman. She seems genuinely moved, her hand fluttering at her brow, as if about to swoon.

  “Are you okay?” Nicky says. He feels a rush of confidence. “Here, sit.”

  “Just a little drunk, is all.”

  Nicky offers Stacy the adjacent stool he’s been saving for himself, knowing he’ll have to evacuate the corner spot once Victor arrives—and, speak of the devil, here’s Victor now, an enormous beast of a man in an orange polo shirt, lumbering across the barroom, muttering to himself, it seems, until he adjusts what looks like the chrome husk of a locust in his ear and barks a familiar threat to one of his fourteen managers stationed throughout the city, each prepared for at least one such nightly call—and one such personal visit. Before Nicky can relinquish his seat, Victor is already bearing down on him, stabbing his thumb in the air, delivering his graceless eviction notice.

  “Good boy,” Victor mutters to Nicky, his wad of keys spraying on the bar top. He reaches for the bulging back pocket of his madras pants and plants his sixteen-ounce wallet next to his BlackBerry, which his immense finger resumes pounding.

  Heart in his throat, Nicky rotates and stands, now, over Stacy Fredericks, who doesn’t seem to have heard a thing, and in fact appears charmed by his spontaneous generosity. “A lawyer and a gentleman,” she says—the compliment penetrating like a poisoned arrow.

  Janet delivers Victor’s sparkling water with lime, along with a refill on the Inquisition Fizz and a smirk Nicky can’t help interpreting as more baffled than impressed.

  “I’m done with lawyers, by the way,” Stacy says.

  “I didn’t mean anything by that,” Nicky huffs, trying to forget about Victor, who coughs and growls, his back to the world. Nicky imagines himself mid-flight, roundhouse kick about to split that pumpkin head in two.

  “Divorce lawyers, I mean—though I don’t plan on needing a personal injury lawyer anytime soon either.”

  “Let’s hope not.” Nicky takes a deep breath and tries to mirror Stacy’s smile. “What are you drinking?”

  She shakes her head. “I almost didn’t recognize you with the spiky hair and makeup.”

  Nicky nudges his full glass. “Try mine.”

  Her eyes expand as she sips. “That’s good.”

  There is silence for a moment, and he is spellbound—not just by her obvious beauty, but by her vitality; her luscious flesh, bound in black leather, seems imbued with optimism, her taut skin humming with intelligence. Beyond her, Victor Gold has transformed—Nicky sees him as not just monstrous, but miserable, doomed. A mere minute in the presence of Stacy Fredericks, and for the first time in his life Nicky believes that the world is nothing but what one makes of it, and that he is, or could be, a man of extraordinary potential.

  “So tell me about a case,” she says, setting down the glass, “your most interesting one, or one you’re working on now.”

  “Sure,” he says, with a confidence he doesn’t feel. But then, in a flash, he sees himself at a table with a dozen Amish men in Lancaster County, he in an Armani suit, they in straw hats and beards, all there to discuss a fair settlement on the case of the kid whose head was rammed by the hoof of a horse that smashed through the windshield of his father’s car on a certai
n rainy Wednesday night last March. He paints the picture for Stacy. “See, the Amish don’t buy insurance,” he explains. “They don’t believe in damages for pain and suffering. So I have to go in there and make them understand that this kid was in the hospital for a month with his skull literally sawed off so that his swollen brain could return to its normal size. I show them pictures, and I explain that any jury who saw these pictures would award a million, minimum. I’m asking half a mil. And this old Amish guy starts saying how pain and suffering is part of life, God’s plan for the human race.”

  “This is amazing. They really sawed off his skull? It sounds like a million-dollar case to me.”

  “Problem is,” Nicky says, “the kid’s practically retarded to begin with …”

  On the bar, Nicky’s vibrating cell phone moves in place. He sees that it’s Chris calling, just as Stacy says, “Is that a problem?”

  He should answer the phone, tell Chris he’s ready to be his own man—or that he’s not ready, that he’s a hopeless case after all.

  “I mean, isn’t that good for your case?” she asks. “Doesn’t that add sympathy, if he’s, you know, mentally challenged?” She’s looking at him as if he has something to say worth listening to.

  “See, you have to prove real loss,” he says.

  Stacy sips, her eyes unflinching. “The whole thing is unbelievable. I could never do what you do.”

  Again, Nicky’s cell phone vibrates. He turns it to silent mode.

  “So I say to the father, ‘Go get your son,’ and at first he refuses, but then he comes back in twenty minutes with his kid, who’s smart enough to know he can’t fake being stupid. So we’re all standing there, and I ask the kid, ‘Who’s the president of the United States?’ and the kid just stares at me, clueless. Then I ask the kid, ‘Who’s the football team in Philadelphia?’ and the kid says, ‘Eagles!’ I say, ‘Who’s the quarterback of the Eagles?’ and the kid says, ‘Donovan McNabb!’ and I say, ‘That’s right.’ The old Amish guy interrupts and says, ‘We don’t know football. We wouldn’t know if these are the correct answers or not. What does any of this prove?’” Nicky stops. He can’t remember where his brother was heading with all of this.

  “So?”

  “So? Well, I say, ‘You’re right. They are the right answers, Mr. Stoltzfus, and what it proves is that I’m not a liar, and I’m not lying when I tell you that this case is worth at least the half-million we’re asking for, because your horse went through this man’s windshield and his son was in the hospital for a month with his skull sawed off so that his brain could return to normal—and it’s only right that your people take responsibility for what happened.’”

  Stacy is grinning, anticipating the jackpot finish. Nicky wishes that there were more to the story—or that he could remember the rest of it. He remembers Chris explaining how the Amish collected the money from the community, how, when Chris asked why they didn’t buy insurance, the old Amish guy told him, We believe in two things: God and each other.

  “So did you win?”

  “Yeah,” he blurts, takes a deep breath. “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

  The bluish face of Nicky’s phone lights up a third time.

  “Someone’s trying to track you down,” Stacy says.

  “My brother,” Nicky says, shaking his head. He turns the phone over.

  “You have a brother?”

  Nicky goes silent, his thoughts tangled.

  “Older or younger?” She’s nearly finished the drink. She offers him the rest before polishing it off.

  “Younger.”

  “Is he as cute as you?”

  Behind her, Victor Gold sets his glass down. The drone of his furious rattle goes on. Stacy seems suddenly flushed again, perhaps embarrassed for her compliment, which has gone unanswered. Nicky wants to say something, but he’s lost in the space of her exposed neck, pinkish in the shadow of her flared collar.

  “Is everything all right?” she says.

  “Of course, no, it’s fine,” he stutters. “My brother, that’s all. He’s, uh, he’s a bit of a fuckhead. Good-looking, yes, cute, handsome as hell, actually, but a fuckhead. He calls a lot—or I call him, check in on him a lot, make sure he’s not doing anything stupid.” He can hear his brother’s sympathetic voice in his own, and he chokes up. “A man needs to move forward in life. He doesn’t get it.”

  “I’m sorry. You want to call him back? I don’t mind—”

  “No, no. He’s just—it’s hard to explain—or, it’s actually kind of easy to explain. He smokes a lot of weed and has a shitty job. That’s his life. He wasn’t always that way. He was a good kid, smart. He could have been whatever he wanted. And then my mom died, and then a few years ago my dad shot himself. And he just stopped. And started being a fuckhead. I’m afraid, you know …”

  Victor Gold hisses, “Fucking shit,” as he rises from his stool and heads for the kitchen, his shoulder brushing Nicky’s.

  Stacy says, “I’m so sorry,” and bows her head into her hand. Nicky is surprised by this sudden display of pity. She reaches for his elbow, offers her tenderness, which is not for him, Nicky understands, but for Chris, who must endure the burden of this faceless brother.

  Nicky contemplates the empty stool, the brazenly discarded items on the bar.

  He wants to fly from his body. He doesn’t want to be Chris or Victor—just anyone but himself, anyone but the fucked-up son of the ultimate fuck-up.

  “You want to go?” he says.

  She takes his arm and the moment they hit the sidewalk takes his face into her hands. “I’m so, so sorry,” she says.

  “Fuck it,” he mumbles to himself, just as he spots the yellow car whose insides glow when he presses the button on the key he’s aiming toward the street, the silver bunch jangling.

  On cue, she turns. “Is that your Maserati?”

  They drift toward the brightness under the canopy of birches across the street.

  “You have to let me drive,” she says, beaming now.

  With a last glance back, he says, “Why not?”

  Inside, he imagines the two of them united on a mission to create some new future for themselves. Her smile grows increasingly luminescent, as if draining the light from the overhead lamp. They are ensconced in black leather. As she feels for the ignition, he taps his foot, glares out the window. He flicks open the glove compartment to find the mother lode of dope, rolling papers and all, sealed in a Ziploc bag. At first he doesn’t recognize the blunt silver barrel of a gun, until he reaches for the twinkling Zippo and a finger hooks the trigger guard.

  The engine rumbles. The glove compartment door clicks shut. Stacy leans forward, then settles back with arms outstretched and hands gripping the wheel. With a few deft, seemingly practiced maneuvers, she manages to exit the curbside spot and enter the open lane, which appears, in a suspended moment of pure potential, to lead straightaway toward a positively magnificent, if shadowy, future, lined with inferior automobiles.

  There is an explosion of force, and they are sailing forward. It is not long before the car veers vaguely right and Nicky leans left, as if to counteract this unfortunate detour. A faint, feminine yelp—followed by the snap, like a mushroom cap, of a sideview mirror—signals the beginning of the end.

  The rest feels patently catastrophic, these seconds an eternity of unending metallic screeching. It is as if Nicky is poised at the crotch of a giant zipper, its teeth off kilter, some stubborn force willing these two discordant halves to unite, only so that they can be free of each other once and for all. It makes no sense that they haven’t yet come to a stop, in spite of this ribcurling resistance. How many have they already sideswiped? Three? Ten? She must be gassing it, in spite of the mounting disaster, as if to race toward the inevitable, or from it.

  At last, they have come to the T at the end of the road, an instinctive foot on a brake, with the help of the curb, having saved them from the profile of the oblivious brownstone straight ahead. They are heav
ing in unison, taking in the common air. “I’m bleeding.” Her eyes are locked on her reflection in the rearview mirror. She dabs a fingertip to her forehead. Outside, the world has stopped, while inside, their hearts and thoughts become entwined in mutual terror—albeit born of independent fears.

  “I can’t get a D.U.I.,” she utters.

  “I have to go back,” he says.

  The sidewalks are empty, the windows of the surrounding houses dark or, if lit, free of shadows.

  “I make $750,000 a year.” She seems to be in a trance. “I’m the lead anchor on a major network in the fourth largest market in the country.” She sets her hollow gaze on Nicky and asks, apparently in earnest, “What the fuck am I thinking?” After a pause, she screams, “I’m asking you! What the fuck am I doing here?”

  “In Philly, you mean?”

  “No! With you! Here! Now! Why do I keep letting asshole men ruin my life?”

  “I don’t know,” Nicky says. “Just—go.”

  In this merciful moment in time, there is no one in sight, not even through the rear windshield.

  “What do you mean?” Her voice softens. “Walk away?”

  “Run.” He means it. “I’ll take the heat. Forget this. Me.”

  Her lips quiver. She blinks out waves of tears that tumble down her cheeks. It’s too late. In the distance, light spills from doorways, onto stoops, as slumped silhouettes make their way toward the wreckage.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean what I said—about you.”

  “Get in the back,” he hisses.

  Her grace has returned. She understands the plan. In one swift, elegant gymnastic feat, she becomes one with the leather, heaving herself through the narrow gap between seats, hips twisting, legs and heels and toes all pointed in their mission to clear the way for Nicky, who with undramatic haste removes them from the scene of the crime.

  Even in these dark streets, there is no way for this car to be discreet. Curious, envious eyes flash from the sidewalk, as Nicky wraps around a corner or two before quietly pulling over.