by M. C. Grant
“What are you on?” I ask.
“Life, baby doll,” she answers, her voice growing distant and dreamy.
“How’d you pay for it?”
She licks her lips. “Got gum?”
“Christ, did you share a needle with someone? Are you out of your goddamned mind? What would Bailey say?”
“Where is she?” Roxanne asks, twisting her head to take in the Bug’s cramped interior. “Where’s my sister?”
“I don’t know,” I snap.
“You were supposed to get her.”
“I know. I failed.”
Roxanne’s lip curls into a snarl, but she can’t maintain it. Her words slur. “Where ish she then?”
I shake my head and start the engine. “I’ll find out,” I say.
“Yeah.” She reclines her chair and closes her eyes. “You d’tha.”
I pull into traffic, wondering when a simple FOKing story had taken such a wrong turn.
I leave Roxanne buckled and oblivious in the passenger seat as I plug the parking meter and dart across the street to Mario’s Deli. Wherever the heroin is taking her mind, it left her body behind.
Inside the deli, Mario takes one look at me and suggests a cinnamon raisin bagel with plain cream cheese and large coffee with an added double shot of espresso. The drink is called Two Shots in the Dark, which seems apropos.
“I look that bad, huh?” I ask.
“You are such a beauty,” he says with honey on his tongue, “you could never look less than angelic. But a little sugar, some wholesome fiber, and a jolt of caffeine will bring the light back to your eyes.”
How can I not smile in response to a line like that?
“Sounds perfect.”
Mario grins and gets to work on my order.
At the red vinyl booth in the back, Eddie the Wolf is gnawing on a hangnail while still operating his laptop one-handed. I slide in across from him.
“Working on a remix?” I ask. “I saw a great one the other day that an engineer from PBS did. He turned some old Mr. Rogers clips into a great song called ‘Garden of Your Mind’. Best use of Auto-Tune I’ve heard. And if you know anything about me, you know I despise Auto-Tune.”
Eddie stops chewing on his nail and stares at me through wrinkled, narrow slits that remind me of newborn mice.
“Every time, you confuse me,” he says. “Was what you just said even in English?”
I wink. “More like Geeklish.”
“Ah. I don’t speak that.”
I glance at his laptop and array of smartphones. “Why don’t I believe you?”
He frowns. “You want to place a bet?”
“Actually, I need some help.”
“Try Craigslist. It’s very good.”
“This is more specific.”
“I’m just a humble bookie.”
“Yeah, and I make Beyoncé look homely.”
“Again with the Geeklish?”
Mario brings my order to the table. “Don’t let him fool you,” he says. “I’ve seen him rock out to ‘Single Ladies.’”
Mario and I share a grin, but Eddie doesn’t join in. I take a gulp of my coffee and feel a layer of skin peel off my tongue. It’s exactly what I need.
“I’ve been hearing about you,” says Eddie, growing tired of the silence as I shove pieces of warm bagel into my mouth. “You are swimming with sharks, and there’s blood in the water.”
“And?” I prod.
“In a horse race between you and the Russian, you would not leave the gate. Hell, you wouldn’t even make it out of the stables.”
“Good thing I’m a gambler then, and not a pragmatist.”
This time, Eddie’s eyes dance despite the lack of curvature on his lips. “What kind of help do you seek?” he asks.
“Red Swan has a friend of mine. She went to him voluntarily, but I don’t believe she was planning to stay. I need to know where he’s keeping her.”
“And what makes you think I can find such information?”
I smile as though butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. “I’ll bet you five hundred that you can.”
Eddie leans back in the booth and folds his arms across his chest. Despite his humble claims, he has the upper body of someone who has done his fair share of manual labor. Under his shirt, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a lot of black and green ink from amateur artists without access to any sterilization equipment apart from a burning match or the occasional welding torch.
“You realize,” he says, “you just lost the fifty dollars you wagered yesterday?”
I nod.
“And your new bet is that if I find the information you seek, I lose another five hundred.”
I nod again.
“But if I do nothing, I win five hundred from you.”
I nod for the third time.
“That is the most ridiculous wager I have ever heard.”
“Can I get in on this?” Mario chirps in.
Eddie shakes a large-knuckled hand in frustration to shoo him away. “No. Stay out. One crazy person is enough.”
“So you’ll take the bet?” I ask.
Eddie sighs. “I think you are smarter than I give you credit for.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult,” I say.
“Good,” says Eddie. “That’s how I meant it.”
Twenty-Four
I return home and knock on Kristy and Sam’s door. There’s no answer, but before I turn away, a loud bang and a muttered curse drops down the stairwell from above.
I climb the lone flight of stairs to find Derek sitting on the corner of a couch, resting on the landing between two apartments, and licking a bloody gash across his knuckles.
He looks at me and winces. “Sorry, did I disturb you?” he says. “Damn thing got stuck in the doorway.”
“Need a hand?” I ask.
“Sure. This is the last of the big stuff.”
“Where’s Shahnaz?”
“She had an assignment for work and I had the bright idea to move this stuff before she got back.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry you have to move.”
Derek shrugs and a flush of embarrassment darkens his olive cheeks. “It’s just, you know? Guns.” He struggles to find the words. “We still like you, Dixie, but your life gets crazy at times. You attract trouble like sugar attracts wasps. Last time, you were stabbed, and now … a bullet came right through our floor. What if we had kids? What if it was our bedroom?”
“I know,” I say. “And I don’t know how to apologize enough.”
He attempts a smile. “Just help me move the couch and we’ll call it even.”
“OK,” I say, “but I also need a favor.”
“Seriously?”
“I wouldn’t ask, except—”
Derek sighs. “Just spit it out. What do you need?”
“I have a friend downstairs who I need help getting upstairs and into my apartment.”
“He can’t walk?” he asks.
“It’s a she, and right now I’m just happy that she’s remembering to breathe.”
Derek sighs louder. “Dare I ask?”
“Probably best not to.”
“Right.” Derek stands and grabs one end of the couch. “Let’s move this first.”
After Derek leaves my apartment, I roll Roxanne onto her side and prop a pillow behind her back. She’s oblivious to it all, but the last thing I want is for her to have a seizure and choke to death on her own vomit.
I place a bucket on the floor and a glass of water on the nightstand.
Dixie’s Tips #18: If you’re going to do drugs, stick with marijuana. It might make you stupider but, unlike everything else, it doesn’t try to kill you.
In the living room, I slip int
o my green leather trenchcoat with the oddly placed zipper that runs down the back. A friend of Mrs. Pennell’s installed the zipper after I ripped the coat so badly that a regular repair wasn’t possible. To be fair to myself, it wasn’t my fault that my favorite coat very nearly ended up in the trash; I blame the driver of the car that tried to run me down. I pause.
Maybe Derek is right. I do attract trouble.
Knowing I should go to the office and check in with Stoogan, I lock the apartment door and head downstairs.
At my local watering hole, the Dog House, Bill the bartender takes one look at me and says, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
Bill is a former wrestler who gained notoriety as the Biting Bulgarian Bulldog, and his role as the villain shows in a face that only his friends can love. I count myself as one of those friends.
Before I can answer in the guilty affirmative, Bill has pulled a cold bottle of Warthog Ale from a basin of ice behind the bar and placed it on the counter.
I take a long swallow and then another. The third and fourth empty the bottle. A fresh one instantly replaces it.
“You working a story?” Bill asks.
I nod and take a sip on the new bottle.
“It kicking your ass?”
I shrug and take another, smaller sip.
“You’ll beat it,” he says. “You always do.”
I look over at the empty stool on my right that is reserved for the ghost of Al Capone and raise my bottle to the empty space.
“He’s not there,” says Bill, who’s the only one to ever see the ghost.
“Yeah, but he’s probably watching,” I say. “Some people have angels; I like to think I’ve at least got a dead gangster on my side.”
Bill grins, and if you didn’t know him, it would make lesser beings flee in terror.
“He’s got a soft spot for you, Dix. But ghosts can’t stop bullets.”
“You heard about that, huh?”
“Frank told me. Also said you kept a cool head and returned fire to scare the bastard off. I think I even saw his chest swell with pride as he was telling it.”
I grin. “Only Frank could find the silver lining of being shot at.”
“That’s how we get through life, Dix. Shit is gonna happen, but it’s how we handle it that matters.”
I raise my beer. “To assholes with guns.”
Bill raises a glass of flat ginger ale and clinks it against my bottle. “And to making the fuckers duck.”
Twenty-Five
When the phone behind the bar rings, Bill picks it up and listens before tucking the receiver under his chin and fixing me with a concerned gaze.
“You cheating on me?” he asks.
Not sure where he’s going, I quip, “How could anyone else compete?”
“Eddie the Wolf?” he says. “I thought I was your bookie.”
I flush slightly and hold out my hand for the phone. “It’s not what you think. I needed information.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“So are you.”
“Not to my friends. A wolf may entice you with a smile, but inside he’s always thinking how best to eat you.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I say impatiently, still holding out my hand, “but I’m a big girl.”
Bill shrugs and hands me the phone.
“Eddie,” I say, “how did you track me down?”
“Second phone call,” he says. “You walk a small circle.”
“And here I thought I was a wild and crazy young thing.”
Eddie grunts.
“So did you find her?” I ask, turning serious.
“Of course.”
“And?”
“The Russian wants someone to come for her.”
“What do you mean?”
“He has her on the third floor of a four-story flophouse with one guard on the door. The guard likes to take long smoke breaks. That part isn’t a secret. Every junkie and whore in the neighborhood knows the score.”
“But?” I inject.
“There is also a small team camped out on the fourth floor. They’re waiting for someone. I don’t believe even the Russian would go to that much effort for you.”
“No,” I agree. “How’s Bailey?”
“OK for now, but the Russian doesn’t sweeten a trap with sugar. Whoever he’s baiting will need to act soon if he wishes her to remain in one piece.”
“Do you have an address?”
“You sure you want it?”
“Yes.”
He tells me the address.
“Thanks. Guess you owe me five hundred now,” I say.
“Minus my fee.”
“Ahh, and your fee is—”
“Five hundred.”
“Of course it is.”
I hand Bill the phone and decline the third beer he pulls out of the cooler.
“Bad news?” he asks, returning the bottle to ice.
“Let’s call it mixed.”
“Anything I can do?”
I think about it. “Are any of your old wrestling pals living in town?”
Bill grins. “There’s six of us who play cards once a week.”
“They all as big as you?”
Bill grins wider and the pectoral muscles beneath his shirt do a little dance. “They wish,” he quips, before adding, “but they’re still pumping iron if that’s what you mean. Why?”
The seed of a plan stretches for the light.
“Think they’d be up for causing a little chaos to help a lady?”
This time, Bill’s grin sends a shiver down my spine. “You ring that bell,” he says, “and they’ll cause all the trouble you want.”
Twenty-Six
I arrive in the newsroom to let Stoogan catch a glimpse of my unconcerned, I-have-everything-under-control-and-still-look-marvelous face, then immediately detour to the morgue before he can pick up the phone and summon me to his office.
Lulu brightens at seeing me.
“The newsroom is buzzing over your FOK note, Dix,” she says.
I’m puzzled. “Why?”
“You’re our shining star, sweetie. If you can’t tell the publisher to stick his notes where the sun don’t shine, what chance do the rest of us have?”
I grunt. “If they’re looking for Norma Rae, they need to get their eyes tested. I have all the leadership qualities of an expired corner store sandwich. Hell, I don’t even like most of the newsroom.”
“So you’re still doing the Father’s Day piece?” Lulu’s painted eyebrows arch to new heights.
“Of course,” I say with a smile. “But that doesn’t mean the publisher will get exactly what he wants.”
Lulu sticks her tongue in her cheek and makes it pop, while her eyes sparkle mischievously. “Uh-huh. See, you don’t have to be a leader to inspire, you just have to remain true to you.”
“Well, I don’t know how else to be, but if I was recruiting for J-school, I certainly wouldn’t pick me as the poster child.”
“Of course not,” Lulu agrees. “You’d want somebody sexy.” She strikes a hooker pose. “Like me.”
We both grin until I say, “You know they’d be more likely to put Mary Jane on the poster with the slogan Journalism: It’s not that hard anymore.”
Lulu erupts into such a loud gale of laughter that she has to sit down, while several people in the newsroom across the hall stand up at their desks to see what is going on.
After calming down and giving me heck for wrecking her eye makeup, Lulu asks, “So what can I do for you?”
I hand her a piece of paper with an address written on it. “I want blueprints for this building,” I say. “I need to know the layout of every floor, fire exits, any recent renovations, the works.”
“And this is for your FOK
note?”
I shrug. “The story has become a little more complicated than I counted on. How soon can you have the plans?”
Lulu glances at the clock. “I have a friend at City Hall who can sweet talk the engineers in Planning. End of day?”
“Perfect. If I’m not back, leave them on my desk.”
“Count on it, but I have something else for you, too.”
Lulu hands me a large brown envelope with a waxy, waterproof coating that looks like it’s been stuck behind an outhouse for a few decades.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“The photos from that funeral that you asked me to dig out from the archives. I also found the photographer. His card is inside, although I tried his phone number and it was disconnected.”
I beam. “This is brilliant. I could kiss you.”
“If I wasn’t a straight woman, I’d take you up on that.”
A witty retort raises its hand from the back row in my brain and begins to call “Ooh, ooh, ooh”, but I ignore it. There’s a good reason it’s in the back row.
“My loss,” I say instead.
I turn around to make my exit, but the doorway is blocked by Ishmael’s nemesis.
“Hey, boss,” I say. “I was just coming to see you.”
The look on Stoogan’s puffy white face says he doesn’t believe me.
If I wasn’t lying, I might be insulted.
After reassuring Stoogan that I have everything in hand and he shouldn’t give the cover away to one of Mary Jane’s sex-themed masterpieces of investigative spanking journalism, I slide into my office chair and open the waxy envelope.
Inside are half a dozen photographs, a creased business card that looks as if every corner has been used to remove kernels of corn from between somebody’s teeth, and a rectangular cardboard sleeve.
The photos had originally been in color, but newspapers never aim for museum quality when they’re only one day away from lining a birdcage. The pre-digital lab techs were trained to print the best images circled on a contact sheet and get them to the photo editor ASAP. So long as the image lasted long enough to make it into print, the editors could care less about historical value.
Thus, the photos are cracked, faded, and water damaged. Superimposing my memory of the newspaper clipping that showed Krasnyi Lebed as a pallbearer at the funeral of the man he replaced as boss, I can tell these were shot at the same funeral, but the poor quality makes even that much a deductive leap.
