“Officer Wildey, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Go ahead.” He scoops up a towering spoonful of Lucky Charms.
“How often do confidential informants get killed?”
Wildey almost spits pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers all over the tabletop. “Huh?” he mumbles through a mouthful of half-chewed cereal.
Honors Girl goes digging in her shoulder bag and pulls out a newspaper clipping, then slides it across the table. Wildey doesn’t even have to look at the headline, though. A double murder from today’s Daily News reports: 2 DEAD, 3 WOUNDED IN OVERNIGHT SHOOTINGS. One is nothing. Usual fuck-me-no-fuck-you stuff, played out on a front stoop at the tail end of a holiday weekend. But the other, the shotgun murder of a thirty-year-old black man near Second and Somerset, is something else. It went down just a few blocks away from Wildey’s house. And word around the NFU-CS was that the vic was somebody’s snitch. The reporter hinted in this direction as much as he could without flat-out saying it.
“Why do you think this guy was a CI?”
“The reporter says so.”
“No,” Wildey says. “I read that same story, and it says ‘allegedly.’ Which I can tell you is a bunch of nonsense.”
Another lie to join the one about his father, but he doesn’t need to freak her out. He certainly doesn’t need to tell her about Megan Stefanich. In fact, he needs to do the exact opposite. Which is why he decides to cut breakfast short and get to the point already. He’s got a secret weapon in mind.
“Come on. I want to show you something.”
DECEMBER 2
So earlier today Wildey takes me to the Tracks, an abandoned railway in the heart of the Badlands. I don’t tell him I already know about the Badlands. Everyone in Philly does, more or less. Since Dad doesn’t drive, we’d sometimes take the El downtown during the holidays, especially when you wanted us kids out of your hair. The view from the El starts out not-so-great and gets worse from there, until you come up in the middle of I-95 and you can see the reassuring safety of the Ben Franklin Bridge and the downtown skyscrapers. I’d look through the windows at the abandoned factories and houses and ask my dad what had happened here. Was there a fire? Yeah, he replied. You could say that. But I never stepped off the El for a closer look. Never drove through it, either. Dad didn’t even have to warn me.
Wildey points.
—They call this area the Tracks.
—Why? Because of junkie track marks?
—No. Because it’s an old set of train tracks.
People buy their drugs on the corners, then take it to the tracks—a mile-long stretch of commercial railway that almost nobody uses anymore. Wildey tells me nobody wants to admit this, but the PD has pretty much given up on this area. He says that people can do whatever the fuck they want out here.
—Seriously?
—I worked this neighborhood for five years.
—Why didn’t you do anything about it?
Wildey takes a long pause before replying.
—It’s not that simple.
—Why not? You see people doing drugs, can’t you just arrest them?
—Am I supposed to arrest everybody on a street corner who looks like they’re high? Look around.
I look around. The city streets look like a film set for a zombie movie, and a bunch of sleepy extras are stumbling around waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Everybody looks high.
—Not even eight in the morning and you got people with their first fix under their belts and already looking for more. Tell me who I should arrest. That guy? That girl over there, who looks about your age? Now let me show you something else.
We take a sharp right off Kensington, out of the shadow of the El, onto a street bordering a park. If Kensington Avenue is a necklace, then this park is the diamond hanging from it.
—See this park? What do you see?
—Grass. Statues. Walkways.
—What don’t you see?
—I don’t know.
—I’ll tell you what you don’t see. You don’t see needles everywhere. You don’t see junkies lounging on benches. You don’t see guys selling works or Subs. Know why you don’t see any of that stuff? Because a group of us spent a full year taking back this park. Yeah, just this one little piece of land, and it took everything we had—constant arrests, foot patrols, coordinating with neighbors who were tired of hiding behind their doors and barred-up windows. And for now, it’s sticking. Come back here around three, when schools let out, and you’ll actually see kids playing here, and their parents won’t be worrying about whether they’re going to step on a needle or get touched by some junkie. This is our DMZ. But this is just one patch of ground in the Badlands. And the Badlands, Honors Girl … the Badlands is big.
We continue driving around the borders of the park—McPherson Square, according to a sign. You squint, and it’s sort of nice. But then we pull back under the El and a gloom descends. This is not a street you want to walk in the daylight, let alone after dark.
—Why are you showing me this?
—Because your boyfriend is on a train, and he’s headed down these tracks. So are all of his customers. I’ve seen it again, and again, and again. You think because you live in a nice neighborhood and you have parents who say they love you, none of this can happen to you. Think again. These streets are full of people just like you, and just like your boyfriend. They get off the El, walk down those steps, and the next thing they know, two years have gone by and they’re just trapped.
—I can assure you, Officer Wildey, I’m never coming down here.
—Yeah?
And screeeeeeech, Wildey pulls the car to a halt, right under the shadow of the El.
—Come on.
—What?
—Follow me.
—Is it safe?
Wildey just laughs.
—Come on.
He leads me up Gurney Street, toward a cyclone fence that has been ripped from its frame. Before I can say uh-uh, no fucking way, he’s ducking under the fence and waving me forward, and then he disappears into weeds as tall as basketball players. I look at the ground and see the syringes, the fast-food wrappers, the broken bottles. I wonder about my bag, still in Wildey’s car. Did he even lock the doors?
—Come on, Honors Girl. Otherwise you’re gonna be late for class.
Every step I’m crunching on something. I’m angry. Wildey doesn’t have to do this. If he’d just let me talk …
But then I realize, no. Better for him to take the lead. He wants to wind me up? Let him.
THE TRACKS
MONDAY, DECEMBER 2
Aimee Manion, 23, is a junkie. She stepped off the Somerset El platform two years ago and never quite made it back home. Wildey remembers her from earlier this year when he chatted her up during one of her more lucid moments, tried to find out where her parents might be, if he could help her home. She said home wasn’t an option. Wildey followed up on the address on her license; she was right. Aimee looks a lot closer to death than the last time Wildey saw her, which was what—March? April? Eyes sunk deeper into her face, sneer more pronounced. Not that she knows she’s making that expression. She’s nodded off into that opiate dreamworld she visits six, seven times a day.
“Honors Girl, meet Aimee. Pretty sure she used to be an honor student, too.”
No idea if this is true. She mentioned something about Catholic school at one point—or a uniform.
“Aimee, say hi. What’s that, Aimee? You can’t say hi because you’re out of your fucking mind on Big H? Gee, Aimee, that’s rude.”
“She needs a hospital,” Honors Girl says. “We can’t just leave her here.”
“What hospital’s going to take her? They don’t want to deal with her either. And she’d fight you, too. Believe me, that’s the last place she wants to go. Isn’t that right, Aimee? Y’all nice and happy here, aren’t you?”
Sarie looks away.
“Want to know how she
got here? Somebody like your boyfriend started selling her Oxys. She’s okay at first, because she’s got a job, and she can afford a few. Then she needs more. Then she’s out of money, and then the prices on the Oxys go up. She can’t just stop, so she hears about how to save money and get an even bigger high.”
Again, no idea if any of this is true. Aimee wasn’t exactly forthcoming about the road that brought her to the Tracks. But it was probably true enough.
“And that’s heroin. And the honors student who grew up afraid of vaccinations is suddenly shooting up between her fingers and toes, doing whatever she can to keep scoring.”
“I don’t take pills,” Honors Girl says.
“Not yet,” Wildey says. “Even if you don’t, you honestly want to protect some guy who’d send people here?”
Sarie says nothing.
“How long you two been going out? Long enough that you feel this need to protect him?”
More silence.
“You told me you didn’t want him,” Sarie says. “You want the people above him.”
Wildey blinks. “That’s right.”
“What happens to him?”
“Same thing that happened to you. If he’s willing to help us, it can go real easy for him.”
“Can we go back to the car now?”
“Sure, Honors Girl. Say bye-bye, Aimee.”
Back inside the warmth of the car, Wildey puts the key in the ignition but hesitates before turning it. This is the moment. If this little field trip didn’t work, then nothing would. Time for Honors Girl to do her part.
“So … what do you have for me?”
Honors Girl takes a breath of cold air, then finally, at long last, says: “His name is Ryan Koolhaas.”
D. and I came up with the plan last night, Mom. Well, it was mostly his idea. I was joking when I asked him if he knew any drug dealers and he gave me a funny look.
—What is it?
D.’s eyes light up.
—How about we give your Officer Will-dee someone else.
—What do you mean? Rat someone out for real?
D. tells me the name of this guy he knows who deals stuff on campus. No, not a competitor, he insists. Just some asshole who is creepy and kind of rapey and should have been smacked down a long time ago.
—Are you serious? You want me to dime on somebody I don’t even know?
—Would you rather know them first? Trust me, the guy’s an asshole, he totally deserves it.
—No no no. That’s horrible. We can’t!
—He’s perfect, is what he is.
—The cop’s going to know he’s not you.
—I don’t think so. I bolted pretty quick.
—Yeah, you in your oh-so-stealth red chinos. You seriously want me to just rat out this poor guy instead? Doesn’t that violate some code in the international brotherhood of drug dealers or something?
—Like you said, you don’t know him. What’s the difference? You give him the name, the cop does his thing, and we can forget this whole thing ever happened.
I’m thinking no fucking way—it’s an incredibly shitty thing to do to someone. But then again, I have to give Wildey something tomorrow morning, or … god knows what was going to happen next.
You’re not going to be very proud of me, Mom.
“Ryan Koolhaas. That’s his name?”
Sarie nods.
“Spell it.”
She does. Wildey writes it down. “So just to be clear, this was the guy in the car with you last Wednesday night?” Honors Girl stays quiet, staring out of the windshield like she’s afraid to overcommit herself.
“Look, you’re offering him up. What difference does it make? Tell me how you know him.”
“I don’t. Not really.”
“So I saw a total stranger get out of your car on Ninth Street.”
“You asked me to find you a dealer. That’s what I did. Why do you need to know more?”
“Fine, we’ll take it slow,” Wildey says. “So this guy deals on campus, though, right? And gets his shit from Ninth Street?”
D. briefs me. I take notes. This is one of my weird skills: Once I write it down, it’s etched in my memory. I can read the same paragraph a half-dozen times and pick up the general idea, but not much in the way of specifics. But if I write it down I’ve got every word. A pen and paper is like a data entry system for my brain.
Ryan Koolhaas
21
St. Jude’s Townhouses, D3
(215) 419-2108
Sells pot, Addys (Adderall), Percs, some coke, or so D. has heard $5 a pill unless it’s finals week, raises the prices to 10 or 15
“I have no idea where he gets his drugs.”
“You ever see him pick up a package from Ninth Street before? You take him on a run some other time?” Sarie pauses, then shakes her head quickly.
“What else does he sell?”
“That’s all I know for sure.”
“Then how do you explain all that shit I found in your car?”
Sarie gives him a wide-eyed shrug, like, fuck if I know, Officer. Wildey glances out at the Avenue. More people out now. Guys selling works and Subs. Same scene as it was months ago. Same scene as it will always be, unless he cleans it up someday. Maybe it starts with this girl right here. Or maybe she’s feeding him a line of bullshit just to save her own ass.
“If this is real, I’m going to need you to make a buy.”
“Buy what?”
Wildey sighs. “Look, I’m going to give you money, and you’re going to buy drugs from your friend Ryan Koolhaas. Unless that would be weird, because he’s your boyfriend or something.”
DECEMBER 2 (later)
Ryan Koolhaas is not my boyfriend.
But the way his eyes light up when he sees me, you know he’s thinking it might be a possibility. At least for a couple of hours.
And in that moment I recognize him. Close-cropped curly dark hair, lopsided perma-grin, raptor nose, and tall—crazy tall. Even taller than D. Koolhaas is a senior, but he was in my freshman Intro to Psych class last semester. Probably skipped it early on and realized he had to make it up if he wanted to graduate. It’s clear that Koolhaas only vaguely recognizes me.
—Hey. You’re …
—Sarie.
—Yeah, Sarie, cool. Hey, let me sign you in.
Koolhaas turns to the security guard and reaches his long fingers through the opening in the bulletproof glass to pinch a sign-in slip. He writes quick, like he’s accepting a takeout delivery. That is the way the townhouses work. Access only to the seniors who live there or their guests. Like me.
—C’mon.
I step up to the turnstile, hear a sharp click, push my hip against the rotating bar, and follow Koolhaas—it helps to think of him as just Koolhaas, my target, not Ryan or my classmate from Intro to Psych—back down the concrete pathway to his front door.
What I expect to see: bongs, stained carpets, two guys playing nonstop World of Warcraft, the aroma of fried grease and marijuana and cheese.
What I actually see: a clean, quiet living room that smells like someone vacuumed it recently. There are vacuum trails and everything.
—I’m upstairs. I’ve got a single.
He bounds up the steps. I guess I’m following him. The entire townhouse feels dead quiet. Sure, it’s a Tuesday, but it’s also 7 p.m.
—Where are your roommates?
—Don’t worry, nobody’s home.
Meanwhile I’m worried, but not for the reasons he thinks I may be worried.
Koolhaas’s room turns out to be just as neat and clean. What is up with drug dealers today? It occurs to me that maybe this guy isn’t a drug dealer, that D. fucked it up somehow. Which will be supremely awkward when I try to make a buy, not to mention make me the worst confidential informant in the world. D. wouldn’t do that to me, would he? Just give me a random name, or the name of someone he hates?
Sure enough, though, Koolhaas digs out a shower caddy with a lid, p
uts it on his bed, then taps the space next to him on the bed.
—You said you wanted Addys, right?
—Yep.
—Let me ask you something. I know it’s going to sound weird.
—Okay …
He’s going to ask me if I’m a cop. I’ve seen it on shows a bajillion times. I’m going to swear I’m not a cop, then boom, we do the deal. Instead Koolhaas turns to face me so that our knees almost touch.
—Look, you’re probably stressed out with finals and everything, and I know your friends probably told you that a few Addys will keep you awake and hyper-focused. But there’s something else you can do.
—What?
Koolhaas scoots back a few inches.
—Here. Put your head in my lap. Let me show you.
Canary Page 10
