Canary

by Duane Swierczynski

  Not that he needs to follow Honors Girl so closely; he has the address. But what if this is a setup? And someone takes a run at her between campus and the address?

  Funny how Honors Girl still won’t admit to the existence of the boyfriend—even though there he is, in the passenger seat. He listens in, though they’re not saying much that Wildey can understand.

  Your dad has rad taste in music.

  Yeah.

  Holy shit, he has Jim Carroll. Catholic Boy.

  Yeah?

  Those are people who died, who died, all my friends, they died

  …

  You okay, Sarie?

  Uh-huh. Just got a lot on my mind. Eight thirty exam tomorrow.

  Who?

  Curnow.

  Oh man. But here’s the trick with Curnow. He doesn’t do this all the time, but sometimes he’ll throw in a trick to see if you’re paying attention. Make sure you skim all of the questions first before you answer any of them. You might see a question, like, “If you haven’t made a mark in your blue book yet, just answer the last question and turn in your exam and enjoy the holidays.”

  Times like these, Wildey is very glad he never bothered with college. Sounds like a lot of mind fucking.

  Oh, you’re going to want to park off Front, near Ninety-five. Chuckie says it’s impossible to find a spot anywhere near his street.

  Okay.

  … all my friends, and they died …

  Damn. This means Wildey is going to have to trail them for five blocks without being spotted.

  But that’s okay, because he has backup this time—Kaz loaned him Streicher and Sepanic, a two-man surveillance detail from the NFU-CS. They’re already in an unmarked van on the edge of Dickinson Square Park, just two blocks from the target house. Everything Wildey hears, they’re hearing. Something goes wrong, they’ll be able to call for backup while Wildey goes in.

  Honors Girl parks under I-95 in a no-charge lot for a nearby movie theater. Luckily someone plowed most of it this afternoon, after the snow stopped falling. Wildey pulls his car into a spot on the opposite side and watches them. This is one of these slowly changing neighborhoods—oldheads call it South Philly, hipster-gentrifiers want to call it Pennsport. Here along Front and Second streets, you can see the progress. The tiny, cramped blocks are decked out with Christmas lights and tinsel and ornaments. But venture a few blocks west and things change rapidly. There are sharp boundaries within Philly neighborhoods. You may not be able to see them, but you can definitely feel them.

  The target is 527 Vernon Street, a small brick row house in the middle of a block.

  Get ready, Chuckie. We’re coming for you.

  I park the Civic and hear the roar of the highway above us. It’s freezing, and there’s a lot of snow and ice on the ground. Take the wrong step onto some black ice and you’d go down fast. I loop my arm through D.’s for stability. (Well, mostly for the stability.) We walk west on Vernon Street. Cute blocks, lots of lights and decorations. Then the phone in my pocket starts vibrating. My real phone. Probably Dad. But when I pull it out I see that it’s actually Partyman, which is completely random. The text, though, sends a chill through my veins:

  —Morphine knows.

  What the hell? How does he even know Chuckie Morphine, let alone know what he (allegedly) knows? Shit shit shit …

  D. nods at my phone.

  —Who’s that?

  —Nobody.

  —It was that cop, wasn’t it? I don’t mean to be paranoid, but we’re going to have to handle this cop thing very care—

  —Shut up, it was Tammy. Hang on.

  How does Partyman even know where I am? How does he know Chuckie Morphine? Worry about that later. Focus on what I know: Partyman is involved in the local drug trade. He knows me. Somehow, he knows where I’m headed. Which means he knows things I don’t know.

  —C’mon.

  —One second.

  I text back: Knows what?

  D. is practically dragging me by the arm.

  —Seriously, Sarie, I don’t want to be late.

  We cross Second Street, passing a bar on the corner called Dugan’s Den, which is the only sign of life out here tonight. I have about three blocks to make a decision. If I leave the wire on and Chuckie finds it, the two of us are fucked. If I remove the wire, then this whole thing will be for nothing. I glance behind us. Wildey is out there somewhere, following us. I could break away from D. right now and go running back, have Wildey get me the fuck out of here …

  And then what, genius? What’s your next move? Watch D. get busted, and then be forced to testify against him? This is your chance to make all of this right.

  So I decide to leave the button where it is. Even though it clearly doesn’t match. Wildey, you’d better be fucking right about this.

  Partyman, you’d better text back quick. What does Morphine know?

  We arrive at 527 and it’s kind of a shithole, at least compared to the other houses on the block. The marble steps are stained and chipped, the tin trim on the top of the house is rusted and flaked, and the windows look fogged over. A big step down from Chuckie’s previous place, I must say. Which bugs me. Why would he throw a party here? As if on cue, my real phone buzzes again. I look down at the message:

  —He’s going to check you for a wire.

  The man Sarie Holland calls Partyman places his cell on the bar top and orders another Budweiser. Nothing on tap in this place, which is disappointing, so he sticks to bottles. Aside from a few modern-day Eagles and Phillies banners on the rafters, everything here has that frozen-in-time look. Otherwise, as they said in The Apartment, it’s Dullsville. The paint is dull, the floorboards dull, the vinyl on the stools dull, the conversation dull, the drone of the TV dull. The only thing that shines is the bar top, polished to a high sheen by millions of elbows rubbing against it since the Great Depression. He loves it all. He thanks the bartender, Sherry, for the Bud, takes a long pull, then checks his phone. No reply.

  What’s he doing, exactly? Why does he care?

  He could explain it to his superiors easily enough, he supposes. Following leads, testing the local waters, pushing one side to see what the other would do. Stirring it up. But there’s a deeper truth, he realizes, one he’d never admit to his superiors.

  He likes the girl. He doesn’t want to see her end up with a bullet in her head and dumped into some ravine.

  So when her name came up on the back chatter of Big Bust V (Christ, you’d be surprised how many dealers talked openly in those chat rooms, like they’re all the first ones to think of that particular joke), he wrestled with his decision. Wrestled hard. Then he determined that a world without Sarie Holland would be a much more dull one.

  He orders another Bud, cracks a joke with Sherry, asks her if they have some kind of menu. Sherry says she’ll see what she can do.

  —Heyyyyy! D-Train!

  The moment I see him, I realize that D. isn’t kidding. There is something very strange and familiar about Chuckie Morphine.

  He turns out to be a seriously older dude (at least in his fifties) with slicked-back hair and a suit, standing in the middle of an empty living room surrounded by four gruff older dudes who could play any number of roles. Put hard hats on them and they’d be construction workers. Put blue shirts on them and they’d be cops. But now they’re wearing leather jackets, boots, and jeans, so they look like bikers. And not the kind who are in the mood to party.

  But what’s strange is that Chuckie looks soooo fucking familiar. …

  —And this must be the lovely Sarie! So great to finally meet you.

  —Hi.

  D. nudges me on the shoulder and smiles.

  —So? Does his face ring a bell?

  I stare at D., my eyes pleading for help, because, yeah, he does look familiar, but I seriously can’t place it. Before I can speculate, though, Chuckie waves his hands dismissively, then puts an index finger to his lips. D. blinks, confused.

  —Proper greeti
ngs first, brother.

  A biker guy with long, skunklike hair steps forward, small black gizmo in his hands. My gut sinks. Partyman was right. They’re going to sweep for surveillance. And in a few seconds, that gizmo is going to go off when it comes near my fake, oversized, ill-matching button.

  Wildey is huffing cold air, hanging by a thread, waiting for Honors Girl to speak. Doesn’t he look familiar? the boyfriend said. And then … nothing. So wait—does Honors Girl know this guy after all?

  Come on, somebody say or do something.

  There’s only one thing I can do: empty my bucket, just like Wildey taught me … and fill it back up with a little bit of crazy.

  Chuckie must have seen me flinch, so he tries to reassure me this will all be over in a second, you understand, a guy like me has to be careful. I channel my inner excited puppy dog.

  —Oh this is just like the movies! So fucking cool!

  —Just a precaution, sweetie. You understand.

  —Hang on, hang on! I know exactly what to do.

  I smile and take a step back and start unbuttoning my shirt.

  Pretty much every eye in the room—including D.’s—is fixed on me in total surprise. They can’t believe what I’m doing. To be honest, I can’t believe it, either.

  —Sarie, what are you …

  —Trust me, big guy. I know what I’m doing.

  —Are you drunk?

  One, two buttons, and when I reach the third, the mismatching bug, I do a playful little twirl on my heel.

  There’s the rustle of fabric, a loud brushing sound like someone’s taken a broom to a microphone, then a few seconds before a hollow POP.

  “No,” Wildey says, out in the cold.

  The wire is dead.

  She killed the fucking wire!

  Why?

  Trust me, big guy, I know what I’m doing.

  That was meant for him, wasn’t it?

  Fuck. What the hell is she doing? Wildey is at the corner of Fifth and Vernon, hanging near an abandoned beauty shop. About a dozen sun-faded portraits of Marilyn Monroe, snipped from fashion magazines, stare back at him. Fuck, he needs a closer look. Streicher and Sepanic check in almost immediately, telling Wildey what he already knows. The wire has gone dead.

  I heel-smash the bug, popping it like a tick. I stumble a little, as if I’m a silly girl who’s had a vodkatini or three, laughing to disguise the sound of the crunch. To me, the pop echoes throughout this empty living room. But they’re too busy looking at my bra to notice. I hope. Chuckie Morphine locks eyes with me.

  —Not that I didn’t enjoy that show, but we’re going to sweep you anyway. It’s not like the movies, darling.

  —Chuckie, man, you don’t have to do this, Sarie’s cool.

  —I’m totally not wearing a wire! Well, maybe an underwire.

  D. gawks at me like I’m insane. Perhaps I am—wearing a bra, a crushed police surveillance device under the heel of my shoe—joking around with a drug kingpin.

  —Sweep ’em, Keith.

  Keith, the maybe-biker with the frizzy skunk hair, sweeps us, lingering on my tits for some strange reason. After he’s been cleared, D. stoops down to retrieve my shirt and gives me the puzzle-eyes as he hands it back.

  —Here.

  (Eyes all going: What the fuck was that?)

  —Thanks.

  (My eyes going: Trust me.)

  In the end, Keith finds nothing interesting, not even noticing the broken button on the floor. Chuckie nods.

  —Okay, Keith, good stuff, why don’t you and Drop head outside and make sure our girl doesn’t have an older brother waiting outside.

  D. is insulted.

  —Chuckie, man, for real? You don’t have to do that.

  The more I analyze the features of Mr. Morphine, the more the webs in my brain clear away. He is familiar and it’s starting to kill me. So, so familiar. But from where? Maybe if I’d had more time, it would have come to me naturally. Instead Chuckie Morphine himself clues me in.

  —So, you take my brother’s final exam yet or what?

  Wildey’s about three houses away from 527 when the door opens and two thick-necked goons in leather jackets come tumbling out. The street is narrow. There are no places to run. If he bolts now they will catch him. Wildey is sure of that. The only thing to do is commit to his undercover role, like he’s just another corner boy in a hoodie walking down the street. Wildey flicks his eyes up at the bikers—Just walkin’ here. They glare back at him—You’d better keep walkin’. They fall in line behind him and unofficially escort him all the way to Sixth, where Wildey hangs a right. Damn it, Sarie, why did you kill the wire? Are you in trouble? Have they already done something to you?

  Trust me, big guy.

  D. smiles like a lunatic.

  —See? I told you, once you met him, you’d understand!

  And now I do.

  “Chuckie Morphine” is actually Charles Chaykin … brother of Professor Edward Chaykin, my honors lit teacher. As well as D.’s honors lit teacher, from two years back. Chuckie is the “yuppie scum brother” Professor Chaykin refers to in class whenever he goes on a tear about the antimaterialistic Beat poets of the 1950s (his personal heroes). Makes sense and it doesn’t make sense at the same time. I feel like my entire world just tilted a few degrees to the left.

  —Come on back, kids. Let’s talk about your little police problem.

  Chuckie leads us back, along with two other biker dudes. Along the way D. explains, excitedly, like he’s been bursting to tell me. The whole thing started at a holiday party for honors kids that Chaykin (the professor, not the kingpin) held at his house up in Mt. Airy after finals. (Presumably I’m to receive the same invitation after my lit final this Friday—that is, if his brother doesn’t kill me tonight.) Toward the end of the night, after the crowd had thinned to almost nobody, Professor Chaykin offered a joint to D.; D. took him up on it. One thing led to another and soon D. was scoring from Professor Chaykin, for himself, then for friends, and then at another party the following summer Professor Chaykin introduced D. to his supplier—his brother.

  I grab D.’s arm.

  —You said nobody knew Chuckie Morphine’s real name.

  D. looks at me, half sheepish, half proud.

  —I was protecting you.

  The three of us sit around a foldout table in the kitchen. The two bikers take up posts at the doorway and a back exit, presumably leading to a tiny yard.

  —Cozy, I know, but what can I do?

  —I thought this was a party, Chuckie …

  —Do you live here, Mr. Chaykin?

  —Please, sweetie, call me Chuckie. Mr. Chaykin was my father, and thank fuck that perverted old sadist is buried in de cold, cold ground. Anyway, as to who lives in this domicile, nobody at the moment. So we have it all to ourselves for the time being. And no, Mr. P., I’m not exactly in the mood to party.

  —Chuckie’s in real estate. That’s how he—

  Chuckie raises a chiding eyebrow at D.

  —You sure do like to narrate, don’t you, D. What else did you tell your girlfriend, hmmm?

  —Nothing, man! You know that.

  —He hasn’t told me anything, Mr. Chaykin.

  —What do I have to do for you to call me Chuckie? Take off my shirt and tie, be less formal? Believe me, you don’t want to see that spectacle. I was already fat and sagging the day you were born.

  There’s an awkward moment of silence as our eyes flit back and forth. Chuckie’s eyes flit on fast-forward, like he’s trying to take us both in, brain-scan us, analyze us.

  —Okay, Serafina Holland, my man here tells me you’re good people. But here’s the weird thing, and maybe you can illuminate some things for us? We heard a rumor that some pretty young Latino girl was busted near Pat’s Steaks on November 27 and subsequently began to work for the Philadelphia Police Department and—

  —I’m not—

  —Please don’t interrupt me, sweetie, it’s rude. I know you’re working w
ith the PPD. Tall, handsome, and stoned here told me as much. But you’ve been feeding them everybody but me.

  D. turns red, won’t look at me. Son of a bitch. He told Chuckie/Chaykin here that I was a CI! Why did he do that?

  —D.? What the hell?

  D. finally has a mea culpa look in his eye.

  —Look, Chuckie can help us, I told you that. That means being completely honest and open with him about—

  —You asshole!

  —Sarie, seriously, this is the only way we can—

  Chuckie tap-tap-taps the table with an oversized gold ring.

  —Kids, you can fight later. What I want to know is more about this cop, what’s his name, Wildey—

  —Will-dee.