Canary

by Duane Swierczynski

  —I’m sorry?

  —He pronounces it will-dee.

  —Well, thank you for that, sweetie. It’s always important to know the correct pronunciations of the names of people who wish to prosecute you. Did you know my surname should be pronounced SHAY-kin, as in, what’s shakin’, baby? But everyone does the hard chuh, drives me fuckin’ bonkers. Which is why I go by my admittedly silly alias, which I came up with in Cabo back in eighty-nine … but that’s another story. Back to Will-dee … see, once you point it out, I won’t forget. Will-dee maintains his Gamera-sized hard-on for me and won’t leave you alone, is that it?

  —He’s very interested in your business, yes.

  —And you’ve told him as little as possible about my business, yes?

  —She hasn’t said a thing!

  —Hey. Boychik. Shut the fuck up and let the girl answer.

  I swallow and empty my bucket. No time for the cray-cray anymore. Now it is time to fill it with 100-proof sincerity.

  —He’s right. I haven’t said a thing. I’m working for them but targeting other dealers. I’m doing all this to protect D.

  The way D. looks at me when he hears those words—as if he’s just clued into this fact for the very first time.

  —Well, let’s be sure about that.

  And that’s when the tools come out.

  Wildey tells Streicher and Sepanic to maintain their positions. Honors Girl said to trust her, so that’s what he’s going to do. For now. That doesn’t mean he can’t move in for a closer look. The front is out, but the interesting thing about this little slice of South Philly is that alleyways run through the blocks. He finds one off Sixth. The concrete pathway is bowed, presumably so rain will wash away the dirt and grime, but it clearly hasn’t rained in this alley for fifty years. Broken glass, syringes, cigarette butts, and broken plastic toys litter his path. Wildey steps past them the best he can and then turns a corner … right into a ratty wooden gate with a thick padlock on a hinge.

  The skunk biker behind me grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks it back. Something cold and sharp touches my neck right below the left earlobe. The biker standing behind D. also grabs a fistful of his hair and jerks back, only he doesn’t have a knife or ice pick or whatever. Instead he’s holding a hammer, wrist slightly turned so that he’ll be able to bring it up and give it a good THWOK at a moment’s notice.

  D. doesn’t see this. He’s too busy arguing with Chuckie.

  —Chuckie … what the fuck … you said you could help us!

  —D., my good friend, for the remainder of this conversation I’d very much like you to shut the fuck up. Now, Ms. Holland, I do apologize for the theatrics but this is business, and sadly, sometimes this is how one must conduct business.

  —You don’t have to threaten us!

  —Everyone always says that. But the truth is, sweetie, I do. I really do. Just like you felt that you had to do that silly little striptease out there in a vain attempt to build trust between us. But, see, you didn’t just reveal your pert little bosom to me. You revealed a great deal more. You revealed that you’re not the wide-eyed innocent that D. thinks you are. And that worries me. So why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here, Ms. Holland?

  I swallow, try to stay calm.

  —Just like D. told you, we came here for help.

  Chuckie Morphine nods. The fingers in my hair tighten to hold me still and I feel a jab in the side of my neck. I gasp because my skin processes it a second before I do. I’ve been stabbed. This guy stabbed me in the side of the neck. D. bucks in his seat.

  —Chuckie you fucking asshole!

  Blood trickles down my neck and around my clavicle. Every instinct tells me to twist my head away, but I can’t. My hair is being held in an iron grip. Chuckie leans forward, locks eyes with me.

  —Lie to me again and it goes all the way in.

  In this moment, Mom, I know things will never be the same, that I will never be the same. Since I got (sort of) arrested I’ve been pretending, just playing a role, telling myself that none of this is permanent. That I can go back to the way things were. But there’s no going back now. I suppose I’ve known that for a while. So I fill Wildey’s proverbial bucket with a few gallons of I Don’t Give A Fuck, the only thing I have left, and dive in.

  Despite the hand in my hair and the pointy object at my throat, I narrow my eyes and lean forward a little. Just a fraction of an inch, but I want him to know I’m not afraid.

  —You’re afraid they’re coming for you, aren’t you, Chuckie?

  His carefully composed face drops a little.

  —Afraid? Afraid of who?

  —I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about drug gangs getting hit by strike teams. And you’re wondering if I’m the scout dog, sniffing you out, setting you up for an attack.

  Chaykin laughs.

  —Oh, D., where did you find this one? She’s a scream! Wait; don’t answer that. You’re supposed to be shutting the fuck up. Okay, Ms. Thing … and I can’t believe you’re really going to make me ask the question … but are you the scout dog?

  —No.

  —But you are a confidential informant for the Philadelphia Police Department.

  —Not anymore.

  He laughs, but it quickly dies in his throat.

  —I’m sorry, what?

  —Because now I’m working for you.

  The howl of laughter that rolls out of Chuckie’s mouth fills the kitchen and startles all of us, including the guys holding the knives, which is not good. I briefly wonder what the fuck I think I’m doing. I have no secret weapon, no trick to play. I’m winging it. Chuckie’s laughter dies down and he says softly, almost as if muttering to himself:

  —Working for me, huh.

  Ignore the searing pain in your knees, Wildey tells himself, as he lands on the opposite side of the gate, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Because you know it’s going to hurt. You gain nothing by complaining. He crouches down, moving as swiftly as he can along the freezing alley, counting the backs of the houses, looking for 527. Your knees don’t mean shit. Getting to her, keeping her safe … that’s the only thing that matters now.

  My eyes do not waver. I do not blink. I tell him what I can offer.

  —Someone is moving into your market the hard way. I’ve been doing some research and am close to discovering their identities. I’m also privy to the inside movements of the narcotics field unit tracking you. I can help you work around them.

  —How about you just tell me what you know, little girl, and I consider letting the two of you live.

  —Give me five thousand dollars in operating cash and in three days I’ll lay it all out for you.

  —You’re something special, aren’t you.

  —It’s a small price for valuable intelligence.

  —Why don’t you get your tuition money from the police?

  —Because I’m not working for them anymore. I’m working for you.

  —You keep saying that. What could have possibly brought about this sudden change of allegiance? Perhaps the sharp object held at your neck by my associate Keith there?

  I remember D.’s advice about how the best lies are built around a grain of truth.

  —Look, the police have been riding me hard for weeks. They’re completely incompetent and disorganized. And they can’t protect me. Do you know how many confidential informants have died in the past month?

  Chuckie looks at the thug behind me, then at the thug with the hammer, then at D.

  —Okay, you can speak now. Is your girlfriend here bullshitting me?

  D. shakes his head.

  —No, Chuckie. This is why I brought her to you, man.

  Chuckie looks at me.

  —Three days and five grand buys me what, exactly?

  Here’s where I have to show Chuckie Morphine a little leg.

  —The murders of those confidential informants is a concerted effort by a major player trying to dominate the local market, and the narcoti
cs squad has no idea how. I’m in a unique position to uncover the leader of this group, and I will bring him to you, along with details of his operation.

  —Really.

  —I can also give you information straight from Lieutenant Katrina Mahoney’s office.

  —The Russkie would-be drug czar?

  —My handler reports to her directly.

  Chuckie makes a whistling O shape with his mouth.

  Now comes the big moment. He’s either going to believe me, or I’m going to know what it feels like to be shivved in the neck by a skunk biker.

  Finally, after a small piece of forever …

  —Well, then. If you can deliver all that, my dear, then you’ve got yourself a deal. With one stipulation of my own.

  —What’s that?

  —Our friend D. here stays with us. You know, just to give you incentive to deliver.

  —No. No, we can’t do that …

  D. turns his head toward me. As much as he can.

  —No, that’s a great idea. I stay here, and Sarie … you go do your thing. Seriously. I’ll be fine. His eyes try to convince me, but his face is terrified. Chaykin leans back in his chair.

  —Yes, he’ll be fine. We’ll play Big Bust V. It’ll be a party.

  —D. has final exams to take!

  Chaykin makes a big show of wearily swiveling in his chair so that he’s facing D. He extends his arms in a pleading manner.

  —Let me ask you, in this very moment, do you give one shit about your final exams?

  —No.

  Chuckie’s eyes flick toward me.

  —See, he doesn’t care about his final exams. Anything else?

  I have no choice but to concede the point. But I also can’t leave this house with nothing.

  —Your M.O. is to keep moving, which is smart. So I presume you’re not going to be at this address much longer.

  —Yeah, I like to keep moving. Don’t want moss growing on my feet. Or under them. Or whatever.

  —So how do I find you?

  —I’ll give you a safe cell number.

  —No. I want an address.

  —You want me to trust a police informant with an address?

  —How many times do I have to tell you? I’m no longer an informant. I just quit.

  —And that just inspires me with confidence! Look, I’ll leave a presence here, so why don’t you just come back here when you’re ready. My guys will let me know you’re here. Okay? Okay. Grand. Keith, will you get her a Band-Aid?

  The puncture in my neck is not that deep and won’t require stitches. One of those scare-the-shit-out-of-you wounds. I clean myself up with wet pieces of toilet paper in a cramped bathroom. There’s no waste basket, so I save the bloodied little balls of pulp on the side of the sink as I clean up. Guess I can just flush them down the toilet, just like I’ve pretty much flushed my future away. I check my neck in the mirror and my reflection gives me this look like, What the fuck are you doing? Are you crazy? I continue to imagine my bucket being full of brave crazy, but I can feel it evaporating fast.

  I finish up, toss the wad of gross paper into the toilet, push the handle, and hear a dull THUNK and the rattling of a broken chain. Great. You’d think a kingpin would keep a working toilet in the place, you know, for raids?

  There’s a timid knock-knock-knock at the door. Crap. I close the lid, press more toilet paper to my neck, then open the door. It’s D. He slips into the bathroom with me.

  —Are you okay?

  —I’m fine. But I don’t want to leave you here.

  —Look, all that was because Chuckie doesn’t know you. Hell, I’m not even sure I know you.

  He smiles as he says this, but it’s a nervous smile. He continues:

  —I can make up my exams next week, whatever, I’ll just email my professors. And I’ll be fine here. He’s not going to do anything to me.

  —Did you happen to see the guy standing behind you? The one with the hammer?

  D. dismisses this.

  —Just tell me you can deliver what you promised, that you weren’t just serving up a huge steaming pile of bullshit back there. Because just like his brother, Chuckie has no patience for bullshit. He’ll hurt us both.

  —What I have is real. I’m coming back for you, D.

  —I’ll be fine. Really.

  He reaches out and takes my hand. The one that isn’t holding bloody wads of wet tissue. Then he flashes me this high-wattage smile that’s just a little mischievous and gives my hand a squeeze.

  —I’m just bummed I have to wait until Friday to see you again.

  —And what if we don’t?

  —Don’t what?

  —Don’t see each other again. Like, ever.

  The bright smile fades a bit, and I can see a flicker of real worry in his eyes.

  When he leans in close I wonder if he’s going to kiss me again. I can feel his breath on my cheek. But I’ll never find out because the door opens suddenly and there’s Hammer Guy glaring at us, telling me it’s time to go.

  Without warning the lights go out; the party is over. Which means either this was the shortest party in the history of South Philadelphia or something horrible has just happened. Wildey scrambles down the alley and up over the gate again (ignore the knees, ignore the knees) and makes it to the corner of Sixth and Vernon just in time to see a black SUV pull up to 527. A middle-aged man in an overcoat (too far away to see any other details) and two burly bikers hustle inside. No Sarie, no boyfriend. By the time Wildey has his cell to his head, the SUV is peeling away. He gives Streicher and Sepanic the make and plates and tells them to follow the SUV no matter what. Do not lose sight of it. The moment the SUV turns the corner, Wildey bolts down the block to the front door. Please God, please, don’t do this to me. He’s about to smash the door in when S&S call—they’re still in pursuit of the SUV, currently headed east on Dickinson. But when they blasted up Fifth they caught a glimpse of Wildey’s CI walking east on Tasker.

  “Alone?”

  “Far as we could tell.”

  “Thanks, Streicher.”

  “It’s Sepanic.”

  “Sorry. Always getting the two of you mixed up.”

  “That’s funny, Wild Child.”

  Streicher’s a woman; Sepanic’s a dude.

  But Wild Child isn’t trying to be funny. He’s distracted by the mix of relief and anger coursing through his nervous system. Relief he won’t have to bust down this door to find his CI slaughtered inside. But also anger that she didn’t call him the moment she made it out of the house. What was she thinking? What the hell is going on? That skinny punk with the red pants is probably laughing his ass off right now, isn’t he.

  Wildey’s knees scream as he hauls ass back down Vernon, rounding the corner on Fifth and then heading up to Tasker to see if he can catch her in time. But either Honors Girl is also running or those long legs of hers have carried her a long long way, because she’s nowhere in sight. He sends a text to her burner, but by the time he’s reached his car there’s no response. If you just went home, Serafina Holland, I don’t care, I’m busting down your door and arresting you. Me and your Pops can have a good old talk about what you’ve been up to the past couple of weeks.

  A few minutes up I-95 she texts:

  MEET ME IN THE STACKS

  Stacks—meaning the bookstore in Port Richmond. Rocketing up I-95, Wildey makes it there in seven minutes. The store is temporarily closed, though, and a note from the proprietor informs potential customers that he’s attending evening Mass but will return soon.

  Wildey finds Honors Girl around the back in the small muddy patch of earth between the store and the highway, sitting on a plastic milk crate. She flinches when Wildey turns the corner, then relaxes when she makes eye contact with him.

  “Thought this place would be open.”

  “It would have been a lot warmer back in your car, where you were supposed to wait for me.”

  Wildey knows this isn’t the time to pound on her, t
hough. She has the wide-eyed look of someone who was nearly sideswiped by a delivery truck and is taking time to appreciate the little things in life, like breathing.

  “I asked you to trust me,” she says. “You heard me say that, right?”

  “Trust only goes so far, Sarie. And right now it’s running real thin between us. What the fuck was that back there? Why did you destroy the bug? Which, by the way, is really fuckin’ expensive, I’ve got to tell you.”

  “Bee tee dubs,” she mutters.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Chuckie Morphine had a scanner. I had to think fast. Turns out there was no party. He was waiting there for me because he was all paranoid, thinking I was a rat. I had to ditch the bug.”