Canary

by Duane Swierczynski

  Wildey exhales from his nose, making him look like a steaming bull. “You don’t still have it, do you?”

  Honors Girl gives him a look like, duh.

  “No. But I did get this.”

  She pulls a bag of Oxys out of her coat pocket. Far more pills than the $500 Wildey gave her could have bought.

  “Whoa.”

  “I’m working for him now.”

  Wildey beams. “I could kiss you. I mean, I’m still pissed off about the bug, but this is good. Real, real good.”

  Honors Girl just stares at him, perhaps unsure of what to say or weirded out by that whole “kiss you” comment. Where did that come from, anyway?

  “Tell me everything that happened,” Wildey says. “And I mean everything. Starting with Chuckie’s real name.”

  “His name is Charles Chaykin. His day job is real estate. He’s the brother of my literature professor.”

  “What?”

  I give Wildey an abridged version of the events at Chuckie’s house. I do not tell him that Chuckie knows I am a CI. I do not mention my deal with Chuckie. I do not reveal that D. is essentially a hostage right now. Instead I tell him everything I learned.

  Almost everything.

  “Chaykin sets up his operation in empty houses before they go on the market. That way he stays ahead of you guys at every turn. Chuckie might be at a certain address for a week, or maybe only a few hours. He handles a lot of property, almost all of it in South Philly, near the river. Mostly Queens Village and Pennsport.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just looked it up on the Internet.”

  “Good, good,” Wildey says. “But wait. If he keeps moving, how does he stay in touch with his dealers?”

  “Some video game—Big Bust V. There’s a series of chat rooms where you can invite certain players. Chuckie leaves messages there for his network of employees.”

  Wildey nods. Clever asshole. He’s read about some dealers keeping in touch online. It’s nearly impossible to trace, unless you somehow subpoena the multinational corporation behind the video game.

  “But he’s moving around more than ever now, paranoid as shit, because apparently there’s a gang of cops out there ripping off drug dealers.”

  “He tell you that?”

  “He did, but it only confirmed what I’ve been reading.”

  Wildey gives her a sidelong glance. “What do you mean, what you’ve been reading? There’s nothing like that in the papers.”

  “Are you telling me it isn’t true? Read the comments section behind those same articles. That’s all people are talking about. So …?”

  “Yeah, it’s true.”

  “And how many CIs have disappeared in the past two weeks?”

  Wildey can’t even look her in the eye.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Didn’t you think that might be valuable information to share with me? You know, watch your back for a bunch of hired killers who might be coming for you?”

  “Would you tell me, if our roles were reversed?”

  “If our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”

  “You wouldn’t have let me go, who you kidding, Honors Girl. You’re more law and order than I am.”

  Cars rocket past on I-95. The wind feels colder by the minute.

  “Do you know who’s doing it?” Honors Girl asks.

  “Between you and me?”

  She again gives him the duh? look. Who else would she tell? Wildey grapples with the next part. He shouldn’t say a word, and he knows it. But it doesn’t feel like he’s talking to an informant anymore. It’s the damnedest thing. He feels like he’s talking to a colleague.

  “The Loot thinks we have a rat inside our own unit.”

  “Oh, that’s just fucking great. I knew it! If you’ve read anything about informants, you’d know that this kind of thing happens all the time. Nobody can ever keep a secret. About anything. Ever!”

  “Hey. Easy now. More than anybody else, you’re protected.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because Kaz never officially entered you in the system. Look, you know from the beginning that we never wanted you—we wanted your boyfriend. And we didn’t really want him. We just wanted him long enough to get us to Chuckie, or Chaykin, or whatever the fuck his name is. And now thanks to you, we’re on him.”

  “So I’m free to go?”

  Wildey looks at her, dead serious for a moment, then cracks a smile. “That’s a good one.”

  They sit in silence, watching the traffic go by. People headed downtown or up to the Northeast and beyond into Bucks County. People with no pressing worries other than what kind of food they want to order tonight or what movie to put on Netflix. People who speed by these neighborhoods without the slightest idea of what happens in them. Or even if they do, they don’t give a shit, because they don’t have to live in them.

  “I think I can figure this out for you,” Sarie Holland says quietly.

  “Figure what out?”

  “What’s going on. Who’s killing the CIs, who’s ripping off drug dealers. The whole picture.”

  “That would be great,” Wildey says. “You maybe want to clue me in?”

  “I said I can figure it out for you. But I need more time. Give me forty-eight hours.”

  “You and your deadlines. They’re going to get you into serious trouble someday.”

  DECEMBER 11

  I missed my exam today. Slept right through it.

  I don’t care.

  My supervisor from the bursar’s office called and left me a voicemail about an irregularity in one of the student organization accounts. Could I please call back or stop in at the office immediately …

  (The $2,000, all in hundreds, is still in my backpack. Along with the $5,000 Chuckie Morphine gave me.)

  I don’t care.

  Dad is pissed and even Marty’s looking at me funny.

  I can’t afford to care about that right now, either.

  Because D. is a hostage and I’m pretty much the only one who can save him. I can’t tell Wildey, because I just know they’ll fuck it up, and I can’t risk D.’s life. Not without first giving Chuckie the dirt on the strike teams and springing D.

  So fuck exams.

  I need information.

  And there’s only one person in this game who knows more than I do.

  Last time they classed it up; this time Partyman thinks they should go down into the alleys and gutters. McGillin’s Old Ale House is the oldest continuously operating bar in Philadelphia, established in 1860, just two blocks from City Hall yet serving right through Prohibition, like they didn’t hear the news about the Eighteenth Amendment. You have to admire an establishment like that. These are pieces of this city that Partyman cherishes—the places too stubborn to die.

  Inside it looks like someone vomited Christmas all over the place—tinsel and lights and cherubic Santas and reindeer. It almost makes him nostalgic. Even though Partyman arrives early to everything, Serafina Holland has beat him here and is waiting for him at a table. Partyman nods, accepts a plastic-covered menu from a server, then takes a seat opposite her. Before he’s even gotten the chance to sit down, she leans in close and opens fire.

  “How did you know Chuckie Morphine would check me for a wire? How do you even know Chuckie Morphine at all? I thought you worked for Tammy’s boyfriend!”

  “No, it’s safer to say I’m sort of a freelance operative. It’s my job to keep an ear to the ground.”

  “So you know Chuckie?”

  “I am indeed familiar with Mr. Chaykin and his operation.”

  Jesus, she mutters. Partyman scans the menu, settles on a roast beef sandwich with extra horseradish. Oh, and beer. A pitcher of the house ale.

  “Can you tell me what kind of guy he is? Because as of a few hours ago I’m working for him.”

  “That’s a very bad idea. He’s not a nice man at all. You should have told me you were looking for a jo
b. I could have given you a few leads.”

  “This is not what I want to hear.”

  “What do you want to hear? You’re leading so many double lives you can’t keep it straight anymore, can you?”

  “What do you mean? You don’t even know me.”

  “I know everything about you, Serafina Holland.”

  Her face falls.

  “Didn’t think you looked like a Joan.”

  “You’re not a dealer. You’re some kind of cop, aren’t you? With the DEA or something?”

  “Let’s just leave it at or something.”

  “Will you tell me your name? I don’t even care if it’s your real name. I’d just like to be able to call you a name.”

  “I like the name you gave me. Partyman. Makes me sound festive.”

  “So what else do you know about me?”

  Partyman grins. “I know you’re a seventeen-year-old honors student whose mother, Laura, died last year, derailing your plans to attend UCLA. Your father, Kevin, is a drug and alcohol counselor, which may explain why you’ve pretty much lived the straight and narrow your whole life … until the past two weeks, for some reason.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “I’m sorry. I liked you, so I looked into you. I’m really good at looking into people. And your ID is good, but not foolproof. So watch it.”

  “Please don’t arrest me. It’s finals week.”

  Partyman laughs. “That’s funny. That’s seriously funny.”

  “Happy to be a source of amusement to you.”

  “Serafina, listen to me. This life is not for you. Go home. Talk to your father, tell him you really want to go to L.A. He’ll make it happen for you, I know he will. It’s not too late.”

  “It is too late. The water’s up to my nose and I’m about to drown.”

  “What would help?”

  “A bullet to my brain.”

  “I’m asking a serious question.”

  “Okay. Fine.” She pauses to bite her lower lip … then blurts it out, hushed and excited at the same time: “You don’t happen to know anyone who’s kidnapping confidential informants all over town?” As if she expects to shock or stun him.

  Instead, Partyman beams. “Shit, that’s an easy one. Peter D’Argenio. Your friend’s boyfriend. Though I understand that relationship is more Internet-based …”

  “Wait, what? Don’t you work for him?”

  “Like I told you, I’m freelance. But as it so happens, we parted ways yesterday. I couldn’t work with a man like that any longer.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I found out he was taking CIs off the chessboard. That’s just not a nice thing to do. It also exposes his operation in a very stupid way.”

  The girl looks like she’s been smacked. It’s almost adorable. It’s as if she doesn’t know what to say next, though Partyman can predict the exact words she’ll say next: Why are you telling me this? And, lo:

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I know you’ll do the right thing.”

  DECEMBER 11 (later)

  I spend the rest of the afternoon wandering around the city, trying to sort it all out in my brain. I know I should have come home right away and started writing this all out, but I knew Dad would be waiting for me, and I didn’t want to deal with him. Not before I had the chance to think. The city is fucking freezing, even though the sun is out. People keep bumping into me, pissing me off. Maybe it’s me, my indecision. I’m so turned around I don’t know which way I’m going. Do I run to Wildey with this? Do I run to Chuckie and let him deal with this? No, I do nothing. Nothing until I’ve had the chance to think …

  When I finally arrive home, Dad is pissed. He pounces on me the moment I step in the door. I tell him I can’t do this now, I’ve got too much on my mind. He says, can’t do what, talk to your own father?

  —Not now.

  —What if I have something important to tell you?

  —I don’t care! Can’t you just get off my back for one second?

  —Sarie, what’s wrong with you? When did you stop being able to talk to me?

  —Oh, now you want to talk to me? Guess what, Dad, it’s a little too late.

  —What does that mean?

  —Go have another beer. I have to study.

  I slam the door and go down to my desk and cry.

  DECEMBER 12 (early)

  Here’s what I know:

  There’s a leak in Wildey’s narcotics unit

  Someone is kidnapping (possibly killing) confidential informants

  Someone is raiding drug houses, posing as cops. Most likely using information from the tortured confidential informants

  If Partyman is to be believed, then Peter D’Argenio is the one behind all of this

  (Can Partyman be believed? Why would he tell me this? What does he have to gain? Is he a bitter ex-employee with an axe to grind? Or a DEA agent? Or something else?)

  5. All of which means D’Argenio is trying to move into the drug trade, and is working with the leak in Wildey’s narcotics unit

  What I need to know:

  The name of the leak

  Partyman’s deal

  I’m not going to find the answers sitting in this den

  Even though it’s late, I text Tammy

  Then, Wildey

  FOX CHASE

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 12

  The man on the radio says today is set to be the coldest day of the year so far. All Marty knows is that it’s pretty frosty in here, too. Dad doesn’t say a word all morning, and when Sarie appears in the kitchen it’s only for 1.5 seconds—the approximate time it takes her to cross the room and slam the door shut behind her without a word. Which is weird, because Marty knows Sarie doesn’t have an exam today (at least according to the handwritten schedule stuck on the fridge with a Portsmouth, NH, magnet). Where’s she going? Marty asks his father if something’s wrong; he tells his son not to worry, to hurry up and get ready for school. Which is the answer he’s come to expect.

  Before he leaves for school Marty goes down to the den and pokes around Sarie’s desk. Maybe she does have an exam today—or some study group thing? There are books and papers scattered all over the desktop. Lots of blue exam books, a lot of them empty. Sarie must swipe them by the armful. Marty opens what he thinks is a blank one, half-wondering if he should swipe one (might be fun to do some cartoons inside, surprise Sarie), but there’s already writing inside.

  Here’s what I know:

  There’s a leak in Wildey’s narcotics unit

  Someone is kidnapping (possibly killing) confidential informants

  Someone is raiding drug houses, posing as cops. Most likely using information from the tortured

  Marty barely has time to comprehend what he’s reading before his dad yells, annoyed, telling him he’s going to be late for school.

  MOOSE AND SQUIRREL

  PORT RICHMOND

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 12

  It’s scary, the way Honors Girl lays it all out for him.

  She has a manila folder full of newspaper clips, handwritten notes (in her impeccably neat script). It’s even highlighted. It takes a while for him to process it all, and after he catches on Wildey starts firing questions at her, trying to poke holes in her logic. She answers his questions using clips or notes, and when she doesn’t have a clip or a note, she cites a “source close to the organization.”

  “You’re gonna have to tell me more about this source,” Wildey says. “That’s a big piece of this.”

  “No,” she says. “You protect your sources, I protect mine.”

  “I can’t go to my Loot with a big fat ol’ ‘trust me.’”

  “See, that’s exactly my point.”

  Only when she walks him through it again does Wildey understand the full implications of what she’s saying. It’s pretty much the unthinkable. The ultimate betrayal.

  “Either you sold out your own informants …”

  Wildey gives her a ste
rn look. “You know that’s about the fuckin’ last thing I would do …”

  “… or she did.”

  She, meaning Lieutenant Katrina Mahoney. The head of the NFU-CS. The unofficial drug czarina of Philadelphia.

  “No. That can’t be.”

  “I hope not. But there’s a way you can find out.”

  Honors Girl tells Wildey the way. It’s big, it’s bold, it’s potentially crazy. But even Wildey has to agree it’s the only move.

  The waitress comes back to see if they still don’t want coffee. Neither of them says anything; they’re too lost in thought. The waitress gives up, shuffles away.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Wildey says after a long while.

  “Yes I do,” she says. “You know I do.”

  Yeah, he knows she does, too.

  Today is supposed to be a rare day off for his Loot, but Wildey calls her cell; she answers after the first ring. He suggests meeting at that Grey Lodge place, but Kaz tells him she can’t leave home.

  “Well, I can’t do this on the phone.”

  Kaz sighs. “Fine, come to my fucking house, then.”

  SPRING GARDEN

  The lieutenant is making cabbage and egg pirozhki when Wildey arrives. The front hall reeks of sulfur and boiled sweat, which her neighbors must love. Kaz lives in one of those huge brownstone mansions that have been carved up into apartments; hers is on the first floor, rear. Wildey knocks on the door. He hears the Loot yell, “Come on in,” and he opens the door and makes his way down a long, skinny hall to the galley kitchen. Weird layout, but that’s what you get when you carve up a mansion into ten apartments.