Carlucci's Edge

by Richard Paul Russo

  Brendan finished off his drink. “I’m a drunk, not an illiterate,” he said. “Yes, I’m up on the case. Or as much as I can be from the news, and we both know how that is.” He reached down beside his chair and brought up a half-full vodka bottle, refilled his glass. “What does ‘sort of mean?”

  “There’s more involved than just the mayor’s nephew.” Brendan shrugged. “Robert Butler, sure. That was an easy connection to make. Partners in sleaze. I’m surprised none of the reporters have seen it yet.”

  “A couple have,” Carlucci said. “We’ve killed it.” He didn’t see any reason to mention Tremaine’s interest. “But there’s more to it than Robert Butler.”

  “What, then?”

  Carlucci shook his head. “I can’t, Brendan.”

  Brendan studied him, sipping thoughtfully at his vodka.

  “I just want your advice for dealing with the slug,” Carlucci said.

  Brendan remained silent, watching him. Carlucci finally looked away and stared out the window. Shadows moved behind a window shade in the building next door, two large shadows that seemed to be dancing with each other.

  “Don’t do it,” Brendan said. Carlucci turned to look back at him, and Brendan was shaking his head. “You’re roguing it, aren’t you? Chasing ghosts.” He continued to shake his head. “It’s not worth it, Frank. Anything goes wrong, they’ll bury you, they’ll fucking launch you into the sun.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Oh fuck, it never is.”

  “Just help me with the slug, Brendan.”

  Brendan drank again from his vodka, then set it beside him.

  “Shit, I know you. Frank Carlucci, bull moose, bull elephant, bull whatever. Bullshit. I can’t talk you out of it, can I?”

  “Nothing’s decided yet,” Carlucci told him.

  Brendan smiled. “That’s what you say. Hell, might even be what you think.” He breathed deeply once, and the smile disappeared. “All right, Frank. I can’t help you much, but what I can ... Which slug you seeing?”

  “Monk. He was the first slug put on the case.”

  Brendan nodded. “Good. He’s one of the best.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jesus, Frank, you too? Man, everyone thinks the slugs are all the same, a bunch of freaks who mainline all that brain juice and sit around all day doing nothing but think. I mean, yeah, that’s what they are, but they’re not interchangeable. Some are better than others. Monk is fucking acute. He makes intuitive leaps that are just incredible. Sometimes they’re insane leaps that are dead wrong. Most times, though, he’s razored right in on it, and you have no idea how the hell he got there.” He paused. “When’s the session?”

  “Tonight.” Carlucci was fascinated, listening to Brendan. He hadn’t noticed so much excitement and life in the man in months. Years.

  “All right,” Brendan said. “First thing you want to do is cancel the session, reschedule it for tomorrow. Or better yet, if time isn’t that critical, wait a few days.”

  “Why?”

  “Monk’ll be pushing to get everything he can and be ready for you with his best analysis. Cramming himself full of every bit of information he can scrounge up. An extra push for the scheduled session. Which is good. But if you cancel and reschedule, he’ll have a day or two free of pressure to swim around in all that info, maybe pull in a little something extra from here or there. Time to allow other possibilities to emerge, different connections to make themselves known. A chance for Monk’s real strengths to manifest. Trust me, it’s the smartest thing you can do.”

  Carlucci nodded. “All right. That’s why I’m here. What else?”

  Brendan shrugged. “It’s hard, Frank. When you actually get in there and start talking to him, there’s no formula, you just have to go with your gut. But don’t try to guide Monk. Let him take you where he’s going. That’s what he’s there for. Don’t be surprised if his questions and replies don’t seem to track. They don’t, at first, if ever, because he’ll be jumping all over the place, and you won’t have any idea how he’s getting from one thing to another. Just go with it.”

  He paused, looking at his drink, but didn’t pick it up. He turned to Carlucci. “One last thing, Frank. Don’t expect any pat answers. You may get answers that don’t seem to mean anything at all. He might give you some names, or places, or just a few phrases that don’t make sense. It won’t do you any good to ask Monk to explain them, because he won’t know what they mean, either. The intuitive leaps I was talking about. He’ll give you as much explanation as he can. You’ll just have to follow up whatever he gives you, fucking run it down, and hope it pays off.” He shrugged. “With Monk, it probably will. It may not be what you want, it may not go where you want to go, but it’ll take you to the heart of things.” One final shrug. “That’s all the advice I can give you, Frank. It’s not much, but there it is. You’ll do fine.”

  Carlucci nodded, thinking Brendan should still be on the force, working with the slugs, doing something with his life besides drinking it away. “Thanks, Brendan. I appreciate it.” He stood. “I should get going.”

  “Wait,” Brendan said. His expression fell. “Don’t go yet, Frank.” He pointed at the telephone beside Carlucci. “Call the station and cancel the session. Then stick around, have a drink with me. Just a little while.”

  Carlucci stood looking at Brendan for a few moments. Another drink wasn’t what either of them needed. Christ. He finally nodded. “All right, Brendan. For a little while.” He sat down again and picked up the phone.

  FOURTEEN

  THREE NIGHTS, AND nothing. Paula was exhausted, but she couldn’t stop. She’d canceled one gig with the Black Angels, and she’d left the theater early last night and tonight. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up. Amy had helped her when she could, but most of the time Paula had been on her own, skimming the streets of the Tenderloin at night, searching for Mixer.

  She was halfway through night four and doing no better; what little hope remained was fading rapidly. She had strayed a few blocks into the Asian Quarter for a break, and now stood in front of one of her old haunts, Misha’s Donuts and Espresso. Amy was supposed to meet her here at two. Paula punched the door aside and walked in.

  Misha’s hadn’t changed. Haunting metallic echoes and tones washed through the room from the sound system—“ambient industrial,” Misha called it. Ion poles sparked among the tables; booths around the edges were on platforms about four feet above the floor. Plasma tubes provided the lighting, deep reds and oranges glowing and flowing through them.

  The place was nearly full. Paula worked her way to the counter, picked out two sour-cream-filled donuts, got a large black coffee, and sat at a small empty table set between anion pole and a metallic stick tree. Sparks from the ion pole jumped across the table to the tips of the tree branches. The ion pole activity was supposed to make her feel better. It didn’t.

  She had taken only two bites from the first donut and a sip from the coffee when Jenny Woo slid onto the chair across the table from her, banging her elbows onto the tabletop. Her long, straight black hair was woven through with silver metal strands, which caught some of the sparks from the ion pole.

  “Hey, Asgard.” Jenny Woo flashed a split-second smile, but her expression was hard.

  “Hello, Jenny.” They didn’t like each other at all, and neither tried to hide it. Jenny and Chick had had a brief but intense affair about a year ago, which ended when Chick got hit by another of his periodic bouts of impotence. All of Chick’s affairs ended in impotence. Karma. Paula almost smiled, thinking about it.

  “Why is it,” Jenny Woo asked, “that I keep seeing you lately? Three, four times the last few days. You following me, dinko?”

  “Why would I be following you?” Paula had seen Jenny a couple of times herself, and had assumed Jenny was following her. She pushed the plate toward Jenny. “Have a donut.”

  Jenny Woo leaned back in her chair. “What I
asked myself,” she said. “I come up with only one answer, and I don’t like it. Chick.”

  “Chick.”

  “Yeah.” Another flashing smile. “You know. The dead guy.”

  “I see you’re torn up about it,” Paula said.

  “He was a good fuck, until he couldn’t. After that, he wasn’t good for anything.” She raised a single eyebrow at Paula. “Which is what got him killed, really.”

  Jenny leaned forward, and Paula could see she was about to say something else, when Amy came up to the table.

  “Hey,” Amy said. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Yes,” Jenny Woo said. “Come back in five minutes.” Amy glanced at Paula, then turned back to Jenny Woo. “I know you, don’t I?”

  “Not like you think you do,” Jenny said.

  “And I don’t like you,” Amy concluded.

  “No, you don’t.” Jenny smiled again, this time holding it for several beats. “Now flash, and leave us alone for five minutes, like I said.”

  When Amy looked at her, Paula nodded. Amy shoved her hands into her jeans pockets, then walked away.

  “She with you on this?” Jenny asked.

  “There is no ‘this,’” Paula said. “She’s helping me look for someone. It’s got nothing to do with you or Chick.”

  Jenny Woo leaned forward again. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but firm

  “Chick was an ambitious little shit who thought he had a lot more shine than he did. He didn’t know his limitations. He didn’t understand how dark things were until someone put a few holes in his head. Too late, then.” Jenny shook her head. “Don’t make the same mistake, Asgard. Leave it. Chick’s dead, you can’t change that, and getting dead yourself won’t help anyone.” She stood up. “I don’t want to see you again.”

  Paula pretty much felt the same, but she didn’t say anything. Jenny Woo started to turn away, then quickly swung back to face Paula.

  “You are looking for someone,” Jenny said. “Mixer. The trial of Saint Katherine, that frigid bitch.”

  “You know something,” Paula said, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice.

  “Oh yes,” Jenny Woo said. “I know something.”

  “What?”

  Jenny Woo shook her head, this time with the first genuine smile Paula had seen on her face. A nasty smile. “I never give information away, sweetheart. There’s always a price. And there’s not a thing you’ve got that I want.” She paused, still smiling. “I like it this way, knowing that you don’t know.”

  Paula wanted to get up and strangle Jenny Woo, or smash a chair over her head. She remained seated, silent. Karma would get Jenny Woo one day, she told herself. Except Paula didn’t really believe in Karma. How could she, in this goddamn world?

  “Goodbye, Asgard.” Jenny was still smiling. She turned and marched away, pushing out the door and onto the street.

  Paula sat without moving, staring at her coffee and donuts. No fantasies of Jenny Woo coming back and telling her what she knew about Mixer, no fucking chance of that. Shit. Paula just didn’t know what to do.

  Amy reappeared in front of her. Paula had forgotten. Amy sat in the chair, frowning. “Jenny Woo, right?”

  Paula nodded.

  “You know what she does?” Amy asked. “What she bootlegs?”

  Paula nodded again. “Yeah, I know. Body-bags. Chick was in on it, too.” She paused. “So was Mixer, at the ‘retail’ end.” She shook her head.

  “Great,” said Amy. “And you’re killing yourself looking for him.”

  Paula shrugged. “What can I do? He’s my friend.” She sighed. “Jenny Woo said she knew something about Mixer, about the trial. She refused to say what.”

  “I’ve heard something, too.”

  “You have?” Paula felt a tightening inside her chest. “What?”

  “Nothing too specific. A contact on the nets says something went wrong with the trial. He didn’t know what happened, didn’t know if Mixer was alive or dead or what. The Saints are trying to keep a lid on, but he got the impression there was going to be some kind of public announcement in a day or two. And they never, never go public about their trials.”

  “Jesus,” Paula said. “Is that good or bad?”

  “No idea,” said Amy, shaking her head. “But it probably isn’t any worse than what we’ve been looking at.”

  Amy was right. They’d been expecting to find Mixer dead or completely wrecked, and there wasn’t much that could be worse than that. “Worth hitting the streets again,” Paula said.

  “Maybe so,” Amy replied. “But you’re on your own tonight. I’ve got other business. Only reason I came down here was to tell you what I’d heard.”

  “Thanks, Amy. You’ve been a wonder, really.”

  Amy smiled, then said, “You know, chances are still shit for finding him, even if something good’s happened. You haven’t heard from him, which probably means they’ve still got him wrapped up, even if he isn’t dead. They just might be gearing up to run through the trial again. Or, hell, who knows what else? Don’t expect too much.”

  “I know, Amy, but I’ve got to have a little hope. I was just about down to none, and I can’t keep going without it.”

  “Yeah.” Amy stood. “I’ve gotta go. Luck to you, Paula.”

  “Thanks.”

  Amy left, and Paula watched her walk out of Misha’s. She felt better than she had in days. She pulled the donuts back and reached for the coffee. A good shot of caffeine and a couple solid hits of carbos and she’d be ready to go back out onto the streets.

  By dawn, what little new hope had pumped through Paula was pretty much shot. Exhaustion, she told herself—too many days without enough sleep. She felt like shit again.

  She dropped onto an old concrete bench across the street from a shock shop. If she let herself, she could fall asleep here, become ripe meat for the street scavs. People moved all around her, and she closed her eyes, tried to imagine herself being ripped apart. Then she sensed someone sit beside her on the bench.

  “Hello, Paula.”

  Paula opened her eyes to see Tremaine sitting next to her. The rising sun reflected off the shock shop window across the street, then off the left lens of Tremaine’s glasses, obscuring his eye.

  “You’ve been following me,” she said.

  “No,” Tremaine replied, shaking his head. The shimmer of reflection shifted from one lens to the other and back again. “Or rather, yes, but only the last few minutes. I was in the Asian Quarter, on the edge, and I saw you sort of drifting back and forth between the Asian and Euro. You seemed lost. Wiped.” He paused. “You know, Paula, you look terrible.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Well, you do.”

  “Yeah. I feel terrible. Lack of sleep and food will do that to you.” She shrugged. “I’ve been looking for someone.”

  “Mixer?”

  A shot of fear sliced through her. “How did you know?”

  “I was there, remember? At The Final Transit when your friend came in and said something about Mixer and Saint Katherine.”

  Paula looked askance at him. “You have a damn good memory.”

  “It helps in my business.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” She turned away and looked at the shock shop. An old woman in heavy, flowing robes was closing up. Jesus, Paula thought, she must be roasting in those robes. Things had cooled down some with yesterday’s rainstorm, but it was still warm, even this early in the morning. “Yes,” she finally said, still not looking at Tremaine, “I’ve been looking for Mixer.”

  “You haven’t found him.”

  “No.”

  “A close friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “How close?”

  Paula heard something familiar in his voice, and she turned to look at him. “Not that kind of friend. But a close friend.”

  Tremaine nodded.

  “Chick Roberts was the one who was that kind of friend.”

  “I
know,” Tremaine said. His expression seemed to convey a real sympathy, which surprised her for some reason.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me again about him being killed?” Paula said.

  Tremaine shook his head.

  They sat without speaking for two or three minutes, watching the sun come up orange and crimson between the buildings, its outline shimmering through the haze.

  “Let me take you home,” Tremaine finally said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve got a car outside the Tenderloin. Just a few blocks away, a short walk.” He paused. “You look like you could do with some sleep.”

  Paula looked at him, still trying to decide what kind of person he was. She didn’t know yet, she just didn’t know. But she nodded anyway. “Sure,” she said. “Take me home. Why the hell not?”

  The old Plymouth ground to a stop in front of her apartment building.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Paula said.

  “Sure,” Tremaine said. He put his hand on her shoulder. “You are exhausted. Get some sleep.” He took his hand away.

  “I will.” Paula had been half expecting Tremaine to invite himself up to her apartment, and she’d been dreading having to tell him to fuck off, but now it didn’t look like he was going to do that.

  “Let me buy you dinner tonight,” Tremaine said. “You could probably use a good meal, too.”

  “Yeah, probably I could.” She shook her head. “But I just might sleep through the night as well.” There was something about this guy, something she liked. She smiled at him. “Make it tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Tomorrow it is.”

  “Call me,” Paula said. “I’m sure you know my number.” Tremaine nodded, and Paula got out of the car. She closed the door and stood on the sidewalk, watching as Tremaine and the old Plymouth pulled away from the curb, surprisingly sorry to see him go.

  FIFTEEN

  CARLUCCI HAD ARRANGED to meet Paula at noon by the Civic Center pond, a large oval four feet deep at its center, the water covered by a thick layer of green and brown muck. She was waiting for him when he arrived, pacing at the water’s edge; after the morning rain, the overflow channels were draining slowly toward the streets, and she stepped over them as she paced back and forth.