by Nancy Martin
“I don’t have to tell you.”
“No,” he agreed, “you don’t.”
She lay back in the chair and looked at the ceiling, raking her hair back from her forehead with one hand. “Damian brings food, delivers my laundry. Sometimes he goes to the bank for me.” She caught Mick’s look. “There’s no way I’d fuck him. I have some taste, you know.”
“Is he your gopher? Or is he working for somebody else?”
She grabbed the glass off the table and sipped some water, but shook her head, not answering.
Mick tried to make sense of everything he had figured out so far. Little Frankie’s plan. Sanchez collecting money and being stupid about it. A dangerous dude in Camden who hid behind razor wire and a crew with automatic weapons. And now Liz, pregnant. Probably pregnant with the child of the Camden guy, Mick guessed. Pregnant when Nora--he couldn’t stop himself from thinking--who wanted children so badly, bravely kept up the front that they could be happy without kids, even after their miscarriage. While some drug-dealing asshole was going to be the father of Liz Trillo’s baby.
He finally asked, “Liz, are you a prisoner here?”
“No. No. Maybe it looks that way, but … “ She got the shakes again and set the glass down fast. “We go out sometimes. Restaurants. I have doctor appointments, too. But now he says it’s too dangerous to go out much.”
“Because of your baby?”
“No.”
It was dangerous because her dealer boyfriend had reached a level of success where he couldn’t be out in the world without the risk of getting gunned down—either by his own people or the competition. Maybe even the cops.
For her, though, it was no way to live. Mick said, “Do you see any of your old friends? What about whatshername, Julie?”
“Julia. She moved to Atlanta.”
“Your mom?”
“We’re still not talking.”
“Anybody?”
“He doesn’t like me seeing people.”
“Why not?”
She got defensive. “He doesn’t want me getting hurt, I guess. I don’t know. He takes care of me. More than you ever did.”
Mick took Liz’s hand in his and turned it over. She resisted, but he held tight and pushed her sleeve up to her elbow. Bruises laced her skin, some of them fresh, some of them turning green. Not drug-use bruises, but evidence of man-handling. He had noticed the edges of the bruises before. Now, seeing the extent of her injuries made him feel hot inside. “He did this? He takes care of you, but he does this?”
She flushed again and tried to pull away, but gave up and hung her head. “It’s nothing. I give as good as I get. You know that. He’s under a lot of stress. It—everything’s complicated for him, that’s all.”
He turned her loose. For a minute, neither of them spoke.
“I can get you out of here,” Mick said finally. “I’ll call some people. We can make it happen. Find you a place to stay, maybe get you home to your mom for a while.”
When she lifted her head, she was back in control, face in a sneer. “Why should I trust you? You’re just as bad as any other man I’ve ever known. You want to play hero now? That’s hilarious, considering. I’m fine. No problems. You’re here for nothing. So just get the hell out, Mick. This baby will be born in a few more weeks, and everything will be good.”
Well, he could take a hint. Homeboy was due back to the Kia soon anyway.
Mick pulled out one of his cell phones. “I’m going to give you this. I’ll program in some numbers where you can reach me.” He hit a few keys. “Keep it where nobody can find it, okay? The pocket of an old coat, maybe. Not in the bedroom. Not in the kitchen. Call me anytime. For any reason.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not taking anything from you. I don’t need it. I don’t want you in this. Get out of here, Mick.”
He put the phone on the table anyway and let himself out.
Homeboy came back from lunch and promptly went to sleep in the Kia. Amateur night. Or maybe he was the last option for whoever hired him. If he was supposed to be protecting Liz, he was lousy at it. Mick wanted to go haul Homeboy out of his car and beat him down into the pavement for being worthless.
But if he’d learned anything from Nora, it was the value of keeping his temper in check.
Homeboy was nobody Mick recognized. Pop might know him, though. Pop had encyclopedic knowledge of every mook in the five states, but he was currently inside and therefore no help. Going to see him on visiting day was out of the question—a parole violation. Besides, talking to Big Frankie always ended with the old man tempting Mick with some proposition or other. Maybe he wanted to be reassured the crooked business he’d built would live beyond his lifetime. He seemed to think Mick was the only one capable of managing of the family enterprise—a prospect that would end things forever with Nora, but Big Frankie didn’t care about that. His own motives were more important. He’d been a hard bastard when Mick was growing up, but now he was slippery.
Mick parked along the river and thought for a while. He let his mind roam around through all the crap he’d tried to forget for Nora’s sake--conversations in prison yards, from jailhouse experts--the only education readily available among the incarcerated. How to pluck a pickpocket. Steal from a thief. Clean out a money launderer. Trick a con man.
Kill a killer.
It was harmless mental exercise, he told himself. But after a while he felt guilty, like he was cheating on Nora. And he hadn’t come up with a plan, anyway, so it was time wasted. He had to admit he’d run out of realistic options.
When all else fails?
Go to the cops.
Reluctantly, he decided he could contact a state trooper in the Bucks County barracks, a cop named Ricci who was less of a jerk-off than most. It was better not to surprise Ricci at home, where he’d assume his family was under threat. But meeting him at the police barracks felt too much like snitching. So Mick phoned first, and at Ricci’s command they met in the parking lot of a suburban bowling alley just as the ladies league was finishing up for the afternoon. A bunch of women in crazyass outfits came gabbling out of the building, carrying big bags and quacking at each other like a flock of ducks.
Right on time, Ricci pulled into the lot and parked where he could watch the passing traffic on the street. When the ladies league had headed home, Mick got out of his car and went over to Ricci’s cruiser. It was one of the few parking lots left that wasn’t covered by multiple security cameras, so Ricci popped the lock on the passenger door. Mick climbed into the seat. There wasn’t much leg room. Ricci was in uniform, wearing his sidearm. He did not remove his sunglasses. He smelled of sport deodorant. The dashboard was covered with electronics, including a small computer screen with a keyboard on a mount. The radio murmured.
When Mick had closed the door, Ricci said, “This is a surprise. Are we going steady now?”
“You’re out of luck. I’m in a committed relationship.”
“But you’re not married,” Ricci said. “You’re pretending you’re married, but there’s no paperwork. I checked.”
Mick sighed. “You sound like the parish priest.”
“Compared to Nora Blackbird, you’re a junkyard dog,” Ricci continued, sounding amused. “Why pretend? Why not walk her down the aisle? She says no? Or you think something better’s going to come along for you?”
“Nothing could be better than her.”
“So what’s holding you back?”
Talking about marriage with a cop felt like his first appointment with his first probation officer—him needing to justify every decision to an asshole with nothing but suspicion on his mind. A lot of wiseass comebacks bubbled up inside, but antagonizing a cop was usually the wrong move.
Mick looked out the windshield for a while, getting control of himself and weighing his options. He finally said, “Do you believe in curses?”
“Curses? You mean, like voodoo?”
“I don’t know what the he
ll it is, but the Blackbird sisters believe they’re cursed. That their husbands die. They’re all widows---even the old aunts. And, okay, every time I get close to putting a ring on it, I get blindsided by one damn thing or another. Hell, I came this close to getting shanked last October, and that was minimum security. A guy came at me with a plastic fork like he was going to cut out my liver.”
“What? You’re afraid to get married? Afraid because you might die?”
“She’s the one spooked by the curse. Me--she’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I love her like crazy. I mean, she puts flowers on the kitchen table, for crying out loud, even in winter. For a junkyard dog, it doesn’t get any better than that.”
“Lemonade,” Ricci said.
“Huh?”
“My wife. She has a rule. We have to stop and buy lemonade anytime we see kids with a lemonade stand.”
“Like that,” Mick agreed. “So I’d like to be with her, you know? In sickness and in health, all that. But she’s scared I’m gonna die if we get married. So … we’re trying to figure it out.”
The cop took off his sunglasses. And for the first time since they’d been acquainted, Ricci grinned. “You’re not such a tough guy after all, Abruzzo.”
Mick didn’t smile back. “Don’t tell anybody. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“So why’d you call me?”
Down to business. It was almost a relief after the true confessions. Mick pulled out his phone and thumbed it to the picture he’d snapped of Homeboy’s license plate. “There’s this friend of mine who’s being staked out in the city by a kid in this Kia. Plus there’s a low level guy in a cash washing business who visits her on a regular basis, runs her errands, I don’t know what else. I need to know who the hell they are and who they’re working for before I go any farther.”
Ricci made no move to look at the license plate. “Who’s the friend?”
“I can’t tell you. But it’s a woman—an old girlfriend from ‘way back, just a friend now. I think she’s in trouble. Somebody’s beating on her. And she’s pregnant.”
“So we’ll send a patrol car.”
“She doesn’t want to be rescued. I tried that. She’s scared, though. Pretty bad, and not just because she’s black and blue. I want to know why she’s being watched, who’s calling the shots.”
“What do you think you’re going to do about it if you find out who they are?”
“There’s not much I can do without bringing down more shit on her. Or me.” Not without losing Nora, not without risking his parole. But he didn’t say that. Ricci would figure it out. “I need more to go on. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
Mick hadn’t told Ricci about the Blackbird curse for nothing. Or been honest about caring for Nora. He knew what the give and take required, and he’d given. “Look,” he said, “I’ll tell you what I have. There’s some drug business going on, and I’m guessing it’s a big operation.”
Mick told Ricci about Sanchez and the Camden warehouse.
Finally, Ricci looked out the windshield and did some speculating. “Sanchez and the homeboy in the Kia are hired help—disposable muscle. The Camden guy is something else. DEA probably has him on their radar. You figure he’s the abusive boyfriend?”
“Probably. Can you find out if DEA is close to nailing him?”
“And then I tell you? A felon just off the block? Maybe I should just turn in my shield and my gun right now and save the state the trouble of firing me.” Ricci said, “Information goes only one way in the snitching business. You know that.”
“I’m not snitching,” Mick said at once. “Drugs, though, that’s different.”
Ricci didn’t roll his eyes, but it was close.
Mick went on, “Drugs are bad business for everybody—you and me both. There’s no rules, innocent bystanders get killed over stupid shit. And this lowlife ringleader is beating on his pregnant girlfriend, which just goes to show what kind of pig he--”
“Okay, simmer down.”
Ricci thought about things for a while, probably letting Mick get himself together, too, while he considered what was possible. At last he said, “We can coordinate with Philly police to get your friend out of wherever she is today, but after that we’ll have to let the DEA do whatever they have planned.”
“That could take forever. Plus, even if she agrees to disappear, he’s sure to bug out of Camden, which screws the DEA. And he’ll maybe go after her, which is what I’m trying to prevent in the first place. Until he’s off the street,” Mick said, “she’s in danger. So how about I give you the Kia plate, and if he’s bad news you have the city cops arrest the homeboy for—I dunno--loitering or stalking or whatever damn thing you guys dream up in these situations. While he’s in custody, you can lean on him for information about Sanchez and who they work for, and when we know enough we’ll … explore the possibilities. You’re gonna run the plate anyway, right? So tell me who’s who in the zoo. Maybe I can save you some time.”
Ricci took a breath and held it, frowning, probably trying to get a grip on his own curiosity. Cops liked to pretend they played by the rules, but they liked to be cowboys, too. Silent, Mick extended the phone to him again.
This time Ricci took the phone. He punched numbers into his computer. Tilting the screen so Mick couldn’t see it, he frowned for a while. Mick might not have been able to read the words on the screen, but he could definitely see the red flashing. And Ricci began to flex one hand in and out of a fist.
“Well?”
Ricci returned the phone and put his sunglasses back on. “We’ll pick up the idiot in the Kia.”
“Does your computer say who his boss is?”
Ricci swiveled the screen and pointed to a flashing red name.
Enrique Garza. It meant nothing to Mick. Not yet, anyway.
But Ricci’s voice went cop flat when he said, “Go home, Mick. Stay with the nice woman you love so much. Don’t go exploring any possibilities by yourself. Just back off. Unless you want that voodoo curse to kick in, you need to let us take care of this now. From what I see here,” he tapped the computer screen, “Garza is very bad people.”
“I know all about bad people.”
Ricci shot him a look. “Yeah, you’re related to most of them. But if you get caught associating with any of these, you’ll be back in lockup--fast. And it won’t be a cushy minimum security stretch. So go home and stay there. Forget about your ex-girlfriend and pay attention to the one who matters now. Let this thing play out in time.”
“In time? There’s a baby coming.”
“The DEA will take care of Garza when he gets to the top of their priority list.”
Mick felt like breaking a window. Cops were useless. He should have known it would turn out like this. Ricci probably wanted to stay as far away from Garza as possible so he didn’t ruin his manicure. Pissed off, Mick got out of the cruiser and walked back to his own car. He cursed himself for being stupid. Cops protected their own asses, and that was it.
It was Nora’s night to work, so Mick had dinner with Bruno at a tavern outside of New Hope, both of them Googling Garza and learning about drug dealers and cartels and Mexicans who killed their own so American college kids could smoke marijuana when they didn’t feel like studying.
After dinner, Mick discovered he didn’t have enough cash to pay for his burger, so he had to borrow from Bruno, who laughed it off.
On the drive home, Little Frankie called, voice sounding like he planned on winning the lottery.
“Hey, bro. You decide about stealing the Jag or not?”
“What kind of phone are you on?”
“My phone?”
Mick hung up. The idiot.
When he got home, he was surprised to find Nora at the kitchen table, chin in her hand, glaring at her computer screen. Her job meant she was out to fancy parties five nights a week, but here she was wearing her jeans instead of looking like Cinderella in a ball gown.
Mick st
opped short at the sight of her at home. “I thought you were working tonight.”
“I was supposed to, but my party was cancelled. They couldn’t find enough people who wanted to donate to Books for Kids. Isn’t that terrible?” Upset, she snapped her laptop closed. “I’m trying to figure a way to round up the usual suspects to help with the cause.”
“You should have called me. I’d have come home sooner and made you dinner.”
“I did call, but I must have misunderstood what number you’re using these days. A woman answered.”
Liz. He’d given his cell phone to Liz and forgotten to text Nora the number of his other phone.
“Anyway, I made toast for my dinner, and that was plenty.” Nora had been sitting in front of the stove with the oven door open, trying to stay warm. She stretched her arms up over her head and closed her eyes, blowing out a sigh as if ridding herself of her bad mood. “You got here just in time. I was supposed to be working on a project, but instead I was drumming up friends who have money to spare—and I was failing at both endeavors. I’m feeling frustrated.”
“What’s the work project?”
She opened her eyes and shook off her annoyance. “My new editor wants me to write a celebrity profile.”
Mick dropped his keys on the counter and leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “What celebrity?”
“He’s a fashion designer. Very famous. He’s building an organic farm near here.”
“Why does a fashion designer decide to become a farmer?”
“That question is the top of my list.” She got up from the table and bustled around, putting her computer aside, gathering up her papers. She was trying to tamp it down, but he could see she was still agitated. About work? Or maybe about a woman answering his phone.
He felt bad, keeping secrets. They were better together when they were truthful with each other. But parts of his life didn’t belong in hers. And he was still afraid she’d somehow get sucked into the mire Big Frankie had made—sucked in and drowned. Real intimacy required honesty. She’d said that early in their relationship. But Mick feared truth would be their undoing, too.
Ordinarily, he’d have asked her more about what was going on in her life—her work, her friends, whether she was indulging her habit of jumping in to help people before they even knew they needed help.
