Someone strode across the room and offered me a hand. I took it, allowing the person to whom it belonged to help me up.
“Are you all right?” Kenzo asked; something he must’ve learned in a Social Skills class. Etiquette did not come naturally to this guy.
“No, I’m not okay! I just gave a lap dance to a dead guy. A cooked dead guy. And what the hell are you doing here? You scared the crap out of me.”
My eyes slid downward to the guy on the floor. What was left of him looked familiar. Bile worked its way up my esophagus. My skin got all clammy, and I was pretty sure I’d wet my pants. I put my hand to my nose in a fruitless attempt to block the smell of burnt flesh.
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
Unfazed, Kenzo took out his phone and punched in a number.
“Are you calling the cops?”
Mr. Personality ignored me and grunted into the phone. “You were right…yeah, she’s right here. Oh, yeah, and she found a corpse.” He handed the phone to me.
“Hello?” I screeched, bordering on hysteria.
“Hello, Angel.”
“H-h-how did you know I was here?”
“I had a feeling when I told you Donte had probably left the state that you might take it as an invitation to browse. So I asked Kenzo to swing by Lewis’ place, in case I was wrong about him leaving the area.”
“Turns out I wasn’t the only one browsing, and you should see what Lewis did to this guy. He burned him, Nick. He burned him bad.”
Santiago went quiet; the two of us sharing the unspoken thought that it could have been me.
*****
Ten minutes later I stood alone on the street corner and waited for the police to arrive. Kenzo had taken off the minute I punched in 911, mumbling something about outstanding warrants and deportation.
“Hang tight, darlin’,” Nick had instructed me. “I’m on my way.”
“It’s really not necessary, Nick. The cops are rounding the corner as we speak,” I lied. “Besides, this could take a while. Oh, they’re here. I’ll call you when I get home.”
Before he had a chance to protest I hung up. Because the truth was I just couldn’t face him.
I’d fucked up. Acted on impulse with no regard to my own safety or the ramifications of my actions. How many times had my high school principal, Mrs. Marlowe, lectured me with those exact words?
I thought I was getting better about this. Damn it, I was getting better. But sometimes opportunities presented themselves and I just couldn’t seem to turn them down.
The worst part was Nick had predicted that I wouldn’t be able to control myself. So, he quietly took care of it, without even a hint of judgment. It was one of the things I loved most about him—his unconditional acceptance of me. Only, at that moment, I felt like about four years old.
After what seemed like an eternity, a fleet of cop cars careened down the street and descended on the crime scene, followed by an ambulance and two fire trucks. Bringing up the rear was a van carrying a local news crew. The logo painted on the side said W.I.N.N.
I didn’t recognize any of the cops, which was odd since, over the past year I’d had ample opportunity to meet most of them. And, just my luck, the one that took my statement was a stickler for details.
“So, let me get this straight,” Officer Picky said, five minutes into it. “You were taking a walk, alone, at night…in this neighborhood?”
“Is it against the law?”
“No.”
“All right, then.”
“But entering someone’s house without their express permission is against the law. How did that happen?”
Hmm…how did that happen? When confronted with a question for which no good can come of a truthful answer, it is best to have an alternate response ready to go. What’s even better is having a somewhat plausible one. I had neither, so I decided to wing it.
“Okay, so like I was saying, I was walking by and I thought I smelled smoke.”
“I don’t smell smoke.”
“Are you going to let me tell this?”
Officer Picky did a magnificent head shake. “Please. Do.”
“I smelled smoke, so, naturally, I had to go check to see if anyone was asleep in the house.”
“Naturally. So you jimmied the lock and let yourself in.”
“I didn’t jimmy the lock. It was already broken.”
“Ma’am, just admit you broke in.”
“I will not!” I stuffed my hands inside the pockets of my jeans and turned them inside out. “I have no tools. What do you think I did? Pick the lock with my teeth? Besides, I’m totally inept. Anyone will tell you that.”
He barked out a sound I can only describe as harrumph.
“Just go on,” he grunted.
I was really warming to my story when I got a shout-out from the news van.
“Yo, Alexander!”
The voice belonged to Ben Hyatt, the station’s hot shot reporter. Ben’s reputation was fierce. Word had it he’d kill his own mother just to make sure he’d be first on the scene when the news broke.
Hyatt sprinted over to me with Olympian speed. “What are you doing covering this story? I heard you got canned.”
Ignoring Ben, I turned to the cop. “Could we be done now? I’ve told you all I know, and I’m willing to come down to the station tomorrow. But right now, I just want to go home.”
The cop nodded. “Don’t leave town,” he added and left me alone to deal with Hyatt.
“Oh, this is priceless,” Ben said, catching on. “You’re the woman who called in about finding the body. Hey, you’re not thinking of breaking this story yourself, are you?” He sidled up next to me, real chummy. “You give me an exclusive and I’ll pay you double what the station would offer.”
I pretended to consider this.
“So? Do we have a deal?”
“Let me put it this way, Ben. Bite me.”
*****
The thought of going home to an empty house terrified me, and it was too late to pick the dogs up from Paul’s. Besides, he’d find out about my adventure soon enough. No use wrecking his night.
The idea of going to sleep was even less appealing. I knew what was in store the minute I’d close my eyes, and I wasn’t all that anxious to revisit a char-broiled corpse in my dreams. Plus, by morning the house would be swarming with reporters all wanting to interview the freak that kept finding dead people.
The only place I could think of to go at this time of night was The South Street gym. Open 24/7, it was a haven for hard-core jocks and insomniacs. During my adolescence, I’d spent a good many nights holed up in my uncle’s office lamenting the fact that “nobody understands me.” Frankie had a microwave, an unlimited supply of popcorn, and a comfy couch. What more could a girl ask for.
Greg Piscitello, one of the night managers, let me into Frankie’s office. Greg’s known me since I was fourteen, and I consider him an uncle of sorts.
“Rough night, honey?”
“Not too bad.” I shrugged. “Just needed an air-conditioned place to crash.”
Greg offered up a sympathetic smile. It said, ‘I don’t believe you but I’ll respect your privacy.’
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Greg. I will.”
*****
“Mom, was I dropped on my head as a baby?”
“Brandy, don’t be ridiculous. Why would I drop you on your head?”
I stood in my kitchen making breakfast, which was a real challenge considering about all I had in the cupboard was a box of year-old Rye Crisp. Shifting the phone to my other ear, I stuck a stale end slice of bread into the toaster.
“I don’t mean on purpose or anything. Just—y’know—by accident.”
It was the only logical explanation. Head trauma, suffered at an early age. Clearly not my fault.
“Brandy, you’re not making any sense. It’s because you’ve got too much time on your hands,” she decided. “I didn’t w
ant to mention it, but your brother tells me you got fired.”
I’m going to kill Paul.
“I wasn’t fired. The company needed to downsize. It happens all the time. Besides, I’ve got plenty of other offers.”
Big mistake calling my parents. I just figured they’d be upset when they heard I’d been involved in yet another catastrophe, so I’d reassure them I was fine. Turned out, I needn’t have worried. Since they retired to Boca Rattan, my parents have lived blissfully unaware of their only daughter’s daily drama. Which gave them ample time to sweat the small stuff.
My dad saved me from having to list my phantom job opportunities by weighing in on the subject. “Does she need any money?”
“Your father wants to know if you need any money.”
“Tell him I’m fine, but thanks.”
“She’s fine. She’s not fine,” my mom added in what she believed to be a whisper. Then again, in Boca, where the median age is seventy, I suppose it was.
*****
“Remind me again why we’re doing this.” John stood, one leg poised on the first of seventy-two stone steps leading to the east entrance of the Philadelphia Art Museum. He was sweaty and flushed, and that was just from the walk from the parking lot.
“We’re doing this because I have to get in better shape.”
“And I’m here because?”
“Because we never get to hang out anymore, and you’ve missed me terribly.”
“I’m missing you less and less by the minute,” John grumbled. He hiked up his pants exposing designer workout shoes. I recognized the brand as a favorite of sheiks and other multi-billionaires.
“Jeez, John. Those shoes cost more than my mortgage.”
“And well worth every penny. The leather comes from real Himalayan yak.”
“Ha, ha. Good one!”
“What do you mean?”
Oh, crap. He was serious.
I pretended I didn’t hear him and scanned the broad expanse of stairs. The last time I ran “The Rocky Steps” I was seven. Wow. I’d forgotten there were so damn many of them. The top looked to be about a mile away.
“Um, shouldn’t we stretch first or something?”
“Nah.” John unhooked his hip flask from his belt loop, put it to his lips and chugged. Mountain Spring water with added vitamins and minerals dribbled down his chin. “We don’t want to sap our strength.”
“We’re not crossing the Sahara, y’know.”
“Suit yourself,” John shrugged. “At least one of us will be well hydrated.”
We started up the stairs. After about ten steps a group of elderly Japanese tourists came up behind us. One of them had a walker. John and I paused to catch our breath—I mean to tie our shoes—and they sprinted past us, humming Eye of the Tiger.
“Show off’s,” John said. “The trick is to pace yourself.”
"Oh, totally.” I wondered how much longer I’d have to keep up the pretense that I was going to make it to the top. My legs were beginning to cramp.
We hobbled up to the first plateau and surveyed the vista. Eakins Oval and The Benjamin Franklin Parkway were spread out before us.
"So, do you want to go get something to eat?" I asked.
“Yeah, okay.”
We headed back down the steps. When I got to the bottom step I looked up. The old lady with the walker had reached the top of the stairs and was now pumping her fists in the air, Rocky style.
We could’ve beat her if we’d wanted to, right?"
John nodded. "Absolutely."
Personally, I had my doubts.
*****
Twenty minutes later we sat opposite each other at the Merchantville Diner, in Jersey, scarfing down chicken parmesan and the world’s best homemade cheesecake. I had to get out of my neighborhood to enjoy a meal in peace. Ever since the other night, people have crawled out of the woodwork, in the guise of concerned friends, to ask about my gruesome discovery.
“It’s getting so’s I can’t answer my phone anymore. Last night I got a condolence call from Nancy Rappaport.” I scraped up the last crumb of cheesecake and popped it into my mouth. If John hadn’t been sitting there, I would have licked the plate.
“Who’s Nancy Rappaport?”
“That’s what I said. Turns out we’d gone to summer camp together when we were nine. Sheesh. Some people have no boundaries. Hey, I’m still hungry. You gonna eat your pie?” I reached over and stabbed a forkful.
John shoved the plate toward me. “Go to town, Sunshine. You’ve had a rough week.”
“Have I told you I love you?”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Oh, speaking of dessert, how did Garrett like the brownies I made him?”
In an attempt to win Garrett’s affections, I’d spent the better part of an afternoon concocting a confectionary masterpiece for him. I figured I could use the brownie points. (Sometimes I crack myself up.)
“Um, he wasn’t actually able to eat them, because he’s on a gluten-free diet.”
“Oh, no. I should have checked first. What does he have? A wheat allergy or something? That can be life threatening.”
“Nah, it’s nothing like that. He’s just into eating super healthy is all.”
Funny, he seemed a lot more likable when I thought I’d almost killed him.
"Well, he appreciated the effort,” John continued, in an obvious attempt to mollify me. Only I wasn’t in the mood to be mollified.
“You’re just saying that.”
“No. He said so.”
“Yeah? So, what’d he say?”
John coughed and mumbled something into his hand.
“Take your hand away from your mouth. I can’t understand you.”
“He said, ‘nice try.’”
“Nice try? You can’t dress that up as a compliment, John. He was obviously being sarcastic.”
“Maybe I’m not telling it right. Look, Bran, don’t worry about Garrett, okay? Before you know it, you guys are going to be the best of friends.”
“Right.”
I dropped it for the time being and called to the server. “Could I get a double espresso, please?”
“Sure thing, hon.”
John made a face. “Do you really want to drink that so late in the day? You know it’s going to keep you up.”
“That’s sort’ve the idea,” I confessed. “Ever since that night at Lewis’ house, I haven’t been all that anxious to go to sleep. Hey, you want to come over tonight? I’ll let you go through my closet and make fun of my wardrobe.”
John gave me the once-over. “Believe me, it’s tempting. But I’ve already got plans with Garrett to check out a new, experimental jazz club in Manayunk.”
I waited for the obligatory, “You could come along if you want,” but it was not forthcoming.
I reached for the espresso and downed it in two gulps. “Well, we’re still on for the Woody Allen retrospective on Friday, aren’t we? Garrett could come along if he wants,” I added. I’d figured I’d lead by example.
John squirmed in his seat. “Ooh. I forgot about Friday. Garrett scheduled me for a jorei massage at the Spirit Life Center. Look, I’d cancel but he had to pay in advance, and it costs an arm and a leg.”
I felt the blood rise to my brain. My mouth opened and I struggled to shut it again before something rude popped out. I looked like a disgruntled guppy.
“Y’know, I can’t believe you’re crapping out on me. I was totally looking forward to this.”
The server returned with our check, and John grabbed it off the table. I was so mad I didn’t even pretend to fight for it.
“Look, Bran. I’m sorry. I know I screwed up. Don’t be mad, okay?”
To be totally honest, my reaction had more to do with jealously than missing an in-depth analysis of What’s Up, Tiger Lily. But it went deeper than that.
“I’m not mad,” I finally decided. “And I know you think this is about Garrett not liking me—which—okay, it is. But—well�
��c’mon, John. You hate experimental jazz. You said it sounds like they’re perpetually tuning up. And the Spirit Life Center? Seriously? We make fun of those people. They give you the willies, remember?”
“So, what’s your point?”
I hesitated. “My point is I feel like you’re re-inventing yourself—and for all the wrong reasons.”
“I’m just trying to broaden my horizons. Is that a crime?”
God. Why am I doing this? Never mind that John’s turning into someone I barely recognize just to please old-stick-up-the-ass Garrett. He’s happy. Just shut up.
“Look, I’m sorry. I guess I’m just overly sensitive these days. Forget I said anything.”
John put some money down on the table and handed me the bag of leftovers. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I shouldn’t have flaked out on you for Friday. So, how can I make it up to you?”
I thought about this for a minute. “Well, as long as Garrett isn’t going to eat those brownies, do you think you can ask for them back?” After all, no sense in them going to waste.”
*****
John dropped me off at my house. As I walked up to the porch, I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Gentile peeking out her front window through faded, floral curtains. They were the color of overcooked spinach.
Oh, man. I still haven’t gotten around to painting her living room. Maybe if I pretend not to see her, I can just slip inside…
Her head disappeared from the window. In a flash she flung open her front door and stepped outside.
“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Gentile. I was just about to knock. I wanted to see about getting started on your living room.”
My neighbor scowled as if I’d just left a giant turd on her porch, and rattled off something in Italian which I didn’t understand. I’m guessing it wasn’t very nice. After she ran out of ways to curse me in her native language, she switched to English for the finale. “You and your hooligan friends are a disgrace to the neighborhood.”
Hooligans? I hadn’t heard that word since my elementary school’s third grade production of Oliver!
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gentile, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just got home. I haven’t had time to be a disgrace to anyone.”
She leaned her wilted body over the railing and pointed a gnarled finger in my face. “Don’t get smart with me, Missy. A car full of young men stopped right in front of your house. They knew you, all right. They were calling your name. They sat right there in the middle of the street, with the engine running and Satan’s music blaring. It was blasphemous, I tell you.”
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