Authors: Duane Swierczynski
Still, when the job at NFU-CS opened up and Kaz encouraged them to cultivate well-placed CIs, Cameron was the first person Wildey tracked down. The timing was excellent;
City Press
had just scaled back its operations in August, leaving Zombie Sunglasses without a column. More importantly, without the $350 he made each week on the column. Wildey came up with a solution: $300 a week to be his CI. “Imagine you’re writing the column for me,” Wildey said, “and it’s all about drug dealers.” Zombie Sunglasses eagerly agreed, and seemed to have no moral quandary about ratting out his former party people. “Shit, they sold my ass out long ago. Fuck ’em.” Wildey thought that was funny, too. He liked CI #89.
And now he’s missing.
His next phone call is to Kaz.
Marty thinks a lot about the phone call, about the broken bottle that shattered their front window.
Marty checked caller ID not long after Sarie left Friday night and saw that the last number had a 570 area code. That was northeastern Pennsylvania. Sarie’s friend Tammy Pleece lived five minutes away, not in upstate PA. Even if Tammy were upstate, how could she manage to make it down to Philly to meet for coffee fifteen minutes later? She couldn’t. The caller was someone else. Someone who sounded enough like Tammy to convince Dad. (Marty conceded that to his twelve-year-old ear, all girls between the ages of fifteen and nineteen sounded pretty much the same.) Someone who lived upstate would most likely be a friend of Sarie’s from school, but that was by no means a certainty.
Then the bottle against the side of the house. The explosion of glass in front had freaked both of them out. But it was the screamed threat after the bottle smash that worried Marty the most.
“Fuck you, Sarie Holland.”
Marty needs to find out who hates his sister. Part of him would like to go to Dad, but he’d just clamp down tight, and Sarie would respond by keeping her distance, putting her at greater risk. No, first he has to understand what’s going on, then bring Dad solid evidence.
The upside of not being able to concentrate on studying for my final exams, Mom? I can always totally play the “get out of finals week” card by turning myself in to Wildey and getting arrested!
I kid.
(I think.)
D.’s left me seven Twitter DMs, two phone calls (on the house line, no less!), and even an email—the latter being him pretending to have a question about an honors program—like we’re total strangers. As if Wildey is tapping my email. (Then again, maybe he is.)
I ignore them all. I know I’m being a child, but I have to focus on my work. Five exams this coming week, all of them requiring me to process and master huge swaths of information so that I can somehow fill blue books with essays that will prove to my professors that, yes, I have processed and mastered huge swaths of information.
Except I can’t stop thinking about drugs.
There’s more on the Dr. Hill bust today. Police rounded him and Letitia up overnight. Dr. Hill claims he knew nothing about the drug stuff—that was all Letitia’s thing. Meanwhile, Letitia’s claiming that she didn’t know anything about Dr. Hill’s weird medical shit, that she was just hustling some extra scripts to make ends meet. Uh-huh. Not according to the feds (or “sources close to the investigation,” as the online stories have it), who claim that the Oxy ring was bigger and more widespread than anyone realized. Wildey should be fucking doing cartwheels right now. We did this. We stopped it. And we will receive none of the credit.
Why do I care?
I don’t.
Not really.
The thing with me is, sometime when an idea takes hold it becomes impossible to shake. This is why I can’t have a laptop open in front of me for very long, especially when I’m trying to study. It’s a rabbit hole, I tells ya … and right now all I’m seeing is Wildey dressed up as a White Rabbit, beckoning me to LEARN MORE ABOUT THE EXCITING WORLD OF NARCOTICS!
And why wouldn’t I? Sure beats Western Philosophy and The Greek Way and The Beats in American Literature and Psychology and Advanced Composition and everything else I’m supposed to be processing.
Maybe I should submit this journal as my Advanced Composition final exam. I have been writing up a storm …
Okay, back to work.
Kevin Holland spends a lot of time on this rainy Saturday morning near the front of the house, hoping against hope he’ll catch the punk who tossed the bottle last night. Because you don’t throw a bottle to hit a brick wall. You’re hoping to smash a window, right? Last night the little idiot missed, so maybe he’ll try again. Thank God you’re not here for this, Laura. This would freak you out. But don’t worry. I’m on it.
Never mind that this is the kind of dick punk move that a younger Kevin would have pulled (probably did pull) back in the day.
Ah, karma.
His attention is divided between the lack of activity on the street and the lack of activity on his phone. Sure, it’s Saturday morning, but Kevin was kind of hoping to hear from them yesterday. Discounting the holiday weekend, they had all week to decide. (Shit, he was actually hoping to hear from them last Monday, but decided to give them the week.) Should he call? No. Don’t call. A car whizzes down the street going too fast for a residential area. Kevin’s head whips around. The car disappears. He checks his phone again. Nothing.
And this more or less plays out and repeats all morning.
Until it doesn’t.
There. Some tall guy in a hat, across the street, looking up at the house. No, not a guy. A college-aged kid in a fucking hat and red pants. Way to be stealth. Wait a minute, Kevin thinks. I recognize this guy! When Kevin goes outside to take a look, the kid in the red pants starts moving in the opposite direction. And by the time Kevin yells, “Hey asshole,” he’s already bolted up the block. By “you fucking asshole” he’s already gone.
Okay, Mom, I confess: I haven’t been studying. But this time it’s not my fault. Dad’s crazy-ass yelling snaps me out of the tiny bit of concentration I’ve mustered up. No idea what’s going on until I run upstairs and see Dad hauling ass up our block, yelling YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE before slowing, panting, hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath. What the hell? Marty’s on the porch, too, and gives me a shrug. I race after him, and hear Marty following.
—Dad, you okay?
Dad, still hunched over, still panting.
—I want his name.
—Whose name?
—Your boyfriend. The guy who was here last Sunday night. Clearly the guy who doesn’t want to meet me.
—I don’t—
—Knock off the shit, Sarie. You know exactly who I mean. Did you break up with him? Is that why he threw a bottle at our fuckin’ house last night?
Marty’s jaw drops.
—Dad!
I put my hand on Dad’s back to try to calm him down. Just like you used to, Mom.
—What happened? Why are you asking me about him?
—He was just standing across the street, looking at the house. Maybe thinking about throwing another bottle.
Oh no. Is it possible Ryan Koolhaas showed up again?
—What did he look like?
—Hat. Stupid fucking red pants.
—Dad!
Okay; phew. Not Koolhaas. I’m unable to stop myself from blurting out his name as a question.
Dad’s eyes light up.
—Yes! Him!
Dad repeats the name, drawing out the single syllable and making it sound as sinister as possible. Like it’s the foulest name ever created. Like just speaking it makes my dad want to hurl.
—I want his last name, his number, his address, his parents’ names, everything. And then I’m going to kick his ass for being a psycho to you.
—Dad, I assure you, D. did not throw the bottle. I told him what happened. He’s probably just stopping by to check on me.
—Then why did he just run up the street?
—Because you called him an asshole and chased him?
Dad sees my point. His panting eases up a bit. Meanwhile I feel this second set of eyes boring into the side of my skull and realize it’s Marty, who has a weird expression on his face.
—What?
—Nothing!
Dad’s breathing returns to normal middle-aged levels. He’s tall and thin but clearly not in any kind of aerobic shape.
—Okay, Sarie, fine, your pal D. didn’t throw the bottle. Then who did? You have another boyfriend lurking around?
—I’m not dating anyone. I would tell you, I promise.
Dad shakes his head quickly, like a boxer shaking off a jab. Then he stares off into the near distance, his shoulders sagging.
—Come on, let’s get back into the house.
I try to go back to studying but can’t help wondering why D. would show up in person like that. (In his red fucking pants, no less!)
My real phone buzzes. It’s Tammy, confirming for tonight. One upside of the whole mess last night was that I called her, just to cover my tracks in case she ran into Dad or something crazy like that, and she sounded ridiculously overjoyed, like I was her long-lost sister, back from the dead. Totally thrilled to hear from me! God, it’s been too long! Oh, so much to tell you! Let’s meet tonight for dinner! Downtown! Do it up!
God, Mom, women are so fucking bizarre.
Still, it’ll be good not to think about any of this stuff anymore. No Wildey, no D., no pills, no nothing. So I’m going to put my nose to the grindstone right now and earn the right to go out tonight.
Naked Lunch,
I’m going to understand you if it kills me.
On the way up Harbison Avenue, Wildey spies a window cling decal on the rear panel window of a pickup that reads
THIS TRUCK WAS MADE WITH WRENCHES NOT CHOPSTICKS
. Hard to imagine Kaz hanging out in a place like this. But all Wildey knows is that with two CIs missing, it’s best to go somewhere off campus. Kaz agreed and suggested a place called the Grey Lodge Pub on Frankford Avenue.
Kaz is already halfway through a pint of amber-colored beer when Wildey sits down. There is no one else on this floor, which is strange for this time of night on a Saturday night. Not even a bartender, even though there’s a fully stocked bar up here.
“Want something?” she asks as he sits.
“Just a Diet Coke, thanks.”
Kaz leans over, nods her head to someone Wildey can’t see. He’s about to turn around when Kaz leans forward. “You find your missing CIs yet? Hang on. Don’t answer that just yet.”
A tall pint glass of Diet Coke, jammed with ice and a fresh half-moon wedge of lemon, appears in front of Wildey.
“Thanks, Scoats,” Kaz says.
“No problem, Kaz. Need anything else?”
Kaz shakes her head, and behind Wildey the footsteps recede. “I take it you’re a regular here?” Wildey asks.
“Regular enough. This used to be my ex’s favorite place, so it makes me happy to show up often so he doesn’t feel welcome anymore. I especially make a point of showing up every Friday the thirteenth.”
“To make his day extra unlucky?”
“No,” she says, cracking a slight smile. “That’s the day Scoats taps new firkins. He calls it Friday the Firkenteenth. You should see the crowds here. Anyway, my ex used to love coming here for Firkin Day, so I make it a point to deny him that joy as often as I can.”
Wildey has no idea what a firkin is, or what the big deal about it might be. The takeaway, he guesses, is that Kaz really hates her ex enough to ruin his favorite joint for him. He sips his Diet Coke. The lemon in there smells good.
“You’re stalling, which means, I take it, sixty-nine and eighty-nine are still missing.”
“I haven’t been able to turn them up yet, no.”
“They’re not the type to flake out, are they?” She pronounces it like a foreign word:
flaykout.
Takes Wildey a second to decipher it.
“No,” Wildey admits. “They’re pretty stable. Which is starting to freak me out. I mean, one? That’s one thing. But two in the same week … am I missing something here? Did I do something wrong?”
Kaz lifts one eyebrow as she takes a sip of her beer. “What makes you think this is only happening to you?”