Authors: Duane Swierczynski
“Other CIs have gone missing?”
The Loot says nothing, but he can see the fury in her eyes, even as her face stays perfectly placid. Somehow she keeps the white-hot blinding chemical rage locked up behind those eyes. The alcohol is doing nothing to calm it.
“How many others?” Wildey asks.
Kaz shakes her head, and Wildey remembers: She won’t reveal shit to no one, because she established this system to prevent situations just like this one. She once likened it to the seal of confession. Sins are between you, the priest, and God. In this case: the narcotics officer, his lieutenant, and the commissioner.
“Which brings us to the girl,” Kaz says.
“What girl?”
“Your honors student.”
“Shit,” Wildey says, already half-standing.
“Hold on. Sit down.”
“Loot, come on, this isn’t—”
“Siddown!”
All Wildey can see is Honors Girl perched in the Formica booth in the sad, brightly lit doughnut shop, looking utterly lost, no idea how truly lost she is. Or what might be waiting in the dark for her. But Wildey lowers himself back onto the wooden chair and nods. He’ll give the Loot another minute, at least. Storming off now wouldn’t help anyone.
“The girl will be completely safe,” she says.
“How do you know that?”
“Normally I play my cards close to the chest. But since this is your CI, it’s better you know. Maybe it will put your mind at ease, I don’t know.”
“Uh-huh,” Wildey says, feeling pretty much the opposite of
at ease.
“I got it,” Wildey says. “Old school. What does this have to do with one three seven?”
“She’s not really one three seven.”
“What?”
“There is no one three seven. It’s an empty slot. I never entered your girl into the system.”
“What? Why not?”
The Loot smiles. “Come on, Wild Child. Keep up. She’s not a real CI. She’s just your wedge into your Chuckie Morphine, am I correct? You want to pressure her to give up her boyfriend. He’ll become your one three seven.”
“Yeah, but she’s more than that. Look at what happened yesterday. If it wasn’t for all that Edgar Allan Poe shit, that would have been a great case for us. Hell, the sheer number of the scripts he was writing …”
“She has a talent for floating toward trouble, I give her that. Certain girls always do seem drawn to the bad boys, don’t they? That doesn’t make her a skilled informant.”
“Loot, she’s doing what we asked her to do.”
“Never mind that.” Now Kaz twists up her mouth into an expression that is somehow between a grimace and a sneer. “Your girl’s had a free ride from you for over a week now. She’s been good at playing you, hasn’t she, Wild Child? Working so dutifully to please you—”
“Loot, it’s
not
like that …”
“—without giving you what you actually want. Just like a woman, as Bob Dylan said. Never took you for a guy who likes a good cock tease.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“You’re not making trips out to Fox Chase?”
Wildey’s head is swimming. It’s pretty much an open secret that the Loot has her own set of snitches watching the shop. Kaz’s theory is that narcotics cops go crooked because there’s the belief that they operate in a vacuum, that no one’s watching. So on the first day, the word made it to Wildey:
You ever get that tingling feeling, like someone’s watching you … well, you’ll probably be right. It’ll be the Loot.
Some of the rumors, probably based on her accent, had it that before coming to Philly she worked for Russia’s GRU, military intelligence, and was merely implementing her homeland training on the mean streets of Philly. Still others cracked that the C in NFU-CS stood for commie. Kaz, to her credit, never admitted as much. But Wildey guesses she probably started the rumors herself. Whether or not she had a network of her own spies.
“I check on all my CIs,” Wildey says.
“But then again, she’s not a real CI, is she?”
“What are you saying? You want me to cut her loose?”
“No,” Kaz says, pausing only to hoist the pint glass to her mouth and drain it. “The ride is over. Time to collect her ticket.”
WILDEY: Look we gotta meet
CI #137: You said I was done for the weekend. I have exams this week! Like five of them
WILDEY: it’s important
CI #137: I can’t!
WILDEY: You will. Tonight 8 pm
CI #137: No
WILDEY: seriously?
CI #137: haven’t I done enough? What else do you want from me?
WILDEY: Just meet me
CI #137: No
WILDEY: You want this to go the other way?
WILDEY: Hey
WILDEY: Answer me
CI #137: Jesus fine … where?
The meeting place turns out to be a bookstore. I’m surprised. Wildey doesn’t seem like much of a reader. Maybe I should ask him about
Naked Lunch.
Anyway, it’s a huge, weird bookstore, big as a church or a movie theater, in the middle of a block on Richmond Street down the street from a Polish restaurant and a Polish supermarket. The sun’s already down and the place looks dark, but Wildey assured me that it would be open, just go inside. So I go inside. There’s no one in the front room, just piles of random books and boxes and a rusty newspaper honor box and framed posters stacked up against a wall. This can’t be it, can it? I open another door, and boom, there’s the store proper, which actually looks like a book junkie’s den. There is an office off to the right, and inside is a dude in a brown-and-gray beard sitting next to a priest. Both are sipping whiskey out of small square glasses. They look up at me.
—I’m here for … Ben Wildey?
The bearded guy gestures to his right with his tumbler.
—He’s in the back, hon. Go ahead.
Only when I step through another door, down a short hallway, do I realize that I am inside a former movie theater. The floor has been leveled, and thank God for that, otherwise the countless shelves of dusty tomes would go sliding right into a huge wall. I’ve never seen so many books in one place before.
—Amazing, isn’t it?
Wildey’s in the back, or what used to be the front, of the theater, where there’s some worn furniture. He gestures for me to sit in a wooden chair. Meanwhile, he sits on a sofa directly across from me, fingers laced, leaning forward, all business.
—I found this place last year. You could browse for days in here. Anyway, it’s the quietest place I know in town.
—It’s also freezing. I think it’s warmer outside.
—Hard to heat a space like this, I guess.
—So what do you want? I have plans tonight.
—Plans, huh? Anybody special? And will he be wearing red pants?
—I’m meeting my girlfriend.
—Girls’ night out.
—Just dinner, not that it’s any of your business.
We sit in silence for a while. The bookstore is cool (if not freezing) and all, but I have to meet Tammy in less than a half hour and I have no idea how crazy parking will be downtown (insane, probably). I worked hard today; I deserve this night off.
—So …?
—I’m up against the wall here, Honors Girl. I’m not saying you’ve not been working hard for me. But you’re not doing what we asked. And what we need you to do is give us the man in the red pants.
—You didn’t ask me for anything like that. You said, and I quote, go find me some drug dealers.
—Come the fuck on, Sarie. That’s because you said you didn’t know any drug dealers. Which I knew was a lie because you had one in your car last week! You were supposed to sweat it out, then turn him in. Simple as that. You weren’t supposed to be doing all of this extra work.
—Look, I don’t care what you say. I’m not telling you his name.
The moment the words slip out I see Wildey’s eyes widen. A smile creeps onto his face. Whatever. I’m tired of the charade and there’s no reason to keep it up anymore. I meant what I said. Put a gun to my head, put a knife to my throat, whatever, I’m not going to be a rat. Not anymore.
—So there is a him.
—We both know there is a him.
—This would have been a useful starting place a week and a half ago.
—I’m serious. I don’t care what you do to me, I’m not going to do that to a friend.
—How good a friend? You think he wouldn’t do the same to you to save his own skin? Hell, he practically is. What kind of a man is he, letting an innocent friend of his take the fall for him?
—I’ve got to go.
—I haven’t made myself clear. It’s over. By tomorrow morning my lieutenant wants somebody in cuffs, either you or your friend. If not, it’s my job. I’m gone.
—Then come arrest me tomorrow morning. You know where I live. Anything else?
Wildey walks the stacks for a while, but no book titles register; they all look like a jumble of random letters. Out in front, the proprietor, Greg, offers him an Irish whiskey, but Wildey declines. He rarely drinks, and now is not the time to start a habit.
Kaz didn’t threaten his job, but he knows that’s what’s on the line. You don’t lose two CIs in one week. Shit, you don’t lose
any
. And maybe Kaz is right. Maybe he let this college girl play him. It’s all just a waste, though. Waste of her future, waste of her talent. Why is she forcing him to do this?
Wildey climbs back into his car and heads down to Fishtown to start another long night of searching for people who might already be dead.
Tammy knows I’m vegan, so she asks me to meet her at a swank new place called Grayne near Washington Square. (Which is so Tammy. Like you used to say, Mom: Her ass is always writing checks she can’t cash.) Anyway, Grayne: everything locally sourced, sustainable, and they don’t let you forget it. The prices all end in periods—the hallmark of a classy joint. Though at $19 for a plate of beans I would’ve used exclamation points.
Anyway, Tammy seems happy to be out so I am, too. She’s wearing more makeup than I remember her ever wearing, and she keeps looking around the dining room as if a more important guest is supposed to join us any second. Her eyes don’t stop moving. I look at her and smile, trying to calm her with the force of my eyes.
—So … finally …
—Yeah, I know, it’s been totally crazy! But I’m so glad you called me last night. Even if it was just because you needed an alibi.
—I’ve been trying to reach you for a while.
—I know, I know …
—You look amazing, Tammy.
—Aww, thanks. B.T. dubs, I’m going by Tamara now.
B.T. dubs = Tammyspeak for “by the way.” The dubs stands in for the
w
. Don’t ask. She’s been doing bodily harm to the English language since we were in ninth grade. Amazing that I’m still able to translate.
—Really? Tamara?
—Yeah, you know, Tammy just sounds like … I don’t know, high school. We’re beyond that, you know?
Do you remember when I first met Tammy—sorry, Tuh-MARR-uh—freshman year of high school? Back then she was going by “T.” I started calling her “T.T.” which she hated/secretly loved. That evolved into “Double T.” By the time she had her first boyfriend, however, Double T. was dead and “Tammy” was born. Thankfully she didn’t insist on spelling it with an i. Whenever she reinvents herself it’s always because of a guy.
—Okay, so who is he.
—What?
—Come on, give.
Tammy breaks into a smile. We can’t lie to each other.
—Okay, so, he’s older. Like, a lot older.
—Scandal! What is he, twenty-five?
—Not exactly.
Tammy tries to play coy, but I dig the details out of her like a seasoned pro. And as it turns out, my BFF is dating a baby-raper. The guy is forty-FUCKING-three years old! Not married (allegedly). But she swears, no.
—Forty-fucking-three.
—His name is Peter.
She says it proudly, like it’s a brand name worth owning. Wow, an Audi. Oooh, a Cuisinart. Ahhh, a Peter!
—Does this Peter have a last name?
—Yeah, but I really shouldn’t say. Not yet. He’s sort of well known around town. I’d never heard of him—God, don’t tell him I said that. But he wants to keep things on the down low for now.
—Wow, that’s great, Tammy. What’s it like dating a man just a few short breaths from the grave?
—Fuck you.
But she smiles as she says it.
—Does he get the senior rate for both of you?
—Seriously, fuck. You. Hard. So how about you, Saint Serafina? Who you bumpin’ uglies with these days?
Now I am nearly busting at the seams to tell Tammy about the two men I’m juggling—the narcotics cop and the campus drug dealer. Both older men, too. (High-five, sista!) They text me, like, all the time, never let me get a moment’s rest. Terribly jealous of each other, too. Older cop is dying to know who his younger rival is … and my dashing drug dealer wants me to stop being handled by my burnin’ hunk of law enforcement. What’s a girl to do? I can’t give either of them up …
I peruse the menu.
—Nobody, really.
—Uh-huh. Nobody means somebody, you little slut. Fess up.
I’m saved by the appearance of the server, a slab of 100 percent grain-fed beef with a shade-grown haircut. He dotes on Tammy—sorry, Lady Tamara—and barely hears my order of $12! jasmine rice and $19! pinto beans. Tammy catches me, though.
—Hey, what’s with the starving-art-chick food? We’ve gotta try some of these entrees. They’re all over Eater and Foobooz.
—I’m just a rice-and-beans kind of girl. Also, in completely unrelated news, tuition is due next month.
—Don’t be a silly bitch, this is on me.
—On you? How?
—I got a new job and I am flush. So order whatever you want.
I’m nonplussed—Tammy? A job? That pays real money? Nevertheless, she proceeds to order a mind! bogglingly! decadent! assortment of vegan food as well as a bottle of white wine that is roughly the cost of a decent set of tires for the Civic. Tammy assures me that it’s all okay. Mr. Grain-Fed cards us both, but we have awesome IDs. Besides, he’s clearly macking on Tammy. It’s not as if he’s carding us for real. He’s probably just scanning her vitals.
Tammy turns her attention back to me.
—Okay, tell me about him. And don’t bother denying, because I can tell there’s a him.
The wine arrives and it is uncorked and poured and glasses are clinked and the first sip makes me dizzy. I’m thinking, I’m going to tell her. Confess it all right here. I’ve gotta tell somebody. I need to know I’m not going crazy …
—He’s … complicated.
—Aren’t they all.
—No, really. There’s not even a him, never mind.