Canary (25 page)

Authors: Duane Swierczynski

Tamara Pleece takes a sip of her organic wine, enjoys the head rush. She’s been drinking a lot of wine lately. Her friend here—Sarie? She could really use the wine. She could use a lot of things.

Listen, okay: Tammy knows how hard her friend works. Sarie Holland: hardest-working bitch ever. Back at St. Antonia’s, and probably going back to the womb. Never took a shortcut, never fudged something. It’s what attracted her in the first place—you want a friend who had it together so you could be pulled along in her wake. Tamara knows she probably wouldn’t have survived Saint A.’s without Sarie’s help.

But tonight at dinner, hearing her fret over tuition money and ordering fucking rice and beans, Tamara wanted to scream:
You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to work so hard.

Okay, if she’s honest, Tamara is wrapped up in twin desires. The desire to help, to be the friend who fixes, and the desire to unload. Christ, how she’s wanted to just freakin’ tell someone already—someone who knew her before September and could give her a reality check, maybe even a good old-fashioned “what the fuck were you thinking” … no, not that. Tamara couldn’t take that. Not from Sarie, her best friend since the first day of freshman year at St. Antonia’s Catholic Preparatory School for Girls. Life’s too good right now to have someone throw a bucket of cold water over it.

What
would
Sarie think? Tamara dreaded telling her but also so badly needed her to know. She took a fortifying swallow of amazing wine and came up with a strategy, right there at the table. A safe way to float the idea and see how Sarie would react.

“You still working that campus job?”

“Yeah, the bursar’s office. Why? You need one, too? Don’t know if there are any positions open, but I can—”

“No, hah. No. I had a job in mind for you, actually.”

“For me? What kind of job?”

“You’re gonna laugh, but I heard about this thing, and I was kind of kicking it around, too, and thought maybe it’d be something we could check out together.”

“You want us to be assassins for hire. I like it. Maybe we can even dig out our St. A.’s uniforms. I’ll bet clients would love that.”

“You’re such a silly bitch.”

“It’s the wine. I’m trying to estimate how much every sip is costing.”

Tamara smiles, but inside she’s running some calculations. Again with the money thing. Maybe she’s giving her a subtle go-ahead to spill it.

“Have you ever heard of Amoroso dot com?”

The blank look on Sarie’s face tells her: Nope, no idea. But then she squints; she’s making a mental association. That’s it. You’ve probably heard of it. Or seen the billboards or those goofy stories online …

“Wait a minute,” Sarie says. “Are you talking about the Italian bakery? The one that makes the hoagie rolls?”

Tamara fights the temptation to bark with laughter—but then does anyway. The occupants of the neighboring tables at Grayne turn for a moment to check. No matter what it says on their driver’s licenses, no matter what they’re wearing, Tamara knows she’s just outed herself as a teenager. Her cheeks burn hot.

“No,” she says, finally collecting herself, “not the bakery.”

Tamara Pleece explains that Amoroso.com is a website that introduces rich “Papas” with younger “Bellas.” (The Italian romance thing is played up like crazy, which admittedly bothered Tamara at first, being a quarter wop.) This is
not
a prostitution thing, nor an escort service. Not
at all.
What you do, Tamara says, is that you just hang out with your Papa a couple of times a month—maybe go watch a show, or eat a fancy meal, or just snuggle up on a couch to watch a Blu-ray, but no sex, swear to God, this is not about sex, it’s
companionship.
And in exchange your Papa takes care of you, buys your schoolbooks or helps with tuition, or maybe gives you some money for new clothes, that kind of thing. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, it’s all super-friendly and legit and, you know, it would beat working at the accounting office at school or whatever you do …

Sarie is watching her the whole time, taking in every word until Tamara Pleece exhausts her train of thought and lapses into silence, waiting for her friend’s reaction, and she can tell by the cold, dead look in Sarie’s eyes that not only is this a job she’d never consider, but it’s one that offends her in a fundamental way, so she’s waiting for Sarie to say something so she can then say, “Got ya! Ha-ha, had you going there for a second, didn’t it, you should have seen the look on your face, and—”

“So,” Sarie says. “How long has this Peter been a client?”

So my bestie is a ho.

I wish there is a more polite way to say it, Mom, but there it is. Explains why she’s been avoiding me since Halloween, which is probably around the time she started turning her tricks for treats—no, sorry, “favors” for schoolbooks and milk money or what-the-fuck-ever. Or maybe her pimp requires her to keep her phone free at all times, in case he gets horny and wants a quick hit of “companionship.”

Why did I think I could tell her about my problem? This is Tammy Pleece we’re talking about. Nothing ever changes. Though I did think that maybe, for once, I’d get to be the one who could lean on her instead of the other way around.

The rest of the wildly expensive dinner is super-awkward. Long periods of silence punctuated by me going to the bathroom to check one of my two cell phones to read messages from D. that I ignore. Tammy, meanwhile, has a terminal case of sad face. Looking like I’ve sat here for the past thirty minutes screaming at her and calling her a whore. Which I haven’t. But I’m also not about to give this thing my blessing. Tammy wants approval for something of which I could never approve.

Then again, who am I to judge? I’m a drug squad snitch. At least she’s engaged in a criminal profession with a long and storied history.

It’s awkward right up through the arrival of the check, with Tammy snapping it up and slipping a credit card into the 100 percent recycled cardboard slip holder and polishing off the last of the seriously expensive wine. It’s not until we’re out on the sidewalk that I break down. I don’t need any more enemies. I don’t need one more thing weighing on my conscience.

—You know, I’d really like to meet him.

Tammy, for the first time in a good forty-five minutes, brightens.

—Seriously? You would?

—Seriously. I’m sure he’s a really nice guy.

—I know you probably have to go home and study, but …

—But what?

—Well, okay, this is weird, but … do you want to meet him right now?

SOCIETY HILL TOWERS

Part of Ringo knows this is a seriously bad idea, this whole
soiree
thing. But then again sometimes a proud Returning Citizen just needs to knock back with a vodka rocks and enjoy the company of some beautiful ladies from the old nabe, you know?

They’re not whores, his old friend and associate cautioned him before he arrived. “Just know that. These are friendly girls, it’s all legit. So no offering them a Franklin for a hummer.” Like Ringo was going to show up with a roll of hundreds in one pants pocket and a bottle of Viagra in the other? He just wanted to have a drink or three and appreciate the view before he and Frankenstein headed out later tonight for another grab/torture/kill gig in the Rat Receiving Station and a dip into the Lobster Trap.

Ringo hovers in the corner, near the stereo. He has to remember what it’s like, being at a real party. From the sound of it, so does his boss, because somebody’s iPod is playing a rock block of the most depressing Frank Sinatra songs ever. Seriously. The playlist is three back-to-back sad-sack Frank albums—
In the Wee Small Hours, No One Cares,
and
All Alone.
Yeah, nothing better to get you in the mood … to slit your wrists. After a while D’Argenio sees him, nods, then makes his way across the room.

This moment has the potential to be extremely awkward. It’s been a long time, lots of bad blood. El Jefe assured him everything would be fine, nobody has a beef with anybody, that D’Argenio personally requested him … but still. All Ringo can think about is the day he sat in that federal wooden box at Sixth and Market and pointed his finger at the smiling guy who’s crossing the room and headed toward him right now.

There’s only one way to defuse a moment like this. The old standby. Namely: women.

“Okay, so I have to know,” Ringo says. “What do you mean by friendly girls? I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. Not sure how to behave.”

“Well … it’s this service.”

“So they’re whores.”

“No, that’s just it. They’re not whores. They’re
companions.
”

“Escorts, then?”

“No, you bagadoughnuts, it’s legit. Christ on a crutch, you been out in Kansas way too long.”

Ringo does a double take. Flashback to twenty years ago, with some fed telling him how rock-solid WitProtec is, how he’d have the entire U.S. government standing between him and those who would wish to cause him bodily harm. Flash back to a little more than a decade ago, watching the towers fall, Ringo thinking, Yeah, there’s the U.S. government, protecting everybody. So maybe he couldn’t be surprised that his former/current boss knew his address this whole time.

“Yeah,” D’Argenio says, smiling. “I knew.”

“How long?”

“Bitch,” his former boss/current business associate says, with a huge smile on his face, “if I wanted your fat ass dead, you would have been dead back before they invented the Internet.”

Well, color my fat ass surprised, thinks Ringo, as D’Argenio slips back into the party proper.

Ringo does some Stoli drinking, some ogling, some eavesdropping. Christ, with the number of times his old boss/new business associate tells people he’s going legit, Ringo thinks he should have bought a giant party banner with the word LEGIT in huge red letters on it. The party is full of people he doesn’t know. New business associates, D’Argenio explains. Getting off on the idea of doing business with a former (reformed!) gangster. Whatever. Ringo continues mingling, looking for any sign of these friendly girls. So far, no sign whatsoever. You can tell the working girls from the groupies. Ringo asks D’Argenio what the deal is. D’Argenio tells him relax, they’ll be here soon. Just a couple of real friendly girls. You’ll like them. Everybody’s friendly.

When two teenagers walk into the party, Ringo realizes that D’Argenio has gone off the deep end.

One step into the room and I realize I am woefully underdressed. Hell, in my jeans and black shimmery top, I was underdressed for Grayne. This is not just a laid-back gathering for some rich middle-aged people; this is a full-blown soiree. I grab Tammy’s wrist.

—Who are all these people?

—Just some friends of Peter’s. Look, I’ll be right back. Go get a drink.

—Oh no. You’re not ditching me that quick! Double T/Tammy/Tamara rolls her eyes and smiles shyly.

—I’m not ditching you. Just going to say hi to Peter.

—Sure. Fine. Whatever.

Tammy throws an air kiss at me.

—Love ya! I call after her:

—Ditcher!

Tammy turns the air kiss hand into a middle finger.

I stand around a few awkward moments that feel like a few awkward decades and then one of my two cell phones goes off. Naturally. I don’t want to risk checking either in a room full of strangers—especially if it’s Wildey on the burner again. What does a person with two cell phones look like, other than a drug dealer? This kind of swank crowd, I’ll be tossed out onto the street in no time. Maybe even without the use of an elevator. So I oh-so-stealthily nudge a partially open door with my butt and back into what appears to be a darkened bedroom, do a quick glance over my shoulder—huge wardrobe dresser, empty bed, but otherwise clear—then dig into my shoulder bag.

The buzzing is coming from my legit phone. Turns out to be Dad, asking what time I’ll be home. Fuck! Forgot to text him. I type:

—Still out with Tammy. Won’t be out too late.

Five seconds later Dad responds:

—Isn’t this finals week?

Please. I type:

—I studied so hard today my eyeballs are bleeding, Dad.

—I’ll let you know if any old boyfriends show up to break more windows.

—HAH.

—Seriously, not too late. Drive safe.

—OK.

I slide my phone back into my bag, turn around, and lean up against the door to take a moment to breathe. For just a moment. What am I doing here, anyway? Making it up to Tammy? I guess so. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll say hello to her creepy older boyfriend/perv/fifty shades of NO FUCKING WAY guy and then split. Dad’s right. This is, after all, finals week. I worked hard today, but I don’t feel prepared at all. Besides, I might be getting arrested tomorrow morning, so I suppose I should get a good night’s sleep …

—Hey. You seriously need to try this.

The voice—as calm and deep as it is—has me nearly jumping out of my skin.

—What the fuck?

I take an unbalanced step forward and see this guy who a moment before was obscured by a massive wardrobe/closet thing. He’s sitting at a desk with an assortment of brightly colored pills spread out before him, looking like a kid who is determined to sample every single type of jelly bean in the bag. And poised next to the pills are a pad and pencil. He wheels back a few inches and gives me this broad smile.

—Hey.

—Sorry! I just want somewhere quiet to take a call—

The guy looks like a Main Line hipster. Preppy clothes—immaculate blue sweater pulled over a crisp button-down shirt, wrinkled old khakis. Sloppy pile of hair, neatly trimmed beard, glasses, a warm smile, and a jittery demeanor. He’s like a bed that’s half-made.

—Come on over. I’m serious—you should try some of this.

—Some of what?

Guy clearly is having his own personal party. He waves his hand, beckoning me.

—Christmas has come early. Come on and sample a present.

He means the drugs, Mom. He’s basically saying, Come on and TRY SOME OF MY DRUGS. You know, the ones spread out all over the desktop like someone just knocked over a jellybean jar. I’ve never had it offered to me so blatantly before.

Ordinarily I would have marched out of the room and spent the elevator ride to the lobby smirking to myself, cheeks reddened, soul scandalized. But that was the me from two weeks ago. The new me has a piece of Wildey in my head, and that part is thinking:

Whoa. Now there’s a fuckload of pills. Where did this guy get them? How can I use this?

Honestly, it’s not even a conscious decision, which is the scary-in-retrospect part. I am having an out-of-body experience. I glide over toward the desk, lower the bag from my shoulder, perch myself on the edge of the king-sized bed that’s closest to the desk, then smile back at the druggie with a virtual pharmacy spread out in front of him.

—Okay, I’ll bite. What do you have there, Partyman?

Partyman smiles, displaying teeth like perfect white tombstones. The kind that come from blessed genetics or an excellent dental regimen. Lucky prick. I don’t smile often on purpose because of my too-large teeth.

—Pretty much anything you can think of.

—Tell me what you’ve got.

—Okay … well, here’s the thing. I don’t mean to be rude, but are you legal?

I lean forward and stage-whisper:

—Drugs aren’t legal for anybody!

And make this clicky sound with my tongue as I give him the ol’ index-finger pistol crack. Which makes him smile that fucking perfect smile again.

—No, for real. Because you look like a kid. How old are you?

—Twenty-one.

—And I’m Hunter S. Thompson. Perhaps you know my associate, Dr. Gonzo? Let me see your license.

—Let me see yours.

—Ladies first.

—Are you actually carding me before giving me a sample of one of your illegal pharmaceutical pleasures?

Partyman leans back in his chair and smiles.

—Law is such a wonderfully malleable construct, isn’t it? Give it up, young’un.

I’m not sure what to do at this point. My ID is really good—Tammy and I lucked out with a guy making the rounds among the honors triple freshmen back in September. Not only was he a senior design major at Drexel, but he’d recently completed a zero-pay summer internship at the Pennsylvania DMV and had access to the templates, cameras, everything to forge a perfect license. (Guess he decided he was owed a little dough for a summer of hard work.) For five hundred dollars he could even change your actual DMV file so that if a state store employee swiped your card you’d still be golden. My blood wasn’t that rich, nor was Tammy’s. But somehow she talked him into the upgrade for free—on both of our cards. I’ve never had the balls to try it out in a state store, but I’m sure that file is the reason Wildey still thinks I’m twenty-one.

Anyway, I’m sure Partyman here doesn’t have a handheld reader. But what if there’s some kind of visible flaw, and this guy’s a narc? Just handing him the license could be a huge mistake.

Luckily, Partyman folds his hand. Maybe he’s eager to get back to his pill collection, maybe he was just fucking around/flirting with me.

—Okay, fine. But if I ask you out later, and you turn out to be seventeen years old or something, it’ll be a devastating blow to my soul.

—I’ll try to leave your soul intact.

I inch a little closer.

—So whaddya got, Partyman?

—I’m pretty much an everything guy myself. You see, I’m a tester.

—A what?

Partyman gestures to the desktop.

—I sample new product, give each pill a one to ten rating, along with some other notes. Or I run tests on it, make sure it isn’t some kind of bullshit. Beats real work. Who are you here with?

—My friend. She’s going out with … Peter?

—Well, then! We’re practically family. I work with Peter. So you want to help me do a little market research?

Inside I’m squealing, but on the outside my face is a mask of utter disappointment (hopefully).

—Look, I’d really love to, but I only stopped in for a minute. I can’t stay.

—I did see a look of worry on your face when you were texting a minute ago. Pressing business?

—I have somebody waiting for me at home.

—Somebody special?

—Yeah, sort of.

—My loss, even though you’re jailbait. But hang on.

He turns his back to me and a few seconds later he’s handing me a little Ziploc full of an assortment of pills. A doggie bag of totally-breaking-the-law.

—Now give me your phone.

—Why?

—Part of the deal.

I hesitate but then hand over my for-real phone. It’s the one he saw me using. What am I going to do, give him the cheap-ass burner? He thumbs in a number and the iPhone in his desk comes to life, playing the chorus of Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side.”
Doo, doo-doo, doo, doo-doo-doo doo, doo-doo …

—You’ve got my number. If you have occasion to try these, with or without that special someone at home, drop me a line, let me know.

—Okay.

I smile. He leans forward. I give him a quizzical expression. He sighs.

—Aren’t you forgetting something?

—What?

—Um, maybe your name? Just so I’ll know what to call you, besides the lovely high school senior who stumbled into this bedroom Saturday night.

—I’m not a high school senior.

—When guessing a lady’s age, I always shoot a little low.

—Thanks, Partyman. What’s your name, by the way?

He grins, making his beard look even fuller.

—Partyman.

—Then you can call me Joan.

—Enjoy, Joan.

I don’t leave right away. I hang around the party for a while longer. Maybe I’m just not ready for this study break to be over. I meet the infamous Peter. He’s kind of a dick. Checks out my chest, decides what I have doesn’t require further investigation, returns his gaze back to Tammy’s chest. I worry about my girl. I nurse a white wine. I think about the pills on the desk in the bedroom. I think about Partyman. His number’s on my iPhone. He never comes out of the room. I leave.