My Brother's Keeper (4 page)

‘What kind of business is that?' Mitch asked.

Jimmy looked at Mitch as if he'd just noticed him standing there, as if Mitch had interrupted a private conversation, poked his nose in where it wasn't wanted. And if he hadn't had a badge pinned to his chest and a gun on his hip, Jimmy might have taken a swing at him. It was the kind of look that cops used to intimidate people, only nobody was intimidated by cops anymore.

‘The cop business,' Jimmy barked, ‘the business of helping people.'

Mitch grabbed hold of his duty belt with both hands and hiked his pants up a little higher over his protruding belly. The gun in his holster had an undisturbed layer of dust on it about half an inch thick. He started to get back in his car and paused.

‘Try to stay out of trouble, would ya, Lou?'

Mitch slammed the car door shut before Lou could answer and sped away.

‘How the hell did you tolerate that guy for all those years? He was one of the reasons I wanted out.'

‘He's not as bad as he looks.'

‘I guess that's a matter of opinion.' Jimmy was looking down at the towel in his hands, smeared with fresh blood. ‘Can I ask you something, Lou?'

‘Yeah, sure, Jimmy.'

‘How does someone go about hiring you, like, for a job?'

‘What kind of job did you have in mind?'

‘It's Franny. She hasn't been herself lately. She's worried. I mean, really worried. I don't know what it's about. Something's up and she won't tell me what it is. I think it has something to do with her husband.'

‘Since when does Jimmy Patterson ask for help, especially when it comes to his family, and especially from a private detective?'

‘It's a different world out there, Lou. Maybe I'm different. I don't know. And you don't know this husband of hers. Franny married money, big money. Don't get me wrong, I'm not afraid of him. I could take him without battin' an eye. But if he wanted to, he could get the muscle to push back and I don't want to put Franny in the middle.'

‘If he wanted to?'

‘Yeah, if he wanted to.'

‘Who is this guy?'

‘His name's Haggerty. Brian Haggerty. Ya heard of him?'

‘I've heard the name.'

‘He talks all high and mighty, always polite, the college boy charm. But he don't fool me. I know Franny falls for that shit. But I'm telling you, Lou, the guy's nothing special, grew up on the same streets we did. He's no different than me or you.'

‘OK.'

‘His old man was a big shot in the city but that was a long time ago and you know how we are around here, Lou. We got short memories.'

‘More like selective memory. We remember what we want to remember.'

‘Whatever.'

‘You just relax, Jimmy, and don't go doing something crazy.'

Jimmy patted Lou on the back.

‘Same old Lou: a nice guy. Catch more bees with honey, right, Lou?'

As they were standing there facing each other, the sun had crept higher in the sky behind them and the temperature had risen by a few degrees. The tow truck had the white Mustang hooked up and ready to haul away. The driver was still sweeping broken glass off the street. The police car looked drivable but they wouldn't move it until the highway safety unit got there and took a few pictures and drew a few diagrams and wrote up the accident report so as to relieve the Philadelphia Police Department of any liability.

Suddenly Lou and Jimmy found themselves alone on the street.

‘The family's still got money, Lou, but the old lady, Brian's mother, seems to control most of it. Eleanor Haggerty. She's a real piece of work. Hates Franny. Thinks she's not good enough for her son.'

‘Not uncommon for mothers to disapprove of their son's choice in women.'

‘Yeah, but this goes a lot deeper.'

‘Is that what Franny says?'

‘Franny's staying with me for now and she's not saying much. You'd have to see them together to know what I mean. I never liked it, Lou. But you know, no one could tell Franny what to do.'

‘What do you want me to do?'

‘How about I bring her up to your office later this afternoon? I think she'll talk to you. She was always able to talk to you. I'm asking as a friend, Lou. Just talk to her.'

‘Yeah, OK, Jimmy.'

Jimmy was smiling now, with the sun on his face and the street in front of his house quieter than it had ever been. The cops had placed barricades at both ends of Remington Road and nothing was coming up or going down. The old lady across the street had seen enough and went back into her house, slamming the door behind her, either because the neighborhood was going down the drain and she'd seen enough or because the show was over and she hadn't gotten her money's worth.

‘Do you ever get sick of it, Lou? I mean, listening to people's problems, hearing the same shit over and over again. Don't you ever feel like telling them all to go to hell?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘Sometimes? Is that all you have to say? Does anything ever bother you?'

‘Just 'cause I don't show it, doesn't mean I don't feel it. If I let everything get to me, I wouldn't be any good to anyone, would I?'

‘I guess not.'

‘There is one thing that does bother me, though.'

‘What's that?'

‘People who talk like they know it all but never spent a day in anyone else's shoes. You know what I mean. We've seen things, Jimmy, and done things most people only see on television, things they wouldn't dream of doing themselves because, down deep, they're afraid. They depend on people like you and me and I'd like to slap them sometimes when they presume to know what we know, in here.'

Lou put his hand out and tapped Jimmy in the chest just over where his heart would be.

‘I usually slap them before it gets to that point.'

‘I'm keeping an open mind on Haggerty. If the guy senses hostility he might get suspicious. Gets harder to catch him in something. Or he gets defensive and it's harder to negotiate.'

‘Negotiate?'

‘As in divorce. As in settlement. I've dealt with these types before. They'll do anything to avoid a scandal and they don't like parting with their money.'

‘You think it'll come to that, Lou? Franny'll be crushed.'

‘I don't know.'

‘What if he wants to play hardball?'

‘Then we play.'

‘Play how?'

Lou wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

‘I'll give you an example. I did a favor for a couple of guys last year, took me three hours. I'd been taking my lunches, the liquid variety, in Craig's Tavern in Drexel Hill and one day I met these three Mexican landscapers who could barely speak English. I didn't know how the hell they made it to Philly and I didn't care. Anyway, they hadn't been paid for a job and all they wanted was their money but they didn't know how to go about getting it.'

‘So whad'ya do?'

‘They bought me six or seven beers and drove me to this big stone mansion on Lexington Avenue. I rang the doorbell and asked the shithead who opened the door if he hired a couple Mexicans to cut his lawn and trim the pubic hairs on his asshole.'

‘What did he say to that?'

‘He ordered me off his property and threatened to call the cops. But by that time, I had to piss like a fucking racehorse. So I turned my back to him, unzipped my fly and started pissing on his freshly trimmed junipers.'

‘Did you get the money?'

‘What do you think?'

THREE

L
ou had rented a second-floor office on Lancaster Avenue in Bryn Mawr. If there was a high-rent district left anywhere in Philadelphia, Bryn Mawr was it. At least that's what the zip code would tell prospective clients, the wealthy and the spoiled from the suburbs who didn't know shit about the city anymore except what they saw through the streaked-glass windows of their high-rise office buildings. They'd see Bryn Mawr and think Lou Klein was the type of private dick who knew the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground.

It was two rooms over a Chinese laundry, up a dark, constricted staircase that smelled like urine and ammonia. Even in the high-rent district, the homeless needed a place to crash and it wasn't their fault if the accommodation failed to provide adequate facilities. Lou had signed the lease earlier in the month while sitting at a table in Starbucks with the landlord, a retired teacher from the Philadelphia School District with a bad comb-over and a twitching left eye. He'd dropped two sets of keys on the table in front of Lou and bought him a latte and a dried-out piece of yellow sponge cake. He'd failed to mention that Lou wouldn't need the keys since he'd stopped repairing the broken lock on the stairwell door a long time ago.

The next morning Lou had gone over early with a bucket and a mop and a few old T-shirts he used as rags and a toolbox full of rusty screwdrivers, a wrench, a hammer and a tape measure. He stopped at the Home Depot on the way over for a pack of sandpaper and a can of paint. The color on the label said Eggshell.

The screen door had let out a squeal as he yanked it open and the guy asleep on the stairs pried his eyes open and rolled over with a congested groan. They had stared at each other for a long second, Lou noticing the pint bottle of cheap bourbon poking out of a crumpled brown bag on the stair. Lou had stepped back and propped the door open with a brick that appeared to be there for that exact purpose. He'd slid the brick into place with his foot hoping a little cold air would motivate the guy to check out early. He'd looked a little too comfortable and Lou had assumed he was a regular.

It smelled like an open sewer in there. Lou had put the bucket and the toolbox down in the foyer with a thud and reached around on the inside wall for a light switch. He'd found the switch and been surprised when a dim bulb clicked on at the top of the stairs.

The guy had been wearing a green and black Philadelphia Eagles knit hat pulled down low over his forehead. His clouded red eyes had slowly opened. He'd used his green army field jacket as a blanket, a bare knee poking out through a tear in his jeans. A pair of socks that might have been white at one time bunched up around his calves. His work boots were stained with black tar. He had a scraggly gray beard and a red nose etched with thin blue blood vessels. He'd sat up and put on the jacket and reached for the bottle, tightening the cap and sliding it into his pocket. He'd grabbed hold of the banister and pulled himself slowly to his feet.

‘Have a nice day,' Lou had said to him, trying not to breathe as he walked away. The guy hadn't responded but as he'd stumbled toward the door he'd pivoted loosely on one leg and took a wild punch at Lou's face. Lou had dodged the punch easily. He'd expected it, learning from experience that drunks often woke up swinging. Lou decided not to hold it against him and had simply grabbed him by the arm and pointed him toward the corner.

The guy had turned a toothless grin back toward Lou and disappeared into the alley behind the building. Just then the fans had kicked on at the laundry with a roar like a jet engine. Lou had mopped the stairs and wiped down the walls, and when he'd been satisfied that the stains he couldn't remove were permanent he'd put down a welcome mat and spilled the dirty water from the bucket into the street.

Lou got back to the office after his run and his meeting with Jimmy Patterson and quickly peeled out of his running clothes. He stuffed them into a green garbage bag and when the bag was full he'd drop it off with the little Chinese lady downstairs. By the next morning it would be waiting for him in front of his door, the clothes washed and folded. She was the kind of girl next door he'd always dreamed of – did his laundry, didn't ask for money and couldn't speak a word of English.

The office bathroom was the size of a small closet. There was a toilet, a pedestal sink, and a shower he'd installed himself. He'd cut into an adjoining wall to do it and tapped into a hot-water pipe from the laundry below. There would never be a shortage of hot water and it would never cost him a dime.

He turned on the shower and let it run until the tiny room filled with steam. He stared at his naked body through a growing layer of condensation on the mirror. He might have lost a few pounds but not many. The weight was getting redistributed and that was about all he could hope for. He stuck out his chest and sucked in his gut and tried to picture himself as a twenty-eight-year-old beat cop, walking the streets of West Philadelphia for the first time and trying to live up to his father's reputation. His father had been a legend at the department, big shoes to fill. Lou let the air out of his lungs; his chest deflated and his belly sagged a little and the mirror became further obscured by the rising steam. He stepped under the hot water, letting it pound his shoulders and roll down his back.

He threw on the same suit of clothes from the day before: a navy blue sport coat over a light blue button-down and a pair of khakis with a brown belt. He'd never been one to shave every day and today was no exception, leaving a rough, day-old shadow across his face. He slipped into a pair of brown shoes and drove over to the Regal Deli, where he'd meet Joey Giordano for breakfast.

The Regal Deli was an institution. There weren't many places like it still standing and there didn't seem to be anyone left in the neighborhood that could remember a time when the Regal wasn't there. The ceiling inside was tin, laden with six layers of peeling paint the color and texture of dried avocado. In front of the counter was a line of chrome stools with a chrome foot rail across the stained linoleum floor. The chrome had been polished and new vinyl glued to each seat, but they were the original stools, the same stools that Philly cops had been warming their asses on since before they gave them cars to drive around. They still let out a human-like shriek when someone spun away from the counter.