My Brother's Keeper (6 page)

But it seemed like the more he drove the Honda, the more he missed the Thunderbird. He missed the way the smooth black surface of the hood reflected the trees in the morning and the sky at night. The street lights were like orbiting moons against the polished metal. He missed the red pinstripe that ran the length of the car from nose to tail in a gentle arc. He missed the way the motor rumbled and the way it jumped when he hit the gas, the power and the way it moved. He missed speeding along the Schuylkill Expressway, the wheels hugging the road from the Ben Franklin Bridge right through the Conshohocken Curve and on to Valley Forge. It made him feel as if he was driving in a race he could win, that if he kept up his speed and kept his eyes on the road the car would take him to the finish line.

He'd also believed, as Joey had, that once upon a time it was the black Thunderbird that first attracted his wife to him with its low-to-the-ground speed and sleek body. The brand-new badge and the department-issued gun were equally hypnotic lures, he'd supposed. But whatever she'd been looking for, she hadn't found it in the bucket seat of an old Ford or raising a kid by herself on a dirty street in West Philly. By the time Lou had it all figured out, the romance had worn off and she was gone for greener pastures, green as in the color of money. She'd taken his daughter with her. The car was all he had left.

The few times he'd seen his ex since the divorce she'd chided him for still driving it, complaining about taking her daughter around in a vehicle that was fundamentally unsafe. She derided his taste in cars, his taste in music, in food and even in women. Lou had told her that if he ever met a woman that was interested in going for a long, slow ride in a beat-up sports car, a vintage Ford that guzzled gas and made much too much noise, whose warranty had expired long ago, whose heater groaned in the winter and whose air conditioner blew lukewarm all summer, he might consider marriage for the second time.

Joey came across the street now, dodging the slow-moving traffic as if he were on a crowded dance floor. Even behind the sunglasses drivers could feel his stare, daring them to hit him. He already had his lawyer on speed dial. He crossed quickly over two lanes, paused for a moment on the double yellow line to light a cigarette, and in a few long strides was across two more lanes of traffic and hopping up onto the high curb.

‘You pick a hell of a spot to light up.'

‘Maybe if you hadn't quit smoking for like the tenth time, you'd be more sympathetic.'

‘What makes you so sure this won't be the time I quit for good?'

‘I'm not. But Lou, you can't live forever.'

Joey took a long drag off the cigarette and blew a stream of blue smoke in Lou's face before pushing the door open with his shoulder and leading the way upstairs. A dim light at the top of the stairs cast long dark shadows behind them as they climbed. The steps creaked under their feet. Joey stopped about halfway up the narrow stairwell, turning his head and listening intently. Lou had heard it too, a light rustling like stocking feet on a thick carpet or a sudden release of air as if someone had been holding their breath.

Joey reached instinctively for the forty-five automatic he kept in a holster on his belt. The gun was the size of a cannon in his hand, a vintage Colt, silver, with a trigger as light as a whisper. If Petey Santi had sent one of his boys over, Joey would send him home with a hole in his stomach the size of the Lehigh Tunnel. He kept it pointed at the floor but his thumb was already on the serrated edge of the hammer and digging into his skin like a shark's tooth as he cocked it back. At the same moment, a woman became visible on the landing.

The static electricity from the forty-watt bulb seemed to draw her dark hair toward the low ceiling, a faint glow forming around her head. She was wearing a long skirt, her legs slightly parted with a bony knee jutting out of a slit in the thin material. A small black purse hung from her arm, her hand pressed against a protruding hip. Her face was masked in shadow.

Lou couldn't take his eyes off her. She looked as if she'd stepped out from under a street light on some desolate corner, a woman alone, waiting in the dark. There was something unreal about her, an apparition in the fog or a mirage in the shifting desert landscape. She seemed to float above them. Lou felt the skin at the back of his neck begin to crawl and a shiver ran down his spine as he glanced quickly over his shoulder, checking behind him, wondering if they'd walked into a trap.

She'd blocked much of the light that seeped down the stairs, leaving the stairwell in almost complete darkness. Just then, with a snap of her finger, a long yellow flame shot up from her hand and ignited the tip of a cigarette dangling carelessly from the corner of her mouth. The flame lit her face for a brief second: the sharp angular jaw, the dark, flowing hair, the straight nose and green eyes. And then it was only the red glow of the cigarette that remained, accentuating a set of moist full lips.

She took a long draw and let the smoke drift from her lips and float toward the light. Lou had caught a glimpse of her face.

‘Franny? Franny Patterson, is that you?'

She took another drag off the cigarette. This time she turned her head and blew it out, her lips turned down in disgust.

‘My name is Haggerty, Lou. Francis Haggerty. I'm married now. An honest woman. Surely my brother must have told you that much. I seem to be the main topic of conversation with him lately.'

‘Where's Jimmy?'

‘I left him at home. I told him I didn't need his help or yours. I came to tell you that myself.'

‘I don't think Jimmy would be worried if there was nothing to worry about.'

‘What did Jimmy tell you?'

‘Why don't we continue this conversation in my office? It's a little more comfortable than this cramped hallway.'

‘And more private. Right, Lou? You always were a private person. Don't like to air your dirty laundry in public? Is that it?'

‘Mine or anyone else's.'

Lou could see her eyes wandering in the darkness, squinting at him through the smoke. She stood like a statue, her hip still cocked to one side, the hand without the cigarette still wedged into the narrow arc of bone where her hip met her waist. Her white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, exposing sharp protruding collar bones and the steep curve of her breasts. A string of cloudy pearls hung between them. Joey hadn't taken his eyes off her either. He still held the gun in his hand.

‘You can put that thing away, Joey.'

Lou unlocked the door and reached for the light inside. He gave the door a little push and let it roll slowly open. Franny eased past him, peering disdainfully around the place and moving directly to the window. She pulled the curtain back slightly and looked out, her two fingers fitted between the folds of sheer material as if she were feeling for a pulse. A thin strip of light fell across the floor. She looked down onto Lancaster Avenue and toward the corner where cars were streaming through the traffic light in both directions.

Lou came up behind her and followed her gaze to the sidewalk below.

An old lady with chalk-white hair as transparent as silk stood at the corner waiting to cross. The rush of wind from the moving cars blew her dress against her knees and seemed as if it might snatch the canvas bag hanging off her arm. Franny had the curtain open just an inch, spying the woman with one eye as the light changed and she trotted across the street, barely making it from one corner to the other before the light changed again and the flow of cars threatened to run her down.

Franny abruptly pulled her hand away and the strip of light disappeared from the floor.

‘I'll make coffee.'

Franny kept her back to him, her eyes closed.

‘I don't plan on being here that long.'

‘I didn't say it was just for you.'

She turned and faced him now, her arms folded across her breasts, her eyes moist and blinking back what Lou thought was a tear ready to trickle down her nose. She ran the back of her hand over her cheek, smudging her make-up.

‘I'm sorry, Lou. None of this is your fault and I'm taking it out on you. Jimmy thinks he can treat me like I'm still his little sister and I need his protection.'

‘But you are his little sister.'

‘And a grown woman who can make her own decisions.'

‘If something happened to you and Jimmy could have done something to prevent it and he didn't, he'd be devastated. That's the way he is. You're lucky to have him.'

She sighed. ‘You're right, Lou. He's been like a father to me since Dad died and I don't think I ever really appreciated it. I never understood what kind of responsibility that took. And when I got old enough not to need him anymore, the only thing I could think of was getting away. It felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest.

‘I don't know, Lou. I wanted to be Little Miss Independent when I should have been thinking of him, trying to be the kind of sister to him that he deserved. I never thought maybe he needed me even more than I needed him.'

Lou took Franny by the arm and led her to the chair by the desk. It had deep worn cushions and the fabric on the arms was frayed and torn. The chair had been in his mother's house, in the front room facing the window. Lou had often seen his mother sitting in that chair, looking out the window, waiting for his father to come home from work, the way the wife of any policeman would.

Lou could still smell his mother on that chair: the lanolin and lilac, the moisturizer she would rub into her hands and elbows, the smell of soap. He couldn't bear to throw it out despite its condition, so he moved it into his office where it made his clients feel at home. He'd sit in it himself, if Joey didn't get to it first and fall asleep with his head back and his mouth open, a cup of coffee in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in the other. One of these days he'd set himself on fire.

Joey had been standing at the sideboard, fixing himself a cup of coffee, trying to remain inconspicuous while Lou talked to Franny. Joey put his nose to a carton of cream from the refrigerator under the table and then put it back without using it. Lou let his hand fall on Joey's shoulder and steered him toward the door, keeping his voice low.

‘Listen, Joey. Head up to Jimmy Patterson's place and tell Jimmy that Franny is here with me. Take him out to lunch. Buy him a few drinks. Find out what you can but don't push too hard. He's probably upset.'

‘Where do I take him?'

‘Try Fortunato's. Show him your impression of Mitch. You know, the one when he just made lieutenant and he jumps out of his car while it's still in gear and he ends up chasing it down the road. Jimmy'll love it. He hates Mitch.'

‘Hate is a strong word, Lou. I mean, my ex-wife hates me but I don't go around advertising it.'

‘You were having a fling with a stripper. What was her name?'

‘Candy Bell.'

‘Yeah, right. I don't blame her for hating you.'

‘And what's Jimmy's problem with Mitch?'

‘Jimmy thinks Mitch is a pompous, self-important, old blow-hard of a cop.'

‘That's it?'

‘That's it.'

‘It's a little early in the day for drinks, Lou. What if Jimmy doesn't want to go?'

‘Insist. Now get going.'

FIVE

L
ou set two cups of steaming coffee on a short table in front of Franny. Her smile was faint, thin ridges framing her mouth, her teeth hidden behind lips that seemed to turn colorless and twisted unconsciously as if she'd bitten into something rotten. He brought over the cream and sugar and rolled his chair out from behind his desk. He sat in front of her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Franny's eyes never left the floor.

‘Franny, if this is just a lover's quarrel and there's nothing more to it, I'll butt out. You guys haven't been married that long and I know it takes a while to iron things out. But if it's more than that, I should know.'

‘It's a second marriage for both of us, Lou, and we're both carrying around a lot of baggage.'

‘What kind of baggage are we talking about?'

‘Oh, come on, Lou.' Her body jerked to life as if an electrical current had passed through it. ‘I'm sure you know most of it. I mean, you were a cop in this town for twenty years and you've lived around here your whole life. Our fathers worked together on the force. And you've been around the block a few times yourself. So please don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. My God, I'm so sick of pretending.'

She lifted the cup of coffee and brought it to her lips but didn't drink. She seemed to want only to warm her hands on the cup. The afternoon sun struggled through the thin blinds in filtered rays that highlighted her streaked face, a few strands of gray in her dark hair. She'd always been beautiful, Lou remembered, and still was, but her face had grown haunted. A shadow had fallen over it. Illuminated now by the yellow light from the window, she looked sallow and a little sick.

Lou walked to the window and pulled the cord on the shade. The office grew perceptibly brighter. He switched on the lamp on his desk. It was a green and white Philadelphia Eagles Tiffany lamp with a pewter base and stem and a bronze eagle perched at the top.

‘You an Eagles fan?'

‘Everyone in my family are Eagles fans, Lou. It's a family tradition. Seems like one of the few we have left.' She took a sip from the cup and exhaled sharply through her mouth as if it had been a shot of whiskey. ‘How about you?'

‘I root against them. It's kind of a love/hate relationship.'

‘I know the feeling.'

The language of football, Lou thought; in Philadelphia it opened channels of communication as wide as the Delaware and as dirty. It flowed between people who otherwise might have never exchanged a word. But he'd questioned Philly's love affair with football. In his experience, it was driven by an obsession with violence and it brought out the worst in them. It made them loud. It made them aggressive. It got them drunk. It made them want to beat somebody's brains in. Football was certainly a tradition in Philadelphia, just like bar fights and domestic disturbances.