No Such Thing as a Lost Cause (2 page)

The summer air was hot and sticky and smelled like doughnuts. Philly has about three
thousand doughnut shops on Broad Street, alone, which may explain the obesity rate
in the City of Brotherly Love. I thought about making a pit stop for a powdered jelly,
y’know, to take my mind off the possibility of being jobless and pregnant, but at
that moment my cell rang. I knew I should have screened the call, only that would
have entailed pulling over, and I was already running late.

“Why isn’t your brother answering his phone?” my mother began, as if we’d been having
a lengthy conversation about that very subject.

I lowered the volume on my Bluetooth and switched over into the right hand lane. “I
don’t know, Mom. He’s probably busy at the club.”

My brother, Paul, is part owner of a nightclub in Center City and (despite the occasional
indiscretion involving the recreational use of a versatile natural fiber you can wear,
smoke or bake) the pride of the Alexander family. In my mother’s eyes, Paul is Superman
who can leap tall buildings in a single bound, while I’m the worrisome wild-child
in perpetual need of babysitting. I guess I should resent this characterization, but
it’s sort’ve true.

“Is there something I can help you with, Mom?”

“That’s very sweet of you, honey. Drive over to Paul’s and tell him I need to talk
to him.”

“I meant maybe I could help you with whatever you needed Paul for.”

“Oh.” She considered this. The thought clearly had not crossed her mind. “Well, I
don’t see why not.”

Wow. She trusts me. I am so not going to let her down
!

“Since your father and I can’t fly in for your Cousin Marlene’s daughter’s wedding,
I was going to ask Paul to represent us. But now that I think about it, he’s so busy
running his own business, you’re right. You should go.”

Crap.
“Mom, you won’t believe this, but I’m busy that day. What are the odds, huh?” Too
late I realized she hadn’t mentioned the date. “I’m busy the whole month of August,”
I added, to be on the safe side.

She exhaled so deeply I thought she’d pass out from lack of oxygen. “Have your brother
call me.”

I clicked off the call, feeling horribly guilty for having lied to my mother, (and
so poorly) but the guilt was soon replaced by a major attack of nerves. With my heart
slamming firmly against my chest, I pulled up to Dr. Claybourne’s building and climbed
out of the car.

*****

“I don’t know if this is good news or bad, but you’re not pregnant.”

“I’m not?” I allowed Dr. Claybourne’s words to sink in as my shoulders did a slow
descent from up around my ears.

“But, the home test said—”

“Which is why we ran a complete diagnostic. Brandy, it’s easy to make a mistake with
those home tests.”

“That’s really nice of you, Dr. Claybourne,” I said, feeling like ridiculous. “But
you pee on a stick and count to a hundred and twenty. How could I screw that up?”

Dr. Claybourne smiled. “You were probably nervous and might not have followed directions
as carefully as you thought you had. It happens all the time. Are you disappointed
with the results?” she asked kindly.

“No. It’s—it’s fine. More than fine. Really. I’m very relieved. But if I’m not pregnant,
why am I late?”

Dr. Claybourne picked up my chart and looked over my medical history. Although my
regular physician is only ten minutes from my home in South Philly, I’d opted out
of the neighborhood. Doctor-patient confidentiality aside, news travels fast in that
neck of the woods and gossip, even faster.

“I’ve seen the news reports on you, Brandy. It’s not like you’ve had the most relaxing
summer, so my best guess is stress. You’re not that late. Go home, try to stay calm
and call me next week if you’re not back on schedule.”

In the car on the way home, I was back on schedule.

*****

My dog, Adrian, greeted me at the front door carrying the remains of a Ben and Jerry’s
ice cream carton that he’d dug out of the recycle bin. I pried it out of his mouth
and checked to see if there was any ice cream left. There wasn’t. Disappointment swept
over me. I had no idea I’d wanted ice cream so badly. I settled for a cherry Pixie
Stick and sat down at the kitchen table to check my voicemail.

The first was from my mother. She’d called to read me my horoscope, but since she
only shares the doom and gloom ones, I figured there was no rush in calling her back.
The other message was from my friend, Vince Giancola, down at the D.A.’s office. I
emptied the Pixie Stick into my mouth and called him back.

“I arranged that ride-along you wanted,” he began, forgoing the usual amenities. “So,
let me guess. You’re reconsidering joining the force.”

When I was a kid, I’d briefly entertained the idea of becoming a cop. I like to call
it my “Charlie’s Angels’” phase. I even went so far as to fill out an application
for the academy, but that was before I realized you were actually expected to follow
the rules you were hired to enforce. Rule following is not my strong suit.

“I’m working on an idea for a feature story on cops,” I told him.
And it will be great and everyone will love me and then the station will be sorry
they ever thought about letting me go and I’ll be asked to run the entire news network
and pigs will fly and everything!

“Just make us look good,” he said, and hung up.

Nick called while I was watching an old episode of
The Nanny
. It was the one where Mr. Sheffield told Fran he loved her and then he took it back.

“Hello, Angel.”

“Hey,” I murmured, suddenly shy. “What’s up?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“About what?” I asked, although I had a pretty good idea.

“About Fran’s pregnancy test. So—is she?” he asked, lightly. I’ve learned not to let
that fool me. Santiago’s training in the martial arts has enabled him to appear calm,
even in the deadliest of circumstances, whereas I couldn’t keep my feelings a secret
if my life depended on it, a theory that has been tested and proven on a daily basis.

I felt the blood rise to my cheeks. “No,” I whispered, leaning back against the couch
cushions. “She’s not.”

I waited a beat, and when he didn’t say anything I added, “Nobody is.”

And then I burst into tears.

Once the water works started I couldn’t stop. “Eric’s making me play Godfrey the Traffic
Dog,” I snuffled. “I’m very upset about it!”

“Apparently,” Nick said, softly. “Brandy, I may be going out on a limb here, but I
think something else might be bothering you.”

“Nope. That’s it. Um, listen, Nick, I’ve gotta go. I’m running late for my—uh—Intuitive
Eating class.”
Why did I say that? He knows I’m not a joiner.

“See, I’m respecting my body. It’s a temple, and, um, all that crap. Anyway, I’m supposed
to bring dessert, and you caught me just going into the bakery. I’ll take a dozen
cannolis,” I yelled across the room to my cat, Rocky. She was busy licking her girl
parts and didn’t bother to look up.

“I really have to go.” I clicked off with Nick, and then I sat back and watched the
rest of
The Nanny
, and cried some more.

*****

Officer Dave Wolinski is a twenty-five year old rookie cop with a passion for video
games and nine-ball. He grew up at “F” & the Boulevard, attended Father Judge and
married right out of high school. His ex-wife “is a bitch—no offense” and the new
love of his life is an adorable, seven-month old Lab mix puppy.

I’d learned all this in the first ten minutes of my ride along. I also learned that
working the beat is a lot like war—mostly boring, punctuated with sudden moments of
sheer terror.

We’d been cruising around West Philly for a couple of hours, stopping briefly to grab
some coffee and yell at an old guy who’d peed in the doorway of a laundromat. For
some reason I’d been feeling kind of down, so it was nice to have something else to
focus on.

As we climbed back into the patrol car, a late model, silver, m300 Chrysler barreled
through the red light, going fifty miles an hour. The windows were rolled down and
music blared from the radio. It was chock full of bass and expletives and seemed a
tad on the hostile side, but maybe that’s just me.

“Hey. Did you see that? The jerk almost ran over that woman in the crosswalk.”

“It’s show time,” Dave announced. He pressed a button on the dashboard, setting off
the flashing lights on the roof of the cruiser.

Okay! Now we’re cookin’. We’re gonna bust us some serious traffic scofflaws!

Dave hung a quick u-ie and followed the Chrysler. The driver caught sight of the patrol
car in his rear view mirror, and Wolinski signaled for him to pull over. The guy slowed
down, faked right and turned left, cutting off a couple of lanes of traffic, and sped
away.

“So that’s how you want to play it. Well, you’re on, buddy.” Dave glanced over at
me. “Hang on tight,” he yelled and tromped on the gas.

I started to get nervous. “Maybe you should just let me off at the Acme on the corner.
I need to pick up a few things.”

Dave grinned. “I thought you wanted the full cop experience.” He radioed for backup
and switched on the siren, while I clung to the door like a kid on a thrill ride,
sure I was going to die. I hoped I’d remembered to put on clean underwear in case
I got carted off to the morgue. I didn’t want to embarrass my parents unduly.

We followed the guy for about eight blocks, and then he veered off onto a side street
and zipped down the alley.

“Bad move,” Dave said. “He just turned into a box canyon. We got him.”

The driver sped up. He made it halfway down the narrow alley when he lost control
of his vehicle and slammed into a dumpster.

Wolinski slowed to a stop and turned the patrol car sideways to block the exit.

We waited a beat, but there was no movement from inside the Chrylser.

“Stay put, and keep your head down,” Dave ordered. He didn’t have to tell me twice.

I scrunched down as he exited the car, gun drawn. Almost instantly, the crackling
sound of gunshot pierced the air. Without thinking, I popped my head up over the dashboard
and spotted Officer Wolinski laid out in front of the cruiser, blood oozing from his
chest. The shooter hopped over the dumpster and fled down the alley.

Oh, shit.

I bolted out of the car and knelt beside Dave, pressing my hand to his chest to try
and stem the flow of blood. He was out cold but still breathing. Blood seeped between
my fingers. Frantically, I looked around for something to put pressure on the wound.
I couldn’t find anything suitable, so I yanked off my tee shirt, and shoved it against
his chest, which left me sitting in the middle of the alley in my push-up bra.

Dave stirred and briefly opened his eyes, and I swear I saw a smile on his ashen lips.

While I waited for backup to arrive, a thought began to nag at me. Wolinski said the
shooter had turned into a box canyon. Where had I heard that phrase before? And then
it hit me. When I was a kid I used to watch old westerns with my dad. The bad guys
always seemed to get trapped in box canyons—
places with an entrance but no exit.

Oh, double shit!

Wolinski’s gun lay inches away from me. I tried to grab it, but my hands were trembling
so much it was tough to get a grip. Just as I was about to wrap my fingers around
the handle, a shadow crossed my line of vision. In the next moment an enormous tennis
shoe-covered foot stomped hard on my wrist, grinding it into the pavement.

Pain shot up my arm. I raised my eyes and saw the barrel of a .38 aimed directly at
my head. The shooter stretched out a tattooed arm and pressed the gun against my temple.
The only thought in my mind was that I was going to die, and everybody would know
I wasn’t really a 34C.

“Um, could I persuade you to rethink this?” I was beyond reason and figured there
was no harm in asking.

The sound of sirens drew closer, only he didn’t seem to notice. The man exuded arrogance.
He pulled the gun away from my head and leered at me, his mouth forming a word so
disgusting I wanted to wash my ears out with soap. Then he reached down and grabbed
my boob.
Eeeww!

“Party’s over, asshole.” I yanked my hand out from under his shoe, catching him off-balance.
He stumbled backwards and I pounced on Dave’s gun, aimed low and fired.

The bullet struck him in the thigh. He screamed and crumpled to the ground in agony,
shattered bone poking through his skin.

“Cocksuckin’ bitch,” he screamed.

“Fuck you, you fucking jerk!” I screamed back and punched him hard in the testicles.

I kept on punching until suddenly I became aware of a pair of hands hauling me off
the guy.

“It’s okay,” the cop said gently. “We’ll take it from here.”

“No, no. I’ve got it.”

He threw a blanket around my shoulders and handed me off to his partner. “I think
she’s in shock,” he advised her.

“No. Hey, I’m fine.” The temperature was in the eighties, and yet I couldn’t stop
shaking.

Spectators were gathered on the sidewalk, some cursing the police, some videotaping
the events. The EMT’s flipped the shooter onto a stretcher while one of the officers
cuffed him.

“Get this guy in the van before I kill him,” the cop growled to the ambulance driver.

I looked around in a daze. Wolinski was being hoisted onto a stretcher. He was wearing
an oxygen mask, which told me he was still alive. I walked over to him and squeezed
his hand. My cheeks felt wet, and it took me a minute to realize I’d been crying.

I wandered over to the car. The front end was crumpled beyond repair, and yet the
radio kept on playing, spewing shit that passed for music. Next to me stood another
cop; a burly, middle-aged guy named McCabe. He looked like a seasoned vet, hard and
cool and no one you’d want to mess with.

He reached a meaty hand in through the car window and turned off the radio. In the
relative quiet I thought I heard someone whimper. McCabe heard it too.