Starr Sign

by C. S. O'Cinneide

  I walk aimlessly for some time, although my subconscious GPS eventually locates a liquor store. I buy a mickey of Jack and find a park to drink it in. The browned-out green space borders on an old peeler bar called The Doll’s House. Outside of it, a marquee with removable capital letters informs me that SANTA DROPS HIS LOAD HERE. It seems like the right neigbourhood to sit on a bench and drink from a paper bag, which I’m forced to do since I left my trusty hip flask back at the Scarpellos. I’ve got a couple of hours to kill before I have to meet Janet and Deep for lunch. Janet picked a spot in midtown that serves all-day breakfast poutine. Poutine is a Quebec version of fries and gravy that they totally ruin with cheese curds. The kid loves it, apparently. Must be a Canadian thing.

  The first shot of Jack goes down harshly, mixing with the hearty breakfast still heavy in my stomach. But after a while, it warms me all over, improving my digestion of both the meal and my thoughts. It’s strange being back in the game, working for Scarpello in a world I’d mostly left behind after that stretch I served in the pen. My dad was killed when I was in prison, and I didn’t have the heart to continue with the family business without him. Or maybe I’d just had enough. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes between apathy and choice. When I’d followed in his assassin footsteps, I’d been travelling the path of least resistance. There was that brush I’d had with college, a plan for a different life, but a band of thugs who jumped me on campus put an end to that. They’d used me and left me for dead, driven by the sport of violating the daughter of a notorious killer. What you’re born into can come back to haunt you worse than the dead can.

  Maybe I won’t go back to the Scarpellos. I could leave it all to Deep and his cyber surveillance. If we confirm Alex is my twin brother, then we can just do a remote blackmail and be done with it. I don’t know if I’m even interested in a piece of the Scarpello power pie anymore. There’s a lot of fucked-up shit going on in that organization, even by my standards. And let’s face it, I’ve never been much of a team player. Janet will want me to stay close in case Angela comes back. But if she’s in danger, she won’t be returning any time soon to the Indian Village homestead. And if she’s not in danger, then she’s staying incognito for her own reasons. My sister will just have to accept that about our mother, like I did a long time ago.

  I tell myself all of this, but part of me is still drawn in by the power, the money, as well as the commitment I’ve made to my sister. Taking another deep pull on the bottle, I decide to see it out, this road I’m on. Maybe it’s too late to turn back, anyway.

  I’m halfway through the plastic mickey in its brown paper bag when my phone vibrates up against me from my pocket. I take it out and check out the screen. It’s Malone.

  “You haven’t been answering my calls,” she says, all tight-assed and annoyed when I pick up.

  “I had my phone turned off,” I lie. “I keep getting calls from Peru telling me I’m wanted by the cops.”

  “You are wanted by the fucking cops. And the cop is me.”

  “Good morning to you, too, Malone.”

  “Don’t you bloody ‘good morning’ me,” she says. “What the hell are you doing in Detroit?”

  Shit. Did she track me from my phone? But she’d need a warrant for a trace like that. The phone companies don’t give up their customers that fucking easily. And I’m not dumb enough to subscribe to the Find My Phone app like my sister does.

  “You’ve been spotted,” Malone says. “You’re hanging with the Scarpellos. How did you think that wouldn’t get back to me?”

  Wow, the department really does have their eyes on the family. Or maybe it’s the Feds. The FBI co-operates with local law enforcement way more than you’d think. Another reality that doesn’t match what you see on TV. I scout around the park. A girl with a butt hanging out of her pouty mouth pushes a snot-covered kid in a stroller. Whenever one of its wonky wheels gets caught in a pavement crack, she screams “Fuck.” A junkie lies passed out in a dried-up fountain, bundled in a crumpled sleeping bag, while a couple of stone cherubs look on. Both cherubs are missing parts of their noses, as is the junkie. Cheap coke’ll do that to you. An old guy drags a ladder over to the Doll’s House marquee, holding a letter S under his arm. The one in Santa has blown off in the wind. I know undercover can go deep sometimes, but none of these have the whiff of the law about them.

  “I’m looking for Angela,” I tell her, figuring a half-truth will keep her bullshit radar from pinging. “This seemed like the best place to start.”

  “The best place to start if you want to end up missing like she is. I told you we’d handle it. And where the hell is Janet? You’re supposed to be taking care of her.”

  “She went home with Aunt Stacey,” I say, back to full-on lying again.

  “That’s bullshit.” Ping.

  “Blonde broad, heavy hand with the mascara. Short enough she could fit into my armpit?”

  My accurate description of Stacey throws Malone, as I planned it would. She pauses, thinking, but then her instincts override my attempts at deception. That’s why she’s a good detective.

  “I’m calling Social Services.”

  “Don’t do that, Malone.”

  “You’re leaving me no choice, Candace.”

  I need to hold her off somehow. If she checks things out, she’ll find out Aunt Stacey crossed the border back into Canada alone yesterday, minutes after I threatened her in the alleyway. Windsor is only on the other side of the river from Detroit. That chick was so scared, she’d probably have swum across it to get away from me.

  “What if I could help you out with this poker game thing?” I say, bartering with what I don’t have. “Scarpello’s got me running security on it.”

  “You’re working for Alex Scarpello? Jesus, Candace. You could get busted for just associating with that bastard.”

  “Then why haven’t I been busted?” Malone might owe me a favour and turn a blind eye. But she got this intel from others who don’t have the same loyalties.

  “They’ve got bigger fish to fry, Candace.”

  “So let me help fry them, Malone. I could be a big help to you, on the inside and all.” I don’t know if I’m up for informing on the Mob, but I’ve got to offer Malone something. “I worked the game last night. And I’m working it again tonight.”

  “Where are they holding it?”

  “You don’t need to know that, Malone.” I can’t have her raiding the place. Not until I figure a few things out. Or Deep does. “But I might be able to get a lead on how they’re moving the money around for you.”

  “But what about Janet?”

  “Janet is safe, Malone. I give you my word on that.”

  She mulls this over. Makes an executive decision. That’s what I like about Malone. She’s an independent agent, like me, when it comes to her work. She’s not afraid to go out on a limb that could crack out from underneath her. Also, against all odds, she sort of trusts me. That happens when you save someone’s life. But then again, she’d saved mine in return. A history like that doesn’t make you even, as much as it joins your fates at the hip.

  “You’ve got until tomorrow afternoon to come up with something and get out of town,” she says. “If not, I’m calling Social Services about Janet and coming to Detroit personally to get you both. I told you, Candace, you’re not safe there. Mob families are always a volatile place to be right after a transfer of power. And the dust hasn’t settled yet. Alex Scarpello will be looking for ways to showcase his strength, to discourage other contenders. You don’t want to get caught in the crosshairs of that.”

  “I’m touched by your concern, Malone.”

  “I’m serious. The dead woman in the freezer. Your mother’s disappearance. They’re all linked to you, Candace. And they all lead back to the Scarpellos. If even half the things they say about this new Don are true, he’s not someone to mess with.”

  “I’m not someone to mess with, either, Malone,” I remind her.

 
“I know. That’s what scares me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Candace. This time, you might have just met your match.”

  After a few more false assurances, I hang up the phone with Malone, and lean back on the bench. The old guy replacing the S on the marquee drops the ladder he was carrying with a clatter. It wakes the junkie in the fountain, who lifts his head and looks around. When he catches sight of my mickey in a bag, I can see his eyes light up, even from twenty feet away. I lift up one corner of my full mouth into a silent snarl. He crawls back into his sleeping bag, like a worm burying himself in dirt.

  Alex Scarpello may be my twin, but I’d never thought of him as my equal. That kind of math tempts a betting girl’s odds and cements my resolve to play things out. I know what I’m doing here in Detroit is a gamble, but the pot is too damn big to pass on. And I’ve never been one to fold my cards early.

  CHAPTER 17

  I GRAB A BUS TO MIDTOWN, where I’ve arranged to meet Deep and Janet for lunch at a place called the Brooklyn Street Local. Janet and Deep’s food has already arrived when I get there. A rectangular platter in front of my sister holds a mountain of poutine topped with a fried egg that stares out like a yellow eye. Being the Brit that he is, Deep went for the fish and chips. I take a seat in the booth they’ve scored by the window. It looks out on a used car lot that promises approval to everyone no matter how shitty their credit.

  “Did you find Mom, yet?” Janet asks, through a mouthful of fries and gravy. I don’t even want to think about the cheese curds.

  I warm my hands on the cup of java the waitress just poured.

  “Jesus, Janet. You’re like a broken record.”

  “That is what you’re trying to do, right?”

  “I’m trying to do a lot of things.”

  “Like shopping at Nordstrom?”

  “For fuck’s sake, I explained about that.”

  “And working for Alex Scarpello? I thought you said you didn’t do criminal stuff anymore.”

  “I don’t.” Not entirely accurate, but close enough.

  “Then why are you?” The logic of a thirteen-year-old girl is as black and white as the QR codes I saw flashed on the player’s phones last night. I’m about to explain to her that I only took the job to help find Angela for her, a half-truth of the kind I used with Malone. But before I can, the waitress comes by and asks for my order. I haven’t even had time to look at the menu. I’m still full from breakfast, but the half cup of maple syrup I’d ingested has tripped my sweet tooth rather than satisfying it. Sugar, like many powders that give you a rush, tends to leave the consumer always wanting more.

  “What do you have for dessert?” I ask.

  “We have a special today. It’s a deconstructed pomegranate–lime curd tart.”

  “Deconstructed?”

  “All the ingredients are laid out on the plate separately. Crumbled up graham crackers on one part, the lime curd on the other. And then a fresh pomegranate half in the centre. The cook made it fresh this morning.”

  “It sounds like the cook didn’t make it at all.” I want to ask about carrot cake, but I’m afraid they’ll hand me a raw vegetable and some flour and expect me to bake it myself.

  “I’ll just have some more coffee,” I tell her. After she pours me some, I take the sugar dispenser and add a generous helping of what a health-conscious female body builder I used to date referred to as “white death.”

  “What’s he like?” Deep asks after the waitress is gone.

  “Who?”

  “Alex Scarpello.”

  “Let’s just say that if we’re twins, I’m not the evil one.”

  “Wow, that’s saying a lot.”

  “It certainly fucking is,” Janet mumbles, still mad at me about the shopping thing. She’s wearing her big-ass specs again, and they magnify the accusation in her eyes.

  Deep steps in, as he usually does, to change the subject and the trajectory of the conversation.

  “I’ve made some headway on the Russian birth registration.”

  “And?”

  “I found a birth certificate for Alex Scarpello. I’m sorry, Candace. But it confirms he was born in Russia.”

  “Could be a fake,” I say. “The Russians don’t exactly have a name for keeping accurate public records. Bribe a public official with a few rubles, and you could probably get them to issue a birth certificate for Mikhail Mouse.”

  “Maybe,” Deep admits. He dips a piece of heavily battered fish into some creamy tartar sauce and takes a crunchy bite. His lips shine with the grease. It’s strangely sexy, and I have to turn away until he wipes his mouth with a napkin from the silver canister on the table. “The registration date was over a year after the actual birth. That seemed a little dodgy to me. And it was issued in Moscow, a long way from where Anya was supposed to be staying with her family. The Smirnovs operate out of St. Petersburg.”

  “Smirnov, like the vodka?” Wow, a woman with a maiden name like that couldn’t be all bad. No wonder I’d taken a bit of a shine to her.

  “That’s Smirnoff,” he says, correcting me, but not in an arrogant way, so I allow it. “In any case, I’m still looking. Something else might surface. In the meantime, I have a mate in Pavlovsk I’ll ring, ask him to see what he can find on his side.”

  I grab one of his fries and pop it into my mouth. It tastes like fish. “I’ve been doing some recon of my own,” I tell him. “I broke into Alex’s study today.”

  “That sounds unwise,” Deep says, disapproval in his voice. But Janet beams at me. I’m finally doing something she considers more beneficial to the cause than buying evening wear.

  “You told me to keep my eyes peeled for information around the house, Deep.”

  “I meant documents you might happen upon, not something that required a bloody break and enter.”

  “Yeah, like Scarpello’s going to just leave his secrets lying around on the goddamn coffee table. Jesus, Deep.” I steal another fishy fry. “Anyway, Alex wasn’t there, and I kept the hired help busy while I did my thing. Got a guy to stage a distraction.”

  “Would that be the gent who came to our motel room asking for a hundred dollars and a pair of my socks?” Deep asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yeah,” I say. “That would be him.” I’m glad to hear he made it out of the tree.

  I tell them about the locked drawer and its contents, full of injectables and other unlabelled drugs.

  “He’s a drug addict?” Janet asks.

  “He doesn’t seem the type,” I say, grimacing as I sip on the overly sweet coffee. “He’s too smooth for that, too in control.” At least for a psychopath, I think, but keep that observation to myself.

  “That actually makes sense,” Deep says. “I came across some information about Alex Scarpello’s childhood. In his school records, there were a lot of absences for illness, even hospitalizations. The files are a little light on details, but his mother was so worried about him catching germs from the other students that she insisted on him having a separate toilet.”

  Deep shakes a generous helping of malt vinegar on his fries. The strong tangy smell puts a wrinkle in my nose. I was locked up once with a girl so desperate with the DTs she drank a whole bottle of that stuff, too dumb to know the malt part wasn’t alcohol. It burned part of her esophagus, and she burped toxic gas for a week. I’m no stranger to the abundant abuse of alcohol, but at least I never got that fucking bad.

  “So, you’re thinking he might still be sick?” I say, going to steal another fry from Deep’s plate, but I can’t find one that doesn’t have that damn vinegar on it.

  “I’m thinking there are a lot of chronic illnesses that require people to inject medication,” he says. “Diabetes, for one. Even cancer. My mom used to have shots for her rheumatoid arthritis.”

  “Alex Scarpello looked pretty damn healthy to me. But —”

  Janet throws down her fork into her empty platter so hard, I figure she may have taken a chunk o
ut of the white ceramic.

  “I don’t understand how this helps at all with finding Mom.”

  I don’t appreciate tantrums, but I can see the kid’s hurting. I’m not totally insensitive.

  “We’re just trying to find some information that might get us some leverage, Janet,” I say, trying to reassure her. “So we can get the Scarpello’s to give up where she is.”

  “But they told you where she is. She’s at that retreat!”

  “We don’t know where that is, Janet.”

  I switch my attention to Deep, hoping to spread some of my kid sister’s wrath his way. “Did you make any headway finding the location?”

  Deep shakes his head. “That is proving harder to hack than the Russian Department of Vital Statistics.”

  “Why don’t you just ask them?” Janet asks, her wrath still firmly focused on me.

  “What?”

  “You’re so tight with the Scarpellos, living at their house, working at their stupid poker game. Why don’t you just ask them where the retreat is that Mom’s supposed to be at?”

  “It’s not that easy, Janet. We have to be cautious.” I’m trying to keep with the reassurance shtick here, but this kid isn’t making it easy. Like I said, patience isn’t one of my virtues. “Besides. I think Angela is probably okay. Anya seems to actually care about her. My gut tells me they’re expecting her to come back. I’ll be there when she does.”

  “No, you won’t! You’ll be out shopping for dresses or getting Deep to find something on Alex so you can blackmail him for money. You don’t give a damn about what happens to Mom. You don’t even call her that. Just Angela, like she’s not anything to you!”

  She jumps up from the table and runs off toward the restrooms. Deep pushes his plate away, and he’s not even finished his vinegar-laden fries.

  “That went a bit pear-shaped,” he says.

  “You think?”

  “It’s been rough on her.”

  “It’s been pretty fucking rough on me, too,” I say, thinking about Alex putting his slimy butcher knife–swinging hand on my cheek this morning. I wipe at my face with a napkin before turning to Deep.