Carlucci

by Richard Paul Russo

  “Jesus,” Paula said. “Is that good or bad?”

  “No idea,” said Amy, shaking her head. “But it probably isn’t any worse than what we’ve been looking at.”

  Amy was right. They’d been expecting to find Mixer dead or completely wrecked, and there wasn’t much that could be worse than that. “Worth hitting the streets again,” Paula said.

  “Maybe so,” Amy replied. “But you’re on your own tonight. I’ve got other business. Only reason I came down here was to tell you what I’d heard.”

  “Thanks, Amy. You’ve been a wonder, really.”

  Amy smiled, then said, “You know, chances are still shit for finding him, even if something good’s happened. You haven’t heard from him, which probably means they’ve still got him wrapped up, even if he isn’t dead. They just might be gearing up to run through the trial again. Or, hell, who knows what else? Don’t expect too much.”

  “I know, Amy, but I’ve got to have a little hope. I was just about down to none, and I can’t keep going without it.”

  “Yeah.” Amy stood. “I’ve gotta go. Luck to you, Paula.”

  “Thanks.”

  Amy left, and Paula watched her walk out of Misha’s. She felt better than she had in days. She pulled the donuts back and reached for the coffee. A good shot of caffeine and a couple solid hits of carbos and she’d be ready to go back out onto the streets.

  By dawn, what little new hope had pumped through Paula was pretty much shot. Exhaustion, she told herself—too many days without enough sleep. She felt like shit again.

  She dropped onto an old concrete bench across the street from a shock shop. If she let herself, she could fall asleep here, become ripe meat for the street scavs. People moved all around her, and she closed her eyes, tried to imagine herself being ripped apart. Then she sensed someone sit beside her on the bench.

  “Hello, Paula.”

  Paula opened her eyes to see Tremaine sitting next to her. The rising sun reflected off the shock shop window across the street, then off the left lens of Tremaine’s glasses, obscuring his eye.

  “You’ve been following me,” she said.

  “No,” Tremaine replied, shaking his head. The shimmer of reflection shifted from one lens to the other and back again. “Or rather, yes, but only the last few minutes. I was in the Asian Quarter, on the edge, and I saw you sort of drifting back and forth between the Asian and Euro. You seemed lost. Wiped.” He paused. “You know, Paula, you look terrible.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Well, you do.”

  “Yeah. I feel terrible. Lack of sleep and food will do that to you.” She shrugged. “I’ve been looking for someone.”

  “Mixer?”

  A shot of fear sliced through her. “How did you know?”

  “I was there, remember? At The Final Transit when your friend came in and said something about Mixer and Saint Katherine.”

  Paula looked askance at him. “You have a damn good memory.”

  “It helps in my business.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” She turned away and looked at the shock shop. An old woman in heavy, flowing robes was closing up. Jesus, Paula thought, she must be roasting in those robes. Things had cooled down some with yesterday’s rainstorm, but it was still warm, even this early in the morning. “Yes,” she finally said, still not looking at Tremaine, “I’ve been looking for Mixer.”

  “You haven’t found him.”

  “No.”

  “A close friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “How close?”

  Paula heard something familiar in his voice, and she turned to look at him. “Not that kind of friend. But a close friend.”

  Tremaine nodded.

  “Chick Roberts was the one who was that kind of friend.”

  “I know,” Tremaine said. His expression seemed to convey a real sympathy, which surprised her for some reason.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me again about him being killed?” Paula said.

  Tremaine shook his head.

  They sat without speaking for two or three minutes, watching the sun come up orange and crimson between the buildings, its outline shimmering through the haze.

  “Let me take you home,” Tremaine finally said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve got a car outside the Tenderloin. Just a few blocks away, a short walk.” He paused. “You look like you could do with some sleep.”

  Paula looked at him, still trying to decide what kind of person he was. She didn’t know yet, she just didn’t know. But she nodded anyway. “Sure,” she said. “Take me home. Why the hell not?”

  The old Plymouth ground to a stop in front of her apartment building.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Paula said.

  “Sure,” Tremaine said. He put his hand on her shoulder. “You are exhausted. Get some sleep.” He took his hand away.

  “I will.” Paula had been half expecting Tremaine to invite himself up to her apartment, and she’d been dreading having to tell him to fuck off, but now it didn’t look like he was going to do that.

  “Let me buy you dinner tonight,” Tremaine said. “You could probably use a good meal, too.”

  “Yeah, probably I could.” She shook her head. “But I just might sleep through the night as well.” There was something about this guy, something she liked. She smiled at him. “Make it tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Tomorrow it is.”

  “Call me,” Paula said. “I’m sure you know my number.”

  Tremaine nodded, and Paula got out of the car. She closed the door and stood on the sidewalk, watching as Tremaine and the old Plymouth pulled away from the curb, surprisingly sorry to see him go.

  15

  CARLUCCI HAD ARRANGED to meet Paula at noon by the Civic Center pond, a large oval four feet deep at its center, the water covered by a thick layer of green and brown muck. She was waiting for him when he arrived, pacing at the water’s edge; after the morning rain, the overflow channels were draining slowly toward the streets, and she stepped over them as she paced back and forth.

  As he approached, she saw him and stopped pacing. The skin beneath her eyes was dark and puffy, and the rest of her face was pale. For the first time since he’d met her, she looked her age, maybe even a little older.

  “Hello, Paula,” he said, putting out his hand.

  “Hello, Lieutenant.” She shook his hand, her grip firm in spite of the way she looked.

  “Come on,” Carlucci said. “Call me Frank.”

  “Okay. Frank.”

  “You look terrible.”

  She half smiled. “People keep telling me that. Think there’s something to it?”

  “Want something to eat?” he asked, gesturing at a cart nearby selling sausages and giant pretzels.

  “God, no.” Paula shook her head. “Coffee, though, I could use.”

  Carlucci nodded. There were a couple of coffee carts on the other side of the pond. “I’ll buy,” he said. “How do you want it?”

  “Black,” said Paula. “As black as you can get it.”

  Carlucci walked along the edge of the pond, stepping across the overflow channels, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he went. The heat was stifling again, as if they were back in July or August. Where the hell was fall?

  He bought two large coffees from the girl running one of the carts; she couldn’t have been more than thirteen, and she was pregnant. Carlucci gave her a tip that was double the price of the coffee.

  When he got back to Paula, he handed her one of the coffees and they stood together sipping at them, gazing out at the muck-covered pond. Something heaved under the muck, out near the middle, and Paula laughed.

  “I wonder what lives in there,” she said. “I think everyone’s afraid to clean off the crap and find out.”

  “Fish, or snakes,” Carlucci suggested. “Turtles, maybe.”

  “Mutant alligators,” Paula said. She looked at him. “I’m glad you called. I wanted to talk to
you, but I didn’t think calling your office was a good idea.”

  “I didn’t give you my home number?” When Paula shook her head, Carlucci frowned. “Sorry. I should have. I thought I had.”

  “Why did you call?” Paula asked.

  “I need to tell you some things.” Carlucci hesitated, staring down into his coffee. “It’s an incredible mess. It’s not just Chick’s murder anymore. There’s a lot more involved.”

  “Like what?”

  Carlucci shook his head. “Christ, I don’t know. I mean, I know some of it, but I don’t know what I should be telling you. Too much firepower, too damn many things that could blow up in my face.”

  “Are you dropping it?” Paula asked.

  “No. I half wish I was, but no.” He looked out at the pond and drank from his coffee. “There’s no more screwing around. What I’ve done up to now has been pretty much risk-free, checking into a few things here and there. I’ve found a lot, but none of it good.” He shook his head again and looked back at Paula. “Nothing’s going to be risk-free any longer. Not for me, not for you. You’ve got to know that.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me what’s involved.”

  “I don’t know. I keep thinking it’s better for both of us if I’m the only one who knows.” Damage control, Carlucci thought, if everything goes to shit on me. But he didn’t say it.

  “Look, that’s up to you,” Paula said. “But I’m not sure I can help much if I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”

  “I know. I’ll think about it.” He paused. “What I really need now is to talk to Mixer.”

  Paula gave a choked laugh. “Good luck.”

  “What is it?”

  She slowly shook her head. “I’ve been looking for him for days.”

  “Why?”

  “You know who the Saints are?”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Carlucci said. “Some women in the Tenderloin, they take on the names of old Saints, right? Most of what I’ve heard sounds a little crazy.”

  Paula gave him something like a smile. “Then most of what you’ve heard is probably true.” The smile faded. “They take people off the street and put them on trial. ‘Trial’ meaning some kind of torture like the historical saints were put through.” She paused, breathing deeply. “About a week ago they picked up Mixer. Saint Katherine was to put him on trial a few days ago.” She turned away from him. “The survivors of Saint Katherine’s trials end up with scrambled eggs for brains. I look like shit because I’ve been spending nights in the Tenderloin looking for him, hoping I could find what’s left of the bastard before the scavengers pick him clean.”

  “No sign of him?” Carlucci asked.

  “No,” Paula said. “A friend told me last night that she’d heard something went wrong with the trial, but nobody knows what. No one knows what happened—if he’s dead, if he’s still alive, if he’s fucked up, nothing.” She looked back at Carlucci. “I’ve got a little hope, but not much. I wouldn’t count on him for anything, if I were you.”

  “You think there’s any connection between Chick’s death and the Saints picking up Mixer?”

  “I doubt it. The Saints live in another world, and I don’t think it’s got much in common with ours. They don’t do anything for anyone but themselves.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “What do you think?” Paula said. Then, “Sorry.” She drank the rest of her coffee and walked over to a trash can on the sidewalk. The can was overflowing, and Carlucci watched her standing in front of it, crumpling the cup in her hand, squeezing it over and over. Finally she shoved the crushed cup into the other trash, wiped her hands on her jeans, and walked back.

  “Something else I need to tell you,” she said. “One of the names I gave you last week. Jenny Woo.”

  “Yes.”

  “Something there, I think. She’s worth an extra look. She thought I was following her, and she warned me off. Told me getting dead like Chick wasn’t going to do anyone any good.” She paused for a moment, then went on. “She and Chick were bootlegging body-bags. Anyway, she gave me the impression she knew exactly why Chick had been killed.”

  “All right,” Carlucci said. “Anything like that will help.” He took a business card from his wallet, jotted down his home number, and handed the card to Paula. “Any time, day or night, you need to call me, do it, all right?”

  Paula stuck the card in her back pocket and nodded. “One other thing,” she said. “You know who Tremaine is?”

  Carlucci nodded, his gut tightening.

  “He’s poking around in this. He came to see me, wanted to talk to me about Chick.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. What should I tell him?”

  Carlucci shrugged. “I don’t know if it really matters. That guy, if he’s got a story, and puts it all together, nothing will keep him from sending it out over the nets.”

  Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Then Paula sighed heavily. “I’ve gotta go,” she said.

  “Mixer…” Carlucci started, but he didn’t finish. She knew better. “Let me know if you find him.”

  Paula nodded again, then turned and walked away without another word. Carlucci watched her cross the plaza, hands jammed into her pockets, head down. She turned a corner and was gone.

  Tremaine. I should talk to him, Carlucci thought. He probably knows more about what’s going on than anyone.

  Carlucci looked into his coffee cup, which was still half full. His stomach rebelled at the thought of any more coffee right now. He stepped to the edge of the pond and poured out what was left in the cup. Drink up, he said silently to whatever was living beneath the muck. Drink up.

  Carlucci stood at the mouth of an alley across from the outer edge of the Tenderloin. One more meeting before returning to the station. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes before Sparks was supposed to be there. Just about right. Sparks would be early.

  He hesitated before entering the narrow passageway. The sun had broken through the clouds and haze and glared down on him; sweat dripped down his neck, rolled down his sides under his shirt. Steam rose from the alley floor where the sun sliced in. Sometimes, like now, Carlucci wished he still carried a gun. At least it wasn’t nighttime.

  He started into the alley. His first few steps were through the rising steam, but he was soon past it and into shadow, his shoes splashing through shallow rain puddles. Above him hung fire escapes and huge sprays of flowering bromeliads; water dripped on him, almost like rain.

  Halfway along the alley, on the right, were two concrete steps leading up to a metal door. Carlucci climbed the steps and pushed open the door, which swung inward with an echoing screech. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  He had expected darkness, but dappled light came in through broken windows and large cracks in the walls, strangely illuminating the huge, empty, high-ceilinged room. An old machine shop or storage facility, Carlucci guessed, Cooler than outside, a welcome relief. The floor was a mix of broken concrete and dirt, scattered with wood and metal debris. A dark, open doorway broke the solid interior wall across from him, and Carlucci stood in the cool shadows, listening and watching the doorway.

  A minute or two later, he heard a harsh coughing, and Sparks appeared in the doorway. Sparks stopped for a moment, blinking, then came into the room. He coughed again, shaking his head. Sparks was tall and gaunt, his eyes dark, his cheeks hollow; a slice of light from outside cut across his neck, revealing the jagged lines of needle marks. Dermal patches were everywhere on the streets, but some people still needed those needles, straight shots to the veins, the heart.

  “Carlucci,” Sparks said. “You’re early.”

  “So are you.”

  Sparks smiled. “Have you got anything for me?”

  Carlucci worked his way across the rubble until he was just a foot or two from Sparks. Sparks was younger than Carlucci, but looked much older. He’d been a hot-shot demon onc
e, freelancing for the cops in addition to several big corporations, hacking his way through life and getting rich, until one night his nervous system had taken a huge hit from a defective black-market head juicer. His career as a demon was over. His life was over. His career as a junkie had just begun.

  Carlucci took a small wad of bills from his pocket and handed it to Sparks. “More later, if you can get me some whisper.”

  Sparks pocketed the money, then broke into a long coughing fit, doubling over for a minute or two before it eased. He straightened, coughed a few more times, then sighed heavily. “I’m dying,” he said.

  “I know,” Carlucci replied.

  “Can you get me into a hospice?” Sparks asked.

  “I don’t know.” Carlucci turned away, unable to maintain eye contact. “I’ll try, Sparks.” He turned back to face the old junkie. Not that old, really, but old for a needle freak. “I’ll try.”

  Sparks nodded, then said, “What do you want?”

  “Chick Roberts.” Carlucci paused for a few seconds as Sparks closed his eyes, locking in the name, then opened them again. “Jenny Woo.” Another pause, Sparks’s eyes closing, opening. “William Kashen.” One final pause. “Robert Butler.” Carlucci stopped, trying to decide whether to throw in Mixer. He wasn’t completely sure where Mixer fit in, and he was afraid of complicating things. Gut feeling said to leave it there, so he did. “How are they connected?” he finished up.

  Sparks made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Three of them are dead.” Another cough. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can come up with. I’ll be in touch.” He started to turn, then shifted back around, looking at Carlucci with his head cocked. “There’s something to do with New Hong Kong in all this,” he said.

  Without another word, Sparks turned and walked back through the doorway. Carlucci remained where he was, feeling that their conversation, their meeting, whatever it was, wasn’t quite finished. But Sparks was gone, and there was nothing more to say.

  Carlucci walked back across the room, opened the door, and stepped out into the alley. The heat struck him hard, and he was dizzy for a moment. The plants overhead dripped steadily on him. Fuck this city, Carlucci said to himself. He took the two steps to the alley floor, turned, and headed for the street.