Kindness Goes Unpunished wl-3

by Craig Johnson

  “I’ve still got the Philadelphia section to…” He gave me a dirty look. We figured we had best check in at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, since they were expecting the Bear a day earlier. I unclipped my seat belt, tossed the guide into the cavernous backseat, and scratched behind Dog’s ear. “I hope you’re not in trouble.”

  His expression didn’t change as he pulled the handle and swung the four-foot door onto greater Broad Street, causing a taxi to swerve and blare its horn. He stepped out of Lola and stood, stretching his back and flipping his ponytail over his shoulder. He pulled a half-beaded, fully fringed leather jacket from behind the seat and slipped it on, instantly going native. “I am never in trouble.”

  I watched as the cars continued to swerve around him. “Thinking you’re not in trouble and not being in trouble are two different things.”

  His face remained immobile as he shut the door and walked back against the traffic. “No, they are not.”

  Dog immediately jumped into the driver’s seat, another gentleman’s agreement broken, and we both watched as the big Indian casually crossed the sidewalk past the federal-style lampposts, mounted the steps, and disappeared behind the dark oak doors. People who were walking by stared at Henry, then at Lola, Dog, and me. I waved, but they didn’t wave back; so much for the City of Brotherly Love.

  I looked south, then west to Market, and then up thirty-two imaginary floors to where the next-in-from-the-corner window of a particularly dark, glass-clad building would be if not for the building in front of it. I had asked Cady why she hadn’t gotten the corner office, to which she had replied, “I will.”

  I glanced back to the courthouse clock: 6:20. She’d still be at work; she never got home until at least eight. I looked around for Henry’s cell phone, finally locating it at the end of the power cord under Dog’s appropriated seat. I wasn’t very good with the things, but I pushed one of the little buttons that had a tiny phone image on it, was rewarded with a chirp and an illuminated display of the Bighorn Mountains, and was immediately homesick. I got over it, and selected CONTACTS, working my way through about twenty women’s names just to get to the Cs. I scrolled down to CADY/WORK and pushed the phone button again. It rang only once. “Hello, Bear, are you finally here?”

  Evidently, I was in trouble. “If you could look out your window, up Broad Street, you would see a powder blue convertible with a seasoned, yet ruggedly handsome, sheriff and his trusty companion, Dog.”

  There was a pause. “You brought the dog?”

  Evidently, I was in a lot of trouble. “Is that a problem?”

  Another pause, this one no shorter than the last. “Devon’s allergic to dogs.”

  I looked over at my buddy, who looked back at me with his big, brown eyes. “You have hurt Dog’s feelings.”

  “Daddy…”

  I reached over and scratched under his chin, which was his favorite spot. “Well, I can see if Henry can take him.” There was even another pause, and I started getting a little miffed. “We wouldn’t want to inconvenience Devon…”

  “Dad.”

  It was a short word, but it had a lot behind it.

  I watched as an elegant woman of about thirty rushed across the sidewalk and quickly made her way up the stairs, her charcoal trench coat billowing after her. She wore heels and had very nice legs. A set of keys hung from a lanyard in her hand along with a collection of IDs. Probably something to do with Henry.

  I was still looking after her when a black, basket-weave Sam Browne belt with a Glock 19 blocked my view. I looked up at a young, blonde policewoman with a name tag that read OFFICER SHARPE, and spoke into the phone. “Let me call you back.”

  “Dad? Wait a…”

  I pushed the red button, and the tiny phone chirped again. Dog growled, and I hushed him with a quick glance. I tipped my head back to look at myself in the cop’s sunglasses; she gestured with her pen, which was already out.

  “He didn’t drive the whole way, did he?”

  I tossed the cell phone onto the center console and smiled. “No, we switched off in Cleveland.”

  She didn’t smile back. “Ya need’a move the vehicle.”

  I looked over the steering column at the empty switch. I had never seen Henry Standing Bear take the keys out of anything in thirty years. I glanced back up. “I don’t have the keys.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll get it moved for ya.” She snapped the button on her two-way and held it toward her mouth. “Unit 43, 10-92 at the corner of Cherry and Broad.” She paused. “Roger that, 10-51. I need a hook.”

  I thought of my luggage, of Henry’s, and of the Northern Cheyenne photographic find of the century that was in three hatboxes in the trunk. “Patrolman Sharpe, I think my friend just ran inside to find out where we could unload some things.”

  She smiled for the first time, maybe because I noticed her name and rank, or not. “That’s okay, we let’ya get ya stuff out, before we take the car. I’ll even let’ya keep the dog.” She was talking into the mic again. “Long as ya got a leash for him.”

  I thought about all the things Dog didn’t have, including a leash, as the cell phone began ringing. “Can’t you just write a ticket?”

  She pulled out her docket and flipped it open. “I’m gonna do that, too.”

  I picked up the phone and read Cady’s work number. “Make it an expensive one, will you?”

  I pushed the talk button again. “Hello?”

  “Did you just hang up on me?!”

  I was distracted by a movement to the officer’s side; the woman I had seen disappear up the stairs was back. “Hi, Kathy.”

  Officer Sharpe lowered her pen as she half-turned. “Michelle?”

  I looked up at the window on Market, and I swear I could feel Cady looking down on me. “I didn’t hang up on you…”

  The woman indicated the car in which I was sitting. “This is one of ours.”

  The officer sighed. “Is it movin’ soon?”

  The voice on the cell phone was insistent. “Are you still there?”

  I tried to speak quietly. “I’ve got a little situation here.”

  Michelle nodded and stepped back to trail an arm toward Henry, who was now standing at her side. “This is Henry Standing Bear. He’s here in conjunction with the Museum of the American Indian and the Smithsonian to…”

  “Look, Dad, I’ve got to work late tonight so you’re on your own. I probably won’t make it home till after ten. All right.”

  It wasn’t a question. “All right.”

  “You remember where I told you I hide the key?”

  “Yep.”

  “You and the Bear can find the place?”

  I nodded at the phone, like I always do when I’m trying to get it to like me. “I think so.”

  “See if Henry can take the dog, please? Devon is deathly allergic.” I stared at the receiver for a while. “Dad?” It was quiet on the phone. “It’s been a long day, and it looks like it’s going to get longer.”

  I nodded some more. “Anything I can do, like bring you dinner?”

  “No, Patti went out already. Dad…” The irritation was returning to her voice. “That Moretti woman called twice to set up lunch with us. I spoke with her earlier today, when I thought you were going to be here, and she wanted to stop by tonight.” The irritation was now back in full. “Do you know why this has suddenly become so important to this woman? I mean…I’ve been here for a while.”

  I remembered the conversation on the jail steps. “Vic said something about how her mother was feeling guilty about not getting in touch with you.”

  “Well…If you would, her number is on the notepad by the phone at my place. Can you call and set something up with her for some other time? Tonight just isn’t good.”

  “I’m getting that.” The longest silence since I hadn’t hung up on her.

  By the time I’d closed the phone and rejoined the outside world, Dog had jumped into the back, Henry was fastening his seat bel
t, and the women were gone. He watched my face. “Trouble?”

  “Always.” I studied the windshield. “Where we headed?”

  He watched me for a moment longer and then slipped the big bird into gear. “I can drop you off, then come back here and unload the stuff.”

  “You wanna get something to eat?”

  He cleared his throat very quietly. “I think I have a date.”

  I had to smile and shake my head. “Already?”

  His turn to look out the windshield. “The corner of Quarry and Bread, over in Old City?”

  I thought about how there were more than nine times as many people in Philadelphia than there were in the entire state of Wyoming and how it seemed that none of them wanted to have dinner with me. We circled around City Hall and headed east on Market. I wanted to reconnoiter a little before being left on foot; I had never been to Philadelphia before and was planning on spending the next day as a tourist, so we took a brief detour around Independence Square, taking in Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell Center and Pavilion. There were more trees on this side of town, and I was comforted by the park rangers in their dark green uniforms and Smokey-the-Bear lids. At least I wouldn’t be the only one in town wearing a cowboy hat. “Where have they got you staying?”

  He shrugged, checked the rearview mirror, and took a right on Race, between the National Constitution Center and the Mint. I could see why Cady had chosen this part of town, with its narrow, tree-lined streets, its access to the Delaware River, and the overarching view of the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. It felt like a neighborhood. I guess it had always been one; the AAA book said that Old Ben was buried here, at Christ Church.

  A year ago, when Cady had bought her building with the trust money bequeathed to her by her maternal grandmother, Old City had again been an up and coming area. As I looked around at the boutiques, coffee shops, and trendy bars, it looked like Old City had arrived. Henry slowed the convertible and waited for traffic to move so that we could turn at Bread Street and Paddy O’Neil’s Tavern, a little Irish bar on the corner that Cady had told me about. She went almost every Saturday night to hear the live music and stayed until the musicians were subdued by the local Yuengling beer. Cady always brought me a six-pack of the longnecks in her carry-on.

  I looked at the blue and gold lights of Ben’s bridge shooting into the darkness, the suspension cables only half-lit in the fading umber of twilight. The stacked stone buttresses looked like castled pavilions along the Delaware River, with the arch lights illuminating the stone with a yellowish-green tint. I could hear the clatter of the light rail banging along on the tracks below the bridge’s walking paths. Cady didn’t have a car and generally walked the thirty-two blocks back and forth to work. I wondered if she ever had the time to see this picture-postcard view of her neighborhood. I worried about her walking home at night, but I worried about her brushing her teeth and breathing. Like most parents, I just worried.

  “You can drink your dinner.”

  It sounded appealing; they probably had food, and it was within easy crawling distance of home. I glanced in the windows of the bar as we passed. It was a Thursday night, which meant I wouldn’t be assaulted by live music or a crowd; I’d just pay for the privilege of my own company.

  I had seen pictures of the little tannery building she had bought, and there it was, a strangely squat, one-and-a-half-story commercial-looking structure with a forged-iron atrium. The large carriage opening was still there along the street, but there was also a side entrance with a covered entryway. The Bear eased the car to a stop along the curb. The only light was on the corner about fifty feet and another building down. We sat there for a moment, and I broached the subject of Dog. “If it’s going to be too big of a pain in the ass, just say so.”

  “It is going to be too big of a pain in the ass.”

  I nodded, and we got out and retrieved my bags from the trunk. I wheeled everything across the cobblestones to the door. “Breakfast?”

  “How about lunch?” I nodded and shook my head as he climbed in and started the T-bird. Leave it to Henry to have already arranged a tryst.

  “Dog.” The big brute had been waiting for the word and lithely slipped over the side of the car. He joined me on the sidewalk as we watched the twin-turbine’s brake lights disappear down the cobblestone street.

  I scratched his bulky head, and he looked up at me. “Piss on the bunch of ’em, huh?” He wagged in response: two orphans in a town without pity.

  The key didn’t work.

  I tried it the way she said; I jiggled it and struggled to get it to turn in the other direction, but no go. I walked back to the carriage entrance and tried moving these doors, but they didn’t budge. I thought about abandoning my bags and heading for O’Neil’s, but I wasn’t sure how they’d receive Dog, and we were in it together. There was a narrow walkway of broken flagstone and weeds to my right, so I decided to see what the back of the building held in way of ingress. I stuffed my suitcases in the entryway in hopes that they would still be there when I got back, picked up the sidearm case, patted my leg for Dog to follow, and turned sideways for the two-step between the brick walls. The brim of my hat proved to be cumbersome, so I removed it and held it in the hand with the small locked case. The wall behind me was solid, but Cady’s building had windows set high, about six feet up, and I could see the suspended walkways that made up the mezzanine. Dog was looking as well and cocking his head at what might have been singing.

  I was almost to the end of the path when I fully heard it. It was “La donna e mobile” from Verdi’s Rigoletto, sotto voce and melodic without trying, but there was no instrumental accompaniment. I couldn’t help but wonder where you would get such a recording.

  I thought the sound might be coming from the building behind me but, when I got to the end and a chain-link fence, I realized it was coming from Cady’s overgrown terrace. If Verdi had been with me, he would have folded his arms across the top of the gate, placed his chin on his arms, and gazed at what I’m sure he would have perceived as the Gilda of his dreams.

  At the center of the patio, in the perfect light of dusk, I could make out a fine-featured, dark-haired woman seated at a round bistro table, her legs stretched out before her and crossed at the ankles, with one elbow resting on the table’s pockmarked surface. She wore black Capri pants and a stylish white blouse open at the throat; one arm was relaxed over the iron chair and the other was holding a short-stemmed wine glass, to which she sang like a child.

  Woman is fickle, indeed. It’s a tenor part for the Duke, but she sang it effortlessly with a husky soprano that would have had Verdi rethinking his libretto, if not his libido. She paused at one of the breaks in the music and, with perfect timing, raised the wine glass to her lips. Even from this distance, I could see the hint of ginger in her almond-shaped eyes.

  I slipped my hat back on for identification purposes and softly applauded as her face turned toward me. “Brava! Bellissima, bella…bella!”

  She saluted ever so slightly with her glass and downed the wine in one smooth swig like a longshoreman. “Howdy, Sheriff.”

  She opened the door without any problem. I dropped my bags, and we reoccupied the small terrace. Lena Moretti had raided the pantries of a dozen specialty shops in the Italian Market, and we were currently munching on small slices of stiff bread, prosciutto, mozzarella, and basil, all of which had been smothered in olive oil, first-pressed. We were about to finish the bottle of Chianti Classico, and she still wouldn’t admit she could sing.

  “I heard you.”

  She pulled her fingers through a thick tress of almost-black hair, touched with just a bit of silver, and then allowed her hand to collapse against her shoulder, the arm crooked like a broken wing. “I think hunger has affected your hearing.”

  “I’m tone-deaf; it gives me an advantage.”

  She laughed a slow laugh and brought the broken wing down to caress Dog, fingering the bullet scar. “Victor is the real talent in the fa
mily.”

  “Victor.”

  There was only a momentary pause. “My husband.” She looked like Vic did whenever he was mentioned. “They’re doing Rigoletto at the Grand Opera House in Wilmington, and Victor is playing Monterone.”

  I thought about it. “A considerable role.”

  “Not as considerable as Rigoletto, the role he thought he should have received.”

  “He’s that good?”

  “Yes.”

  I took a sip of my wine. “Wow, the Singing Detective.”

  “Chief Inspector, Field Division North.” She said it as if she’d been corrected herself, numerous times.

  The night didn’t seem dark on the little terrace, almost as if the sky was charcoal rather than black. I took a moment to study her as she looked up and revealed a beautiful throat, and I was glad we were discussing her husband.

  “It’s still his first love.” There was a lot in that statement.

  I waited a moment before responding. “I’d imagine it’s difficult to sing professionally.”

  Her face turned to me, and it was unsettling to see the resemblance to Vic. “Victor came from a working-class family, one that didn’t see the arts as a respectable career choice.”

  “First generation?”

  “Yes.”

  “You?”

  “I was born in Positano; my parents had a small hotel there after the war.” She took a sip of her Chianti and continued to study me. “You have to understand the chronology of the Moretti family, with Vic the father, Vic the son, and Vic the Holy Terror.”

  I had to laugh. “That would be my Vic?”

  She blinked a slow blink in response. “That would be your Vic.”

  “Four boys?”

  “Victor Jr., Alphonse, Tony, and Michael.”

  “Alphonse?”

  She shrugged. “He was named after Victor’s brother. Not my idea. We call him Al.”

  “Michael’s the baby?”

  “Yes.” She smiled with just the corners of her mouth. “You try to not have favorites, but…”