The Highway (A Benny Steel and Marisa Tulli Novel - Book 1)

by Steven Grosso

  The ticket printed, and he glanced at the paper and shook his head, looking up at Marisa. “An hour for $2.50. You believe that?”

  She twisted her glossy lips to one side of her mouth, her brown eyes in thought, and shrugged.

  Again, he was more interested than her in the topic at hand, but, damn, she looked good as she did that, he thought. Wow.

  She stepped back and leaned against the driver’s side door, crossed her left foot over her right, and folded her arms as her handbag dangled across her stomach. “Ready?”

  He grabbed his pants at each hip and tugged once, then nodded. “Yep…we have an hour.”

  She pushed herself off the car, and he walked over to her. Each turned their head right and waited for a bus to pass and for the light to turn green. The bookstore awaited them.

  7

  The Barnes & Noble boomed with activity. Cold air circulated throughout the store and turned the warm perspiration on their arms cool. Arrows on the walls indicated that the Starbucks was on the second floor, so they walked to a silver escalator and glided up in silence, people-watching. The first floor was busy with customers browsing the shelves, testing Nooks, and waiting in long lines at the register, but the floor and shelves faded away from their vision with each passing second.

  They stepped off and onto the second floor, taking large strides. The walls held the traditional bookstore smell of fresh paper mixed with sweat from customers whose sole purpose was to go inside and escape the heat for a few moments.

  They entered the Starbucks, and a whiff of dark coffee beans penetrated their noses from espresso dripping and steaming into a cup in the distance. A man in a gray suit stood in line finishing up his order. He snickered like a smug rich guy and waved an arrogant hand at Steel and Marisa implying that it was now their turn, as if he was used to being in control. Probably an attorney, Steel thought. Maybe I should tell him we’re not his secretaries. He shot the man tough-guy eyes and waved Marisa forward. Steel and paranoia, always thinking someone was trying to one-up him.

  The twenty-something cashier wore a green apron and a green hat over her pinkish-orange punk-rocker hair. A thick silver stud filled a hole in her nose, and an artsy tattoo covered each of her forearms. She smiled. “Can I help you?”

  Steel turned a thumb toward Marisa.

  She cleared her throat and scanned the menu above. “I’ll just take a small decaf.”

  The woman glanced at her and spoke with a tone of sarcasm. “Tall coffee?”

  “Yeah, if that’s a small, then yeah, one tall decaf.”

  “And for you, sir?”

  “One grande.”

  “Regular or decaf?”

  “Regular, and can you leave some room for milk?”

  “Sure thing,” the woman said.

  Steel smiled without showing teeth. “Thank you.”

  The punk-rocker rotated her body and worked the coffee machine. Steel thought of how he’d called it “punk-rocker” growing up but guessed it was probably called “hipster” nowadays.

  He nudged Marisa and spoke lowly, “You gotta get the names of the coffee down. They don’t mess around in Starbucks.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m a Dunkin’ Donuts girl.”

  “I’m a four cup a coffee a day guy and don’t care where I get it, but Starbuck is the best.”

  “Good for you.” She confidently looked at Steel as if to say she may have been his understudy on this case but could still set the tone with the lure of an attractive woman.

  He blushed and reminded himself to remain professional and was surprised at his flirtatious ways with her. He usually wasn’t so forward, especially right away, and especially not at work.

  An awkward, long silence followed as they waited for the coffee. Maybe Marisa was getting annoyed with him, at least that’s what he thought—the thoughts of a man who had as much self-esteem as a desert had rainfall. He couldn’t help but observe the store; it was in his nature as a detective. Sometimes, he did this even when he wasn’t working. It reminded him of when a few years prior, he’d gone to his brother’s for Christmas dinner and dined and conversed with his family for most of the evening. By the end of the night, his brother had come up to him with a smile on his face, holding back laughter, barely getting the words out, and had told Steel that his wife and her sister thought he was intimidating or weird because he’d almost stared a hole through them. Focusing on every word they’d said as they’d eaten their ham and potatoes. His brother had said how he’d explained to them that, as a detective, Steel’s job was to listen carefully. Steel tried to keep this in check from time to time but often failed.

  He snapped out of his thoughts, and from his vantage point, his eyes landed on the travel section. He could make out the print on a large book. Its cover had a picture of the Coliseum and the word ROME on top. Then he turned his head to the small lounging area inside the coffee shop, estimated about twenty small tables, and noticed almost half were full. Some people read new books and used their receipts as bookmarks. Some sipped coffee and surfed through laptops. Some just stared idly and thought. One man seemed mentally ill as he talked to imaginary people, smiled, and wore clothes that appeared as though they hadn’t been washed in years. Poor guy, Steel thought.

  The punk-rocker pivoted on her foot and then spun around with a cup. “Here’s the tall decaf,” she said, then placed it on the counter, grabbed the other, and twisted her hips back around. “And here’s the grande.”

  Steel snatched a crisp twenty from his right pocket and handed it to the cashier.

  Marisa motioned to her handbag and crinkled her nose. “No, you sure?”

  He tossed a hand off to the side. “Don’t worry about it.”

  The cashier jabbed a finger at the register, then passed him a few bills and coins.

  They headed over to a side counter that held sugar packets, wooden coffee stirrers, two pitchers of ice-cold drinking water, and cream. He poured a shot of cream into the black coffee, and it swirled light brown with rising steam. She followed the procedure.

  “Just the smell of coffee wakes you up,” he said.

  “Tell me about it. I couldn’t live without it.”

  Marisa led the way to a table in the middle of the small setup, and no one sat next to the one she had chosen.

  They lowered themselves into the seats, and their chairs scraped the floor.

  She tossed her handbag by her feet, and he glanced at her as she did it and saw that she was wearing casual black flats with the creases in her toes showing. Interesting, he thought, breaking dress code. I like it. He couldn’t help but do something he’d done since the age of twenty-five: check a woman’s hand for a ring. He cast a glance, without moving his head, at her soft left hand and back to her face within a second. All clear. She hadn’t even noticed.

  She flipped her hair behind each ear and sipped her coffee. “So, Steel, what’s your story? Since you just interrogated me the whole ride over. Give me a brief bio, something.”

  Heat rushed Steel’s face—he knew it was getting red. He smiled and put his head down and left it there until the heat lessened. With his face still cherry, he said, “What do you wanna know? That I live off fast food or that I watch too many Seinfeld re-runs in my free time?” He shrugged. “I’m a boring and simple guy.” He stretched his neck from side to side and rubbed his Adam’s apple. “Ah, let’s see. Born in Northeast Philly, was in the Marines for four years, and then patrol, and now a detective.” He twisted his lips upward and nodded. “As brief as it gets.”

  “Shewwww…you are going to be difficult, Steel. I can feel it.” She laughed. “Williams told me about that.”

  “What else did Williams tell you?”

  “He told me to listen to you and study your ways as a detective because you’re one of his best.”

  Steel rolled his shoulders and half-smirked. He knew he felt way more pride than he should have but didn’t get many opport
unities to look cool in front of a beautiful woman, so he went with it.

  His eyes drifted off. “Ah, well, ya’ know. I just try to work as hard as I can. And that’s what I want to talk to you about, besides just meeting and getting familiar with one another. In all seriousness, you know about our homicide rate in this city. It’s really getting out of control.”

  Marisa straightened her back. The meet-and-greet, joking, familiarization with one another, and flirting was over, and Steel’s focused eyes revealed it. She’d witnessed the two sides of Steel in less than an hour—the semi-witty jokester and the stone-faced, serious, hardworking detective with a chip on his shoulder bigger than the Eiffel Tower. Both knew it was time to get to work.

  Steel sipped his coffee, pressed both elbows into the table, and blanketed his left hand over his right fist. “Williams wants this case solved as fast as we can. There’s been a lot of murders, especially in our district. If this is drug-related…” he cocked an eyebrow, “…which I think it is…we don’t need a drug war and drive-bys and all that. Get my drift? I think if I can get an autopsy tomorrow that they’ll confirm a murder, not suicide. Even though we almost know for sure that it’s a homicide because we don’t have a gun, we have to leave that chance open. Always a chance…somebody coulda took the gun from the car before we found the body. We move from there. We can’t have retaliatory actions. We can’t afford to.”

  “So you think it’s drug-related?”

  “Most likely. We’ve had our eye on this guy for a few years.” He sipped his coffee again and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “But like I always say, you never know. I’ve seen crazy things over the years.”

  She reached under the table and snatched a notebook from her handbag. He didn’t break his flow of words and continued giving her the details. Her fingers curled and shook as the pen between them scratched the paper—her appearance similar to a college student keeping up with a fast-talking professor.

  “When I get back to the office, I’m pushing for an autopsy tomorrow. I’m following up with Narcotics, seeing what they have on this guy, also what they’ve got on his possible competition or customers. I have a feeling this is deeper than a customer, but again…” he slowly shook his head, “…you never know.” He lifted his elbows off the table, stretched his arms in the air, and yawned. “We could work late into the night, just letting you know I put in overtime—if I have to. That’s what I do. I get obsessed. I lose sleep over cases that go cold.” His eyes bulged, and he studied her and waited for a response.

  She clicked the end of her pen with a thumb and laid it on top of the notebook. “I’m with you all the way, Benny.”

  He breathed in the cool, coffee-scented air and acted as if he hadn’t noticed her call him by his first name. But he liked it.

  He briefed her for a few more minutes. After that, both sat in silence for ten minutes, gathering their thoughts. Each knew this case wasn’t going to be easy but was eager to tackle it.

  8

  Steel’s tires veered into his parking space next to his house. The headlights shined white circles onto his neighbor’s lawn and swayed like pools of water against the grass. He whistled the end of a song on the radio and turned the car off. His routine for years had been sitting in his car for fifteen minutes after work and recollecting the events of his day. His obsessive mind would have it no other way. This night wasn’t any different.

  After he’d spoken with Marisa earlier, he’d gone back to the station, haggled with the medical examiner’s office, and, with some convincing, pushed for an autopsy the following day. He’d told them that, in his opinion, it was most likely a homicide. All that he needed from them was confirmation of the cause of death, trace evidence or DNA on Hitchy’s person, the location of the entry wound, and ballistics evidence.

  He’d spoken with detectives in the Narcotics Division, and they’d supplied information on Hitchy and other drug-dealers who could have had a beef with him. He’d looked into Hitchy’s background and found two prior arrests for possession—nothing major. He knew he had his work cut out for him. He’d spoken with Hitchy’s girlfriend, and she’d been willing to fully cooperate with him, but not until the following day. She’d sobbed on the other end of the receiver as she’d requested that. He’d agreed to it.

  Marisa had pissed him off but not in a bad way. She’d had to tell him that she’d grown up near Geno’s and Pat’s Steaks. All day he couldn’t get the image out of his head of cheese whiz on meat, the meat slapped between a fresh Italian roll, the aroma of warm fried onions and deep-fryer grease.

  So he had stopped there after work and picked Geno’s. He didn’t know why. Maybe it looked more modern, or maybe he was attracted by orange, blue, green, red, and yellow lights from its enormous storefront signs that shined over half the block. He’d ordered the steak the only way he knew how: one whiz wit—that’s one steak with cheese whiz and onions to the locals. It was a South Philly thing, and he knew the ordering process well from his days as a patrol officer just north of Geno’s. Tourists were dead giveaways when they ordered: “one steak with cheese whiz, please.” The locals in line laughed at that.

  He had eaten it on orange tables outside Geno’s and figured he’d enjoy the summertime heat while it lasted because the temperature wasn’t too bad after the sun had set. He knew winter and snowstorms would soon be here—so the night’s warmth was refreshing. He’d just sat there, chomped on his hefty, salty, greasy, cheesy meat sandwich, and watched employees flip steaks, take orders, and converse with one another. He’d spotted pictures along the walls of celebrities who’d eaten there. Tony Danza was cooking a steak in one of the photos, and he remembered chuckling with surprise at that. The Phillies had played earlier in the night, and while he had been eating, fans had piled into a single-file line that stretched into the street and cars swerved around them and beeped. The people had been wearing Phillies jerseys and t-shirts—Utley and Rollins were the most popular names on back. And it hadn’t taken long to notice who they were playing because a few customers had been dressed in Mets’ jerseys and t-shirts. Steel hadn’t even needed to turn around to know when a Mets’ fan had stepped in line because of the loud boos; he’d chuckled to himself at that and thought while he’d sipped his soda, Only in Philadelphia.

  After the steak had pushed his belly out, making his belt almost snap, he’d hopped into his car and cruised through South Philly. He always did that when taking a new case. He called it his gathering time. He mentally collected every detail about a case that he had to go on at the time. South Philly made him feel like a rookie again. After all, he’d been assigned there right out of the Academy. Driving through South Philly always made him hungry, figuratively, as he’d driven after eating at Geno’s Steaks and couldn’t have imagined putting another thing in his mouth after that juicy steak. He’d hoped old emotions and memories and sights and sounds of this section of the city would motivate him for a new case—as if it was his first.

  He lounged back in his seat in his driveway, without moving, his head straight, eyes not blinking. The day’s recollection rolled on.

  After he’d pulled away from Geno’s, he’d cruised through South Philadelphia, down 9th Street and through the Italian Market, and turned into Bella Vista, preparing for his drive home to Northeast Philly. Man, how it looked somewhat different from when Rocky Balboa ran through there…not really the Italian Market anymore, he had thought. Things change. Tarp-covered fruit stands and seafood markets that smelled of oily fresh fish had lined the curbs. The local businesses still ended in a vowel, but many had transformed over the years from Italian surnames to Mexican surnames. That area was a haven for immigrants, from the Italians in the early 20th century to the later Asian and Mexican populations. Most of the businesses had closed for the day, their storefront signs powered off, street lamps hovering over the dark streets.

  South Philly’s narrow streets and concrete sidewalks and small alleys that collided and turned and
weaved through one another were remnants of European ancestry, mostly Italian, Irish, and Polish. Most out-of-towners wouldn’t dare drive down one of those tight streets in South Philly. The vehicle-maneuvering took years of practice to perfect. And the parking—he hated parking there because at times it was nearly impossible. People made up their own spaces, hanging off corners, blocking fire hydrants, double-parking, squeezing bumper to bumper. Those streets weren’t designed for the modern world. The homes were so close that neighbors practically lived with one another. They heard each other’s arguments, televisions, and celebrations. Neighborhoods filled with delis, pizza shops, bakeries. Locals barely moved away and were proud of their roots, faith, and families. It was a blue-collar, working-class area, as diverse as they came, which appealed to Steel. Everybody knew everybody; neighbors were like family. And a lot of close families were scattered throughout. A Catholic Church stood nearly every ten or so blocks, much like the neighborhood he’d grown up in. Most people were honest, passionate, family-oriented, and hardworking. Steel loved the people of South Philly and the area’s passion. But like much of Philadelphia, South Philly had its rough sections.

  Steel had read one time that Italian, Irish, and other immigrants had ramped-up South Philly, working in the construction trades and building marketplaces. They’d lived in brick row homes, and some worked in factories. Those immigrants had built the foundation that powered South Philly through the 20th century and into a modern-day working-class neighborhood.

  Steel had seen the diversity in South Philly while working as an officer. Italian-Americans had a stronghold on much of South Philadelphia for years, but the demographics were changing. Italian-American culture could still be seen everywhere, from restaurants, to bakeries roasting bread and pizza early mornings that produced clouds of warm smoke throughout the neighborhoods, to flags swaying from windows of houses, to grocery stores. Irish-Americans also made up a large portion, as well as African-Americans. However, Italian- and Irish-American populations had been on the decline for years, and Asian and Hispanic immigrants were filling the gaps, making it even more diverse.