Canary

by Duane Swierczynski

  A thought chills me. What if this particular unmarked car has been following me for a while? Since, say, D.’s buddy’s place on Ninth Street?

  I will myself to stay perfectly still. If I wiggle around, it’s going to look like I’m hiding something. Or reaching for a sawed-off shotgun. So I keep my paws on the wheel at perfect 10 and 2, though I allow myself a quick check of my eyes in the rearview. Thank God. Not too bloodshot.

  In the side view, the cop climbs out of his car. The guy is huge. Not fat; more tall and broad than anything else. Great. Somehow I’ve attracted the biggest, baddest cop in Philadelphia. He clears the distance between us in an easy three strides. Then he’s looking down at me through the driver’s-side window, flashlight the size of a Sharpie in his hands. I can’t see him too well, but I can tell he’s African-American, and in plainclothes. He’s got a badge attached to a chain around his neck, hanging midchest. Shiny. Real, as far as my untrained eye can tell.

  —You lost, honey? Looking for somebody? You’ve been around this block a couple of times.

  —I was?

  —Yeah, you were. And you know what? You were breaking cruising laws.

  —Huh?

  I’m not playing dumb; I have no idea what he is talking about.

  The cop helpfully points to a rusty metal sign bolted to a metal post across the street: NO CRUISING ZONE. It’s partially obscured by a small tree or steroidal weed that had punched through the sidewalk.

  —Three times around the same block in one hour is technically cruising.

  —Oh shit. I didn’t know.

  —Didn’t think so. Which is why I asked you if you were lost. Maybe I can help.

  By this point some faint alarm bells are going off in my head. Why would a plainclothes cop in an unmarked police car just pull me over, completely out of the blue, because he thought I was lost? Considering I was an accomplice on a drug run, I knew it was best to say as little as possible. So, come on, think of a lie. Tell him why you’re circling the block. Come on, now. Quick. He’s staring at you.

  I come up with absolutely nothing. Zilch.

  —Let me see your license and registration.

  This snaps me out of it. I try to keep my head straight, my voice calm and confident. There are YouTube videos that tell you what to do if you’re pulled over, and I’m pretty sure calmly asking for a reason is an excellent strategy.

  —Why did you pull me over, Officer?

  —License and registration, please.

  —Officer, am I under arrest?

  —Do you want to be?

  Undercover cop: 1. Sarie Holland: 0.

  I dig my license out of the plastic compartment in my wallet, pop the glove box, retrieve the registration, hand both out the window. The cop scans them with his flashlight. The light in his fist, shining back down into my face, makes it tough to see his expression.

  —Who’s Laura Holland?

  The question catches me off guard. Just hearing your name can still jolt me.

  —My mom.

  —She know you have her car?

  I tell him the truth, that you died last year, that this is my car, but my dad hasn’t changed the registration yet.

  —What are you doing down here?

  —Just went for a drive. To clear my mind. Got a lot of papers to write this weekend. They’re all due next week.

  His tone softens a little. Maybe he’s commiserating, maybe it’s the mention of you.

  —Oh yeah? They don’t even give you a break for Thanksgiving weekend? That’s a shame. Where you goin’ to school?

  —St. Jude’s.

  —The college? Up there in Olney?

  He pronounces it like a real Philadelphian: oll-o-knee.

  —Yeah.

  Then I add, as if it will earn me points or something:

  —I’m in the honors program.

  —Honors? In college? Isn’t that a high school thing?

  —No, they’ve got an honors program. I have the triple. Which means three honors classes this semester.

  I didn’t want to tell him it’s the freshman-year triple because the license I just handed him alleges that I’m twenty-one years old. Which of course, as you know, I am not. Not even close. The cop, though, is too busy mulling over the whole honors thing.

  —So you want to graduate with honors, is that it?

  —I guess?

  —Whatcha studying?

  —I’m undecided.

  —Undecided, huh. Aren’t you a little old to be undecided?

  I say nothing.

  —Okay, fine. Mind if I take a look inside your vehicle?

  My stomach unclenches a little as I thank the gods I made D. take his stupid green backpack with him. I could imagine the cop training his flashlight on the ratty bag, reaching in, zipping it open, and, like, the light from heaven shining down, illuminating a brick of Hawaiian Gold or whatever D. was always talking about. There’s nothing in my car except a brown paper bag on the backseat, the contents of which will probably make this cop laugh, if he pops the tape off the folded top and takes a look inside.

  —Sure. Go ahead.

  Wildey shines his Maglite in the back. Then he pops open a back door and reaches in, feels around. Nothing back here but a navy windbreaker. He pulls it out. Feels heavy. He puts the flashlight in his pocket and pats the windbreaker. Heavier on one side. He unzips a pocket and reaches inside.

  This pocket contains a big Ziploc bag stuffed with three smaller Ziplocs stuffed with pills. Most likely Oxys, Mollies, and stop signs—suboxys. A nice fat re-up for the holiday weekend. And more importantly, the beginning of the end for Chuckie Morphine. Wildey could make a little dotted line of pills leading to the house on South Ninth, easy enough for the D.A. to follow.

  The only thing missing: the owner of this navy windbreaker.

  Big Red.

  But if he keeps her talking, Wildey is sure he’ll be back soon. Better get out of sight, keep the element of surprise.

  Mom, he found pills in a baggie.

  Correction: lots of multicolored, oddly shaped pills in a medium-sized Ziploc baggie. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Not even when you were sick and taking all kinds of painkillers.

  The cop’s talking but I can barely understand the words through the icy numb shock. It’s like a blood vessel has burst in my brain.

  This isn’t just weed. This is pills! I didn’t know what they were aside from bad fucking news. So D. is a pill dealer. Even though I’ve known D. for three months, it’s clear I don’t know him at all.

  The cop heaves his large frame into my backseat, closes the door behind him. For what? So I can drive myself to the booking station? I feel like I should say something, start explaining. The cop exhales and a chill runs down my spine. Fuck if I’m not brought right back to high school, stammering in front of a nun.

  —Take it easy, Honors Girl. What’s your boyfriend’s name?

  —I don’t have a boyfriend. (Truth.)

  —C’mon, don’t play me like that. You know I’m talking about the young male who exited the passenger side of your car. The dude gettin’ his cheesesteak on right now. The one who’s probably waiting for you to pick him up right now. I’m interested in him, not you.

  —I told you, I don’t have a boyfriend.

  —Okay, fine. Your special guy pal, whatever. You did have a passenger in your car just a few minutes ago, did you not?

  Ice stabs me in the base of my brain. So this cop was watching us. He followed us! From the drug house on Ninth Street! I force a shrug. Inside I want to cry. The cop in the backseat counters my shrug with a soft series of chuckles. Which worries me. What does he know? What’s he laughing about?

  —He at least bringing you back a steak?

  —No.

  —No?

  —I’m vegan.

  So weird, the feeling that washes over me, like I did take drugs or something, because I’m hyper-alert, so much so I’m practically having an out-of-body experience. Whi
ch is probably why I notice D. ambling down Passyunk with a wrapped-up cheesesteak in his hand, completely fucking oblivious, happy in the moment, raindrops falling on his head and shit, probably thinking about nothing but eating his greasy bun full of meat and cheese on the ride back to campus then maybe trying to peel my clothes off for a little pre–Turkey Day action. Found the wishbone! D. is still living in the old universe, where a cop wasn’t watching us, and didn’t just pull me over, and didn’t just find a lot of pills in his jacket.

  —But your boyfriend, he ain’t vegan is he? You know how many times I’ve seen this, a guy comes down here to score AND get his cheesesteak on?

  —I don’t have a boyfriend.

  —Male friend, whatever. We’re just going to sit here and wait for him, see who these pills belong to. How about that?

  How about we’re totally fucked. And D. has no idea. But with all of this hyper-clarity comes a thought. Yeah, D. lied to me. Yeah, he put me at risk here. But that wasn’t his intention. He just needed a ride. Am I really going to be the one who helps send him to jail? I’m the one who let the cop search my car. This is just as much my fault. I can’t do this to him.

  You understand Mom, right? Tell me that if you were in my shoes you wouldn’t do the same thing.

  I place two fingers on the turn signal lever then hook my right arm over the seat and turn to face the cop and tell him, okay, okay.

  —Okay what?

  —I think I know what happened.

  A smile now.

  —What’s that, Honors Girl?

  —Okay, obviously someone used my car as a place to stash some drugs. As you probably know St. Jude’s is in a not-so-great neighborhood.

  —Uh-huh.

  Flick flick. Flick flick.

  —Can you, like, run windbreakers for DNA or something?

  The cop stares at me a moment before breaking into an amused chuckle.

  —DNA? Are you serious? Do you really think we need to get all CSI on this?

  Flick flick. Flick flick. Come on, D.! Look up!

  —I’m pretty sure you know the owner of this windbreaker. Tall skinny guy, bright red pants?

  Yeah. I know him, and I wish he’d clue the fuck in. I keep working the lever: Flick flick. Flick flick. High beams. Universal highway code for A COP IS WATCHING! Sure, it’s out of context, but, considering the circumstances, it’s the best I can do. I try to send a psychic message to D. but the cop in the backseat seems to pick up on it instead. Suddenly he shifts in his seat, leans forward.

  —The fuck are you doing with the lights?

  Two desperate flicks of the high beams later, the cop gets it, curses, kicks open the back door, heaves himself out of the car. The suspension rocks.

  —Shit.

  I look out the front windshield. D., at long last, has finally received the message. He drops the Pat’s and darts across Ninth Street. I’ve never seen D. move so fast. It’s like a gazelle bolting away from a predator.

  Wildey is halfway across the street when the entire world slips out from under him. Skinny Boy’s body hits the chain-link fence across the street with a metallic ching that echoes off the nearby walls. Wildey’s body weight is momentarily supported by his left knee before momentum carries his body the rest of the way and his right side slams into the asphalt. Brakes squeal—headlights splash over him. Wildey is confused. What the fuck he just slip in? As he scrambles to his feet, he smells it, then visually confirms it a second later: a burst-open Pat’s cheesesteak, grease and cheese and onions smeared over the blacktop like it had committed suicide from the roof of a nearby row house. The driver of the car who almost turned him into creamed corn glances down, sees the badge dangling from the chain, and immediately stops his cursing. Wildey gives him a hard look anyway.

  Meanwhile Big Red goes ching-ching-ching up the fence and over it.

  Wildey sucks in air and launches himself toward the fence, hooks his fingers into the fence, and pulls himself. He’s over in six, maybe seven, seconds. But the perp has a serious lead on him—he’s already halfway across the field. Wildey pumps his legs, run-limping like he’s suddenly developed a tumor in his left knee.

  “Freeze! Police!” he yells, huffing way too much to sound authoritative.

  The perp either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t give a shit. He moves like a streak, kicking up dust from the field like a cartoon character zipping across the desert.

  I’m thrilled for a few seconds to see D. escape until I remember that the cop is going to be crazy pissed. And then he’s going to come back for me. I sit behind the steering wheel contemplating my options. Just pull away, some meek little voice tells me. Put the car into drive and pull out into the street and go right home and pick up your dad in the morning and then your brother and eat Thanksgiving dinner and hope this just all goes away …

  But that would be stupid. The cop has my license, my registration, my whole fucking life in his hands.

  I feel weird about rooting for D. now. It would honestly be easier for me if poor D. came back in cuffs, and I got tagged as an accessory or some such shit. Granted, Dad would go nuclear, but it wouldn’t be as bad as taking this one alone. Just a case of wrong girl at the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d recover … right? Because what did this cop really have on me? Someone—anyone—could have put a jacket stuffed with drugs in my backseat, right? And yeah, that crap might work, if not for the fact that this cop saw me drive up with D., saw D. go up to that house, saw me pull away.

  After a small eternity the cop returns, limping, out of breath, looking like a bull that ran through a red cape. I steel myself.

  —Get out of the car and put your hands on the hood.

  My mind goes numb. I try to remember more from those YouTube videos about getting pulled over but my mind goes blank, like someone’s cut the Wi-Fi.

  —Out of the car. Now.

  I unbuckle my seat belt, open the door. A gush of cold air, chilled by the nearby river, hits my body just as I take a step out. Guys in oversized coats watch me from across the street. I don’t know where to put my hands. Should I be standing in the street alongside the car, or in front of it? Someone catcalls.

  —Hey, honey, you holding?

  The cop yells back.

  —Shut the fuck up and move along.

  The cop directs me to the front of my car, tells me to put my bare hands on the hood. The metal is warm from the engine but as I press my hands down the heat vanishes instantly. I hear a car door slam and realize it’s my own door, which I’d forgotten to close. I hate it when real life supplies you with a super on-the-nose metaphor for how badly things are fucked.

  Lieutenant Kaz is in the hallway when Wildey returns to headquarters, leading Honors Girl by the arm. The poor thing refuses to make eye contact the whole walk up here, as if keeping her gaze fixed to the floor will make this all go away. Sorry, honey, you’re caught now. You should have listened to your teachers in school. Be Smart, Don’t Start.

  “Well, if it isn’t my Wild Child!” Kaz calls out.

  Wildey tries to keep his face appropriately stern. “Hey, Loot.”

  Lieutenant Katrina Mahoney’s unit knows to never, ever call her “Lieutenant Mahoney.” It’s either “Lieutenant” or “Loot” or, if they’re feeling unusually chummy, “Kaz.” That’s because Mahoney is the name of her ex, who is also on the force, and they hate each other with the fury of a thousand blazing suns. After the divorce everybody expected her to change the name, but she kept it just to spite his cheating ass. (Another pro tip: Married to a cop? Don’t cheat on her with another cop.) A few years after their scorched-earth divorce the ex ended up in Internal Affairs, Kaz in Narcotics, and the whole recent D.A. probe made it so that the two collided on a regular basis. It was ugly for a real long while.

  But strangely, the situation was a boon to her career. The fact that the ex didn’t bust her made it clear that Kaz was in fact clean beyond all doubt. If she had so much as a friggin’ recycling violation, the ex wou
ld have crucified her naked on the top of the Art Museum steps and hired little kids to throw rocks at her all day. After the public scandals of the past year, the mayor himself appointed Kaz head of NFU-CS, with carte blanche to clean house and set things back on course.

  Kaz appraises the girl, shoes to head. “What, did you catch her copping some Adderall?”

  “A little more than that, Loot. I’ll fill you in.”