Canary

by Duane Swierczynski

  But this desperate plan vanishes when I step out of the woods and see D. standing there in my backyard.

  You ever see someone out of context and it completely freaks you out? This is what’s happening to me right now. He’s wearing a hoodie, both hands stuffed in the pockets. He’s changed his pants, trading the bright red chinos for brown corduroy. There’s an overnight bag slung over his shoulder as if he’s just stepped off a bus. Which he probably has. He looks more disheveled than usual, but it’s not exactly a bad look for him. Makes you want to tuck in his shirt, smooth out his hair, and give him a hug. Damn it, you’d think I’d be over this schoolgirl shit, given how much trouble I’m in thanks to his lame ass. But apparently not.

  D. nods in my direction.

  —Hey.

  I wonder what he’s got in those pockets. How well do I know this guy, anyway? Bang bang bang, that’s to make sure you don’t rat me, kid. If I am smart I should scream for Dad or run back in the woods. Instead dumbass me says:

  —Hey.

  D. shuffles his feet.

  —Can I talk to you?

  A quick scan of the second-floor windows—is there a Dad-shaped silhouette in one of them? No. Not yet.

  —How did you find my house?

  —Honors directory. Seriously, is there somewhere private we can go?

  I turn my head all the way around and check the windows, the back door. Dad can’t hear this. Not a freakin’ syllable of this. I grab a fistful of D.’s hoodie, which looks and smells brand-new, pull him into the woods. We go down the trail about an eighth of a mile up to a break in the creek, where the water rushes over a ledge, creating some white noise. There’s a concrete slab that used to be the foundation of something. After all these years, I still have no idea, but it’s as familiar to me as our back deck. We sit on that.

  D. looks at me.

  —You okay?

  —Yeah.

  —I didn’t hear from you all weekend. I was getting really worried.

  —I don’t have your number.

  He blinks, confused, as if he assumes that every young lady at school has his cell tattooed on her wrist or something.

  —Thought you’d, you know, reach out to me.

  —I was thinking the same thing. You found my address in the honors directory. Pretty sure my home phone number is there, too.

  —I didn’t want to call in case you were …

  He trails off but I can fill in the dots.

  —What happened to you Wednesday night? Did the cops question you?

  —Yeah.

  —What did you tell them?

  —Nothing.

  —Oh thank Christ. They just let you go, then?

  —Sort of.

  D. squints.

  —What do you mean sort of?

  I say nothing.

  —Fuck. They flipped you, didn’t they.

  I can’t even look at him. Busted, so quickly. Is this a record? Do I just ooze eau de snitch now?

  —How did you know?

  —You’re free. And obviously your dad doesn’t know. I’m sure as hell they didn’t just let you go, not with what I had in the car.

  D. gets in my face, the way you do when you want to lock eyes with a puppy you’re training. We’re close enough to kiss. Or for him to tell me to roll over.

  —Tell me what happened.

  I take a breath, then look down at the frozen grass.

  —I’m confidential informant number one three seven.

  —Fuck.

  —Yeah.

  Silence for a while.

  —If it makes you feel any better, I’m fucked double hard. Triple, quadruple hard.

  —You’re not the one wearing a snitch jacket. The police don’t even know you exist.

  —Do you know how much stuff was in my jacket, Sarie? Do you know how much money I owe?

  —Looked like a lot of pills, that’s for sure. You supplying the whole town of Wilkes-Barre, PA, or what?

  —Do you have any idea what Chuckie’s going to do to me if I don’t bring back a pile of cash for it?

  —Do you know how many years in fucking prison I’m facing? Because of your drug run? Five! Minimum! Either I give you up or I’m going away.

  —They’re not gonna do that.

  —They seemed pretty serious about it.

  —Sarie, they are not gonna do that.

  We say nothing. Then he rewinds. Chuckie. The whole Friends of Chuckie park-for-free thing. So at least that part wasn’t made up.

  —Chuckie’s the name of your drug dealer?

  —Yeah. It’s not his real name, nobody knows his real name, but he calls himself Chuckie Morphine.

  Pretty sure my jaw falls open right about here.

  —You work for a drug dealer who calls himself Chuckie Morphine?

  D. explains:

  Nobody knows his real name, as drug dealers tend to keep those secret. D. tells me he met Mr. Morphine through a friend (wouldn’t say who), heard that he specialized in selling to college kids—especially ones who were too afraid to venture to ghetto hoods for their drugs. D. went from scoring from Mr. Morphine to taking some extra for his friends, then selling to friends, then selling for real. D. opened up shop over the summer break, taking trips down to campus—under the guise of an independent project—to re-up his supply to sell to friends back home. Apparently upstate PA doesn’t have someone like Chuckie Morphine or anything close to the quality of his product. Especially when it comes to pharmaceuticals.

  This past Thanksgiving weekend was supposed to be a major sales event. Five grand worth of three different kinds of pills:

  Mollies = MDMA, commonly known as ecstasy

  Oxy = OxyContin, painkillers

  Suboxones = meant to get you off Oxys; people like it for the smooth, controlled high; called “stop signs” because of the shape

  Presumably great for partying and then dealing with the hangover the next day. I don’t know. I’ve never done any of this shit, except for a fake half-hit from a bong. And even that’s new—thanks to D.

  As we sit in the woods I process all of this. It’s hard to reconcile the sloppy-cute boy next to me with all of this drug intrigue.

  —Why do you do this? Is it the lifestyle? A discount on the product?

  —Yeah, the lifestyle. Look at me, living large.

  —Seriously, why go through all of this shit, taking so much risk? You’re an honors student! You’re supposed to be studying hard so you can get a good job when you graduate and—

  —For fuck’s sake, Sarie … what year are you living in? Do you really believe the lie they’ve been selling us since we were kids? Play by these rules and you’ll be rich and famous and pretty and smart and all of that other bullshit?

  —That’s not a reason.

  —Sarie, come the fuck on. The game is rigged and every generation has it worse than the one before. Yeah, I’m an honors student who made the mistake of reading too much. Our parents were supposed to change things and whoa, big surprise, they fucked that up. Just like their parents did. Just like their parents did, and so on.

  —Why drugs, though?

  —The money, Sarie. I do it for the money. Just like everybody else.

  —Do you need money that bad?

  —If I don’t have two grand in the bursar’s office by next week, I’ll be thrown out of St. Jude’s.

  —What about your parents?

  D. sighs.

  —Mom assumes Dad’s paying tuition, but she’s currently not speaking to Dad. Meanwhile, Dad assumes Mom is taking care of it, and currently not speaking to Mom. I don’t want to talk to either of those two assholes, so I’m taking care of it myself the only way I can. I’m a good dealer, Sarie. Smart. Careful.

  —Then how come Wildey pulled me over Wednesday night?

  —I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t think it was about me or you. I think this is all about Chuckie. Because that night he was acting all weird. He called me during the party—I guess thi
s was around eleven. Pick up the shit tonight or don’t pick it up at all, he tells me. Now, I’d gone through a lot of trouble to arrange a ride to his place Thanksgiving morning, and then a ride up to Tenth and Filbert so I could catch the Martz line back to my mom’s. I told Chuckie all this. Chuckie agreed to this. Then all of a sudden he calls me, says he has holiday plans out of town—all the shit has to move tonight. Take it or leave it, bro.

  —Which is why you suddenly wanted to go down to Pat’s.

  —I’m sorry, Sarie. I really am. I never wanted to drag you into this. I thought it was just a ride. And I wanted some time alone with you.

  —Well, look, you got your wish twice. Enjoy now before you’re visiting me in prison.

  The agonized look on his face tells me I’m being a dick. He knows he screwed me. I don’t have to keep reminding him.

  I reach out, give his hand a small squeeze.

  —I get the whole parent thing, I really do. Sometimes I think my dad and I just talk around each other, you know? Or we keep circling around the same thing over and over again—how much it sucks that my mom is gone.

  —I didn’t know about your mom. I’m sorry.

  There I go, being an even BIGGER dick. I give his hand another squeeze, tell him it’s okay, really. After a long, awkward moment of silence—no offense, Mom, but it’s hard to follow talk of the deceased with anything but—D. turns back to more pressing matters.

  —Do the cops actually think you’re dealing?

  —No, I don’t think so. The one cop saw you. He keeps trying to get me to give you up. Next time you go on a run, by the way, leave your red pants at home. That’s all he talks about.

  —So what did you tell them?

  —I swear, nothing.

  —No, I know that. But I’m just wondering what kind of story you told them. Why you were down there, all that.

  —I told Wildey I went for a drive.

  —Wilder?

  —The cop. Will-dee. That’s his name.

  We sit in silence. It’s now dark. Somewhere out there, most people are having a perfectly reasonable Sunday evening dinner, not a care in the world. After a while D. asks:

  —So what are you supposed to do?

  —Find a drug dealer for him by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. You don’t happen to, ha-ha, know any drug dealers, do you?

  Then D. looks at me funny.

  Transcript of text messages between Officer Benjamin F. Wildey and CI #137, 12-1, 11:12–11:15

  WILDEY: Tomorrow’s the day

  CI #137: Where have you been?

  WILDEY: Busy. Cop stuff. So you ready? Or you just want to tell me now, make it easier?

  CI #137: Not over the phone

  WILDEY: You got something for me?

  CI #137: Let’s meet tomorrow

  WILDEY: Outstanding

  CI #137: Where?

  DEALING

  PORT RICHMOND

  Monday, December 2

  Wildey sets the meet for an old-school diner on Aramingo Avenue, near Ontario. Place has been around forever, nothing has been modernized. Tiny flecks of the hash browns you scoop up with your fork today were probably part of a potato originally served to your grandpop back in the day. Wildey likes the diner for its sense of history. Plus, it’s cheap. Five bucks buys you an outsized meal.

  He originally proposed 9:00 a.m., but Honors Girl groused about the idea of missing her 8:30 philosophy class. Shit, Wildey thinks. She’s not going to have to worry about class if he slaps the cuffs on her.

  Because that’s the next step. Not that he wants to arrest this schoolgirl, but if she keeps stonewalling, then Wildey really has no choice. They’ll put her in a room, she’ll lawyer up, and the lawyer will realize he can make this go away if the girl cooperates. But none of that drama has to play out if she gives up the boyfriend’s name. That’s what Wildey wants to stress to her this morning.

  Kaz is betting ($20) that Honors Girl won’t do it. “Uh-uh, too stubborn.” Kaz is of the opinion that Wildey should slap the cuffs on her right away and bring her in. Scare her straight. But Wildey told her he had another approach in mind. Another way to scare her. Kaz told him, “Whatever, go with God.” The last word sounding like got.

  So Wildey is waiting in a booth a good ten minutes early, his body filling the bench seat. Wildey is all neck and shoulders, which comes in handy when dealing some dopehead smoking wet on the street. With Honors Girl, however, Wildey finds himself wishing he didn’t look like a monster. She needs to see him as her salvation, her lifeline.

  Honors Girl arrives earlier than expected and is church-quiet as she slides into the booth, reluctant to make eye contact. She’s taller, skinnier, and prettier than Wildey remembers.

  “Go ahead, order something,” Wildey says. “The omelets are pretty good here. Scrapple, too.”

  “No, thanks,” she says in a quiet voice. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Come on. I don’t want to sit here, chowing down, with you just staring at me. Makes me seem rude. Can’t we break bread together?”

  “Officer, I … listen, I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what—”

  Wildey sees the hysterics building and doesn’t want it to go there. Not yet. So he waves a hand and shakes his head.

  “Take it easy. Take a deep breath, honey. We’re just talking about breakfast here.”

  This seems to do the trick. When she makes eye contact again, she takes a deep breath before continuing.

  “Officer …”

  “Come on, call me Ben. And let’s order.”

  Some of the old heads at the counter turn around in their stools to look at them. Yep, just your average linebacker-sized narcotics detective and his tall white-girl snitch.

  “Okay … Ben.” She says it like the name doesn’t quite want to come out of her mouth. But then the waitress appears, ruining the vibe. Wildey eases back into the vinyl seat, exhaling through his nose.

  The waitress looks like she’s been serving one eternal shift since around 1978. Wildey orders two boxes of Lucky Charms, a carton of 2 percent milk. Honors Girl orders oatmeal and a small fruit bowl. “No coffee?” she asks them. Wildey assures her, no, no coffee. The waitress clearly disapproves. Who comes to a diner without ordering coffee? It’s just not done. She wearily writes down the order like she’s translating Latin and shuffles away. Honors Girl glances at Wildey for a fraction of a second before turning her attention to the surface of the table. Pastel boomerangs. Flying all over.

  “So how was your Thanksgiving?”

  Honors Girl looks up, blinks. “What?”

  “I had my great-auntie over. How about you? Dinner with the whole family, aunts, cousins, and all that?”

  “No. Just three of us.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  Honors Girl shrugs.

  “So who’s the three—you, your dad, and …?”

  “My younger brother. Marty.”

  “You two close?”

  Honors Girl shrugs again, keeps her eyes on the table. Christ. You’d think Wildey was asking her to spill the deepest, darkest secrets of her entire family. He realizes this isn’t working. She’s shutting down. He needs her to relax, to see him as one of the good guys.

  “I don’t have much family left either. Auntie M. is pretty much it, to be honest with you. Did I tell you I come from a long line of cops?”

  Their order arrives. Wildey drowns his cereal in milk, filling the bowl almost to the edge. “Yeah, my great-grandpops was one of the first black cops in the city. Worked during the Prohibition days, cleaning up the town. You ever been to Chinatown, down in Center City? That used to be the big vice district, the Tenderloin, and that’s where my grandpops worked. And my grandpops was also a cop, mostly in North Philly. Killed in the line of duty before I was born. Wish I could have met him.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “Huh?”

  “Was he a cop, too?”

  Wildey crunches his cereal as he considers the ques
tion. “No. Musician.” Partly true, but best to leave it at that.

  “What did he play?”

  “Not enough gigs. And before you ask, no, I don’t play anything. Unless you count a gun as a musical instrument.”

  Wildey means it as a joke, but it has the opposite effect on Honors Girl. Her face goes all permafrost.