Why doesn’t Dad see this?
THE FELONY
DECEMBER 3
Mom:
Today feels like the first normal day since forever.
Normal means:
Honors classes, library research, a hurried lunch, more classes, a few hours at my work-study in the bursar’s office, then home to make dinner and start my paper-writing in earnest. Yes, everything feels like it’s all due at once. I cannot afford a single moment off. But this is all blessedly normal. These kinds of deadlines I can deal with. Even the burner stayed quiet all day.
I wonder if this is all over.
I’ll be a happy girl when I can pop the battery out of the burner and crack the fucking thing in half like they do on TV.
I’m downstairs in the den with my laptop and a pile of books listening to one of Dad’s Cure albums—Pornography—on cassette, which makes for good working music. The imperfect cassette tape makes it all the better. You never caught me but when I was little I was always digging through Dad’s closet and pulling out crap I didn’t recognize until he explained it to me. I spent the majority of one summer with Tammy just screwing around with Dad’s old digital voice recorder, pretending we were interviewer and celebrity. (Tammy was the celeb, of course, and made certain former Disney child stars seem like Girl Scouts. Thank God you never listened to these things, Mom.) VCR tapes were another source of endless amusement, especially when we realized that Dad had a functioning player buried in the garage. But this treasure trove was too good to be believed. I’ve been listening to these mix tapes and cassettes all semester.
By midnight I’m five pages into my philosophy paper and there is a knocking on the back window. My subconscious registers it before I do. Of course that would be D.
I open the door with my eyes wide, hoping he takes the hint. Dad—upstairs. Me—working. What the fuck are YOU doing here?
He refuses to step inside. Instead he wordlessly gestures, follow me.
Dad is no doubt still awake upstairs. I heard him moving around just fifteen minutes ago, probably pulling another beer from the fridge. He’s a night owl, like me. Our floorboards creak like mad. I can’t just leave.
But D. is practically begging me in mime. Pornography is still playing, and Dad doesn’t always come downstairs to say good night—he usually passes out on his own, quietly. D. is so insistent I really don’t have a choice. Besides, I want to talk to him, too. Tell him this whole thing is (probably) over, he can fucking unclench. A few steps into Pennypack Woods, he finally speaks.
—You can’t text me like that. That cop is probably monitoring your calls on your real phone.
—I don’t think so. Look, it’s all over. He arrested that kid and I think I’m off the hook.
—Do you really want to take that chance?
I have nothing to say, because he’s right. Instead I change the subject.
—How did you get here?
—Public transportation. Which is real fun this time of night, going through freakin’ North Philly.
I bite my tongue before poor baby slips out.
—If it’s so dangerous for us to be in contact, why are you here?
D. takes a deep breath, then looks away.
—Look, Ryan Koolhaas wasn’t the big deal I thought he was.
—What do you mean? Do you think Wildey won’t be satisfied? You said he was perfect.
—That’s what I thought. I heard he was supplying Addys all over campus, had a great connection—some fucking guy who could get, like, anything. I thought it would be payday. But he’s got jack shit, pretty much. And I’m screwed, Sarie. I’m really, really fucking screwed.
I’m still not following him. All of this is about D. not being screwed.
—What do you mean? I didn’t say anything to the cops.
—It’s not that.
—What then?
—I owe Chuckie Morphine two grand by Friday or he’s going to fuck me up.
—What?
—Yeah. I thought he was going to be cool and all, but …
—Wait.
—What?
—What does this have to do with Ryan Koolhaas?
—He didn’t have shit.
And then I got it. D.’s big plan was ripping off Ryan Koolhaas. I don’t know if I should punch D. in his stupid throat or go call Wildey right now and turn his stupid ass in. But foremost on my mind, oddly, is not any of this.
—You’re such an asshole!
—What? Like you didn’t know the deal?
No. I didn’t know the deal.
FOX CHASE
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 3
Has Wildey ever been to this part of the Northeast? He’s not sure. None of it looks familiar.
Nice, though. It’s all homes. Lots of single, semidetached homes. Trees, decent cars. They call Fox Chase a middle-class city neighborhood, but to Wildey’s eye it might as well be the suburbs. Wildey’s own neighborhood used to be full of homes, too—homes within walking distance to factories, so close you could walk home to have lunch, if you wanted. But the factories closed, and people upgraded. Moved out here, where you needed a car to get to work. Just like in the burbs.
This is where Honors Girl lives.
All day Wildey wrestled with himself over what to do with his tall, dark-haired CI. He’d been exhausted after the long night of waiting, and utterly beaten after Slick Guy pretty much handed them their asses. He’d driven home in a daze and crashed for a few hours. When he woke, he wavered between anger and confusion. How could he let her play him like that? Did she know about this deep-web shit the whole time? Probably. He was sure she fingered Ryan Koolhaas knowing it would lead nowhere. Which led to him wanting to arrest her right away, busting into one of her honors classes if he had to.
But Kaz talked him down off that ledge. She wasn’t off the CI hook until they said she was off. This was no victory for her. She was still in their pocket.
She was still the link to Chuckie Morphine.
Wildey realized his mistake. He’d made some assumptions about her.
Time to find out where you live, Honors Girl.
We sit in the chilly silence of the park. I don’t know what to say. Neither does D. You can hear the urgent rush of creek and pretty much nothing else. We’re within city limits but we might as well be sitting at the edge of the world. That’s what it feels like, anyway.
—So you have three days to give Chuckie Morphine the Drug Dealer his two grand.
—Yeah.
—Can’t you tell Chuckie the truth? That the cops caught you leaving his place, confiscated your stuff? I mean, it’s his fault Wildey followed us. Obviously Wildey was onto him. Which means that’s, like, on him, right?
—Chuckie’s not the kind of guy who likes people pointing fingers at him. I’m a big boy. I take the shit, it’s my responsibility. No exceptions. And the last thing I want to do is tell him about you—that you’ve been flipped. He wouldn’t like that at all, no matter who you are.
—What does that mean?
—Never mind.
—Well, he’s not the only one. Our old friend Ryan Koolhaas called me a cunt and told me that he was going to, quote, fuck me up. Should I be worried?
—He comes anywhere near you, I’ll break his arms.
Which is actually kind of sweet, in a totally messed-up way. D. sighs, puts his hands on my shoulders, then touches his forehead to mine.
—God, I’m so fried.
I let him stay there for a few seconds before pulling away. The temptation to find out what his lips taste like is almost as strong as my simmering rage at this whole situation.
—Yeah, I have a philosophy paper to finish.
—I guess a ride back to campus is out of the question?
Wow. A ride got me in this much trouble. What would a second ride do—put me on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list?
—I … can’t. I’m sorry.
D. gives my house the once-over.
—Is your d
ad home? I mean, he’s not out in California for business again, is he?
I choke back a laugh and tell D. that Chuckie Morphine would be the least of his worries if Kevin Holland found a strange dude crashing in his basement. Which is a good thing, because after D. shuffles off all dickhurt and I slip back into the den, Dad is waiting for me. My heart slams to a dead stop.
—Pornography?
There’s a tipsy, bemused smile on his face. He’s holding the scratched and scuffed Cure cassette tape in his hands.
—Yeah, I found it in one of the containers. Hope you don’t mind.
—Where were you just now?
—Stepped outside to clear my head, take a breath of fresh air. This paper is kicking my butt.
Dad nods as if he understands, but the truth is he’s never spent a day in college. He puts the cassette case back on the table but continues to stand there, staring at the case that holds the other tapes I pulled out tonight. Wonder if he’s having a high school flashback. You told me that when Kevin Holland was a younger man he found himself in a lot of trouble—drinking, drugs, messing neighbors’ shit up—that ended with his parents tossing his ass out of the house in 1989. These tapes were the sound track to those times. Maybe I shouldn’t have them out.
—I can put those away if you want.
—No, no. It’s just funny you’re listening to them. I thought I was hearing things upstairs. Haven’t listened to this one in decades. But I still know every song.
Dad turns and makes his way to the stairs, but pauses on the first step and turns to face me.
—Grab your boyfriend there off the corner and tell him he can crash on the couch upstairs. It’s way too late for him to be taking the bus back to campus.
Again: My heart slams to a stop. Busted. My mouth is barely open to start a confused denial when Dad raises a hand to stop me.
—I saw him from the upstairs window. You don’t have to sneak around, okay? Just let me know what’s going on.
—I will. I’m sorry, Dad. I just—
—Go ahead after him. It’s cold outside.
We have one of those silent moments, Dad and I, the kind we haven’t had in nearly a year. Our eyes lock and I tell him: I hear you, thank you for not being a jerk about this, I swear it’s nothing, you can trust me. And his eyes say: I know. I’m paying attention again, Sarie. I promise I’m going to keep paying attention.
Then something on my makeshift desk buzzes. A cell phone on vibrate. The burner Wildey gave me.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Dad’s already headed back upstairs, but he hears the buzz against wood. To my ear it’s as loud as a chainsaw rev.
—That’s probably him. You can tell him not to worry, I’ll keep my gun locked away.
The moment Dad’s out of sight I push aside the three-book pyramid I made to hide the burner. I drop it into a jacket pocket, pull on the jacket, then run outside, hoping to catch D. in time. I technically have five minutes to get back in touch with Wildey. That should be enough time. But the phone buzzes again. It’s not a text. He’s calling. I can’t not answer.
—Hello?
—C-minus, Honors Girl.
Shit.
I don’t need this right now, I don’t need this at all.
I’m basically running up the street now, the burner to my ear, squinting to see if D. or his ugly green backpack is anywhere in sight. The nearest bus stop is a few blocks down on Rhawn. At this time of night, though, they probably run once every twenty-three days. Another reason I’m thankful for your Civic, Mom.
—This guy you gave me, Koolhaas, he’s no good.
—What?
—No good, which means it’s not good for you.
—I’m sorry?
—What did you do—just throw me the first punk who came to mind so that you could protect your boyfriend?
I’m only half-processing the words. I pull my jacket tighter around myself as I hurry down the block. Long legs mean long strides. The going is slippery, though. The sidewalk is littered with wet, cold leaves.
—Where are you headed in such a hurry, anyway?
I freeze midstep. Up the block, a car high-beams me twice.
While on the phone, Wildey tries to keep the frustration out of his voice.
And then what to his wondering eyes should appear but his own CI, moving briskly up the block. Huh. Where you speeding off to this time of night, miss? He considers just telling her he has to split, hanging up, then maybe following her, seeing where she’s headed this time of night. But he doesn’t like his chances out here. It’s a quiet block. She’d see the car pulling out. And following her on foot isn’t smart, either. Neighbors in a white hood like this tend to notice a man of Wildey’s size and complexion moving swiftly behind a young woman.
She’s closer to Wildey now and looks distracted, eyes darting all over the place.
“Where are you headed in such a hurry, anyway?” Wildey asks.
Sarie stops moving. He flicks the high beams at her twice.
“See me? Come on, let’s talk for a minute. I won’t keep you long. I know it’s a school night.”
How long has Wildey been parked on my street? Did he see D.? Shit, maybe he’s already in cuffs and tucked away in the backseat, and Wildey’s simply luring me closer to arrest me, too. Two-for-one sale: dumb fucking college students.
When I open the passenger door I’m relieved that there’s no sign of D. inside. Unfortunately, there’s still Wildey to deal with. He leans over and waves me in, making me feel vaguely hookerish. Red-faced, I lower myself into the seat and my knees bang on the glove box.
Please, don’t let Dad take this moment to look outside to check on me to make sure I picked up D. Good luck explaining that one.
—How you doin’, Honors Girl?
—Tired.
—Going for a walk to wake yourself up?
—Yeah.
—Nice neighborhood. You know, I don’t spend much time up here in Fox Chase. Why do they call it that, anyway?
—From the Inn.
—The what now?
—The Fox Chase Inn. It was built here in 1705, I tell him. Hunters from what is now Center City, Philadelphia, would travel up here to hunt foxes through the nearby woods.
Wildey leans back in his seat. Awestruck by my brilliance, no doubt.
—Foxes, huh? How do you know that?
—I wrote a report for high school.
—Foxes.
Wildey gazes out of his windshield at the duplexes and sidewalks and streetlights.
—Huh. Three hundred years ago. City was a much different place then. Hell, I guess it was different months ago, you look at it a certain way.
Now I’m pretty much at the edge of my seat, trying to will myself to stay calm. Calm and polite. Do not piss him off. Do not tip your hand …
—Sorry for asking, Officer Wildey, but …
—Ben. I told you to call me Ben. You keep mispronouncing my name and it’s just going to piss me off. It’s will-dee, for the record. But for real, call me Ben.
—What are you doing here? In my neighborhood? I thought this whole thing was supposed to be kept secret!
—Easy, easy. Can I ask you something?
I close my mouth and lean back into the seat. Of course he can ask. He can ask anything he wants, can’t he.
—You think you’re smart, don’t you?
The way he spits out the question makes me whip my head around.
—W-what?
—Ryan Koolhaas is no good to me.
—You keep saying that, but I don’t understand. I did exactly what you wanted. I found you a drug dealer. Which means I’m done.
—No. You’re pretty far from done.
Wildey turns his big body around to face me. He’s got that tractor-beam cop glare going.
—Koolhaas is nobody. And he’s sure as hell not the cheesesteakeatin’ sprinter I chased through the park last week.
I say nothing. Wildey sighs.
&
nbsp; —Let me put my cards on the table. I’ll tell you the same thing I would tell a judge. Last Wednesday night, around midnight, I was watching the house of an alleged midlevel narcotics dealer. I’m watching, and I see this silver Honda Civic pulling up to the usual spot—up near the corner, where the valet guy lets all of this dealer’s customers idle for a bit. This guy in red pants, about twenty or twenty-one, I’m guessing, green backpack slung over his shoulder, launches himself out of the passenger seat, goes up to the house, knocks three times, door opens. But he wasn’t alone. There was someone driving.
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