Canary

by Duane Swierczynski

  The Charade is fascinating to behold. To hear Mom tell it, Drew had such a great time over Thanksgiving weekend that he wanted to come back home for a few days. The kid just craved more of her home cooking, she said. So why don’t we gather at my place and have an impromptu party? Bring the kids! Sure, it’s a Thursday, but so what?

  Home cooking his ass. If Mom is so concerned about making a “home-cooked meal,” why is she ordering six pizzas from the worst restaurant in all of Luzerne County and cracking open the first of many (many, many) bottles of cheap red?

  No, the real reason for this impromptu party was simple. Last week Drew didn’t have any drugs. This week, he does. And Mom’s friends need their fix.

  You should have seen the looks on their faces last week, when the non-Family was gathered for Thanksgiving. First was the utter surprise. Oh. … Really? Quickly followed by faux-concern: Is everything all right at school, Drew? If you need to talk to someone … And finally, the blatant fishing for details on a possible re-up: Are you going to be home again before Christmas?

  If Drew hadn’t been so fucking terrified about what might happen to him, he would have enjoyed their weird little moments of desperation.

  Now, though, the non-Family is in the mood to party. And to spend money to get them through until the holidays (When you’ll be home again, right, honey?). Drew sells through his package in more or less an hour, after which he sneaks out back with Courtney, the twenty-two-year-old kids’ table exile, bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

  Out back Drew takes a long pull of the warm cheap stuff then passes it to Courtney, who does the same before coughing and asking for an Oxy. Drew thinks about asking her to pay for it—Christ, she’s been freeloading all summer and fall—but decides this is ultimately a dick move.

  Two kittens come bounding out from behind a shrub. The bigger one is completely white, with a gray swipe across the top of her head, as if she’d head-butted some wet paint. The small one is gray-blue and his hind legs work harder than his front, creating the effect of an eighteen-wheeler fishtailing on an icy road. Courtney points and laughs at the cats. Drew’s phone buzzes.

  I’m imagining D. on some desperate and shabby street corner of Wilkes-Barre, PA, hawking his pills to a rotating cast of blue-collar circus freaks. Earlier today I did a little Googling on his hometown, and, yeah, apparently shit’s real bad up there. Lots of gun violence, home invasions, corruption out the ass. Makes Philly seem idyllic. So imagine my surprise when I call D. and hear not the chaotic urban drama of some poor coal-mining town gone to hell but some girl giggling.

  —Awww, look how cute! Look at that one, D.! He looks like he’s broken!

  —Hello?

  I hold my breath for a few seconds.

  —Hello?

  —Hey.

  —Who is this?

  Who me? Shit, I’m nobody, man. Just some dumb tall bitch with a car who stole two grand for you. A million withering answers to that question come to mind. Instead I give him the silence.

  —Sarie?

  —Yeah, hey. What’s up.

  —Not much. I mean, all is good on this front. I took care of everything. I’ll have your stuff by Saturday morning, latest.

  Takes me a minute to realize that “stuff” means “the two grand.” He’s already sold through everything? Damn, W-B must be harder up than I thought.

  What’s up? he asks, like he wants to hurry me off the phone. The picture becomes crystal clear. D.’s worked off his obligation to me, so we’re all good. In his eyes, at least. Conveniently forgetting that I have to serve up a piping-hot drug dealer to Wildey in about twenty-four hours. Granted, a self-imposed deadline, but if I hadn’t set my own clock Wildey would have remained firmly lodged up my ass. At the very least, the deadline bought me two days of leave-me-the-fuck-alone.

  —Nothing. Good-bye.

  —Wait, wait. I can tell something’s wrong. So what is it?

  I hesitate, then realize I’m only screwing myself over if I hang up on him.

  —I tried finding a drug dealer last night.

  —You what? Please tell me you weren’t driving around street corners in North Philly all night. That isn’t what that cop wants.

  —No. I went to some dumb hipster bar and—

  —And did what? Asked complete strangers if they knew any drug dealers?

  Part of me wants to hang up again, let D. go back to his upstate girlfriend and get stoned or whatever. But again, I’d be fucking myself over. Before I let D. sail out of my life, I need his help.

  —So how do I do it?

  —Do what?

  —Find a dealer. One who’s not you.

  He sighs.

  —Wildey’s not letting up on you, is he?

  —No. And he’s not going to, either. He saw you that night. He knows you exist. So his next step is going to be throwing my ass in jail, and … well, know what? Don’t worry about it. Have a good time with your mom. If you leave the stuff at your place I’ll come pick it up over the weekend and—

  —Hang on.

  —Why?

  —Here’s what you do …

  And D. tells me what to do, how to act, what to say … basically, how not to come off as a big fucking narc.

  Tonight I’ll have my chance to see if it works or if D. is full of shit.

  “That your girlfriend?” Courtney asks. “If so, I think she’s pissed. You should tell her nothing’s going on with us. It’s okay.”

  Drew assures her she’s not and Courtney hears the implication in his voice: And you’re not either. Well, duh. Courtney and Drew messed around over the summer, two adult exiles from the kids’ table, but for Drew it was all about the proximity and the convenience. One-stop pill shopping with benefits—an occasional break from her nowhere job at the Wyoming Valley Mall and whatever other guys she was fucking around with. Drew’s mom of course saw big romance in all this, believing that Courtney might just be the bait to lure her son back to the valley for good. Mrs. Pike was always complaining about all the kids fleeing town, which was kind of like complaining about all of the woodland creatures fleeing a forest fire, but whatever. Meanwhile, Courtney’s mom was visibly pained every time Drew’s mom brought it up. Perhaps because earlier in the summer Drew had to deal with the clumsy, drunken—what did the oldsters call it? passes?—of Courtney’s mom while copping her Oxys.

  “She’s just one of your customers, then?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl on the phone. Sarie.” She draws out the name in a slightly mocking way: sare-eeeee. “No.”

  “Totally your girlfriend,” she says, teasing out the word and smirking.

  “No,” Drew tells her. “She’s just a sweet girl doing me a huge favor.”

  DECEMBER 5 (late)

  Okay, Mom, much better tonight.

  Khyber Pass—South Second Street, Old City. I flash my bulletproof ID at a fat guy in a Sturgis Motorcycle Rally T-shirt perched on a creaky metal stool and head straight for the only open seat at the bar, where I order a Yuengling. I’m carded again, then served. I take a sip and wait. I don’t go looking for parties. I wait for the parties to find me.

  Lo and behold, they do.

  I’m approached, like, six times in the span of an hour. Some dude in a shaggy haircut says he lives nearby, a bunch of his pals are going to play some Xbox, do I want to come along and play. I ask what he has back at his place. He looks at me.

  —Uh … an Xbox?

  —No, I’m good.

  There’s more of this, and I won’t bore you with details, but mostly it’s guys trying to get my number or ask me to do shots or go somewhere else. When drug talk does come up, I take D.’s advice and take it easy, let them do most of the talking, then I start bragging about this amazing weed I used to get all of the time. The past tense of that remark makes them curious. “Used to?” What happened to it? Because no matter what you’re smoking, you’re always on the lookout for something better.

  D. told me the secr
et was not to flat-out lie. You have to mix up some of your real life in there to make it all convincing. This turns out to be excellent advice and surprisingly easy to follow.

  I tell them the mini-story I practiced in my head: My boyfriend was a small-time dealer with an awesome supply, but then I caught him cheating on me and I dumped his sorry ass. Which I regret, because now it’s hard to find shit as good as the shit he had. “I should have just let him keep banging that skank.” (I had to practice saying that line without giggling.) What made it easier was imagining D. as the fictional dealer boyfriend and Tammy as the wayward skank. Totally unfair to Tammy, I know, but it put a face in my head, which was key to selling the story. Hey, it’s her fault for not texting me back.

  Nine times out of ten this story led to commiseration, but no real leads. But the tenth time …

  —So who was this great connection?

  —My dick ex-boyfriend.

  —Seriously? Why’s he a dick?

  —Because one day I called him and I can fucking hear her in the background, giggling. He denies the whole thing, but it’s not like I’ve gone deaf, you know? Anyway, I tell him to fuck off. And then he tells me to fuck off. Which means I’m cut off.

  —That really sucks. It was pretty good, huh?

  —You have no idea.

  —Well …

  —Well what?

  —Heh. You’re not a narc, are you? I mean, you have to tell me if you’re a narc or something, don’t you? By law?

  I look at him, dead serious.

  —You’re under arrest.

  —Heh-heh.

  —No, I’m serious. Up against the wall, punk. Don’t make me call for backup!

  —Heh-heh-heh, that’s funny. You’re really funny.

  —I’m, like, BFFs with the narcotics squad.

  —Hey, what’s your name?

  So we go on from there, until the guy reveals that, yeah, he has this amazing source for pills, screw your boyfriend, we should be partners. I tell him this all sounds aces, what do we do now? Where do we go? He scribbles on a napkin, folds it, puts it in my hand, tells me to meet here tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. and not to shower or eat anything after midnight.

  I’ll explain more tomorrow.

  DECEMBER 6 (morning)

  Well, Mom, what sounded so good last night feels a little crazy in the cold light of day. This morning I’m going to do possibly one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done: sit on a freezing bench in North Philly waiting for a stranger I met in a bar.

  If this is my last entry, know that I was probably killed by said stranger.

  No, I don’t know his name, other than “Bobby Ryall.” He showed me his student ID, but, you know, these things can be faked.

  If this goes well, by Friday night I should be off the hook. Bobby’s lead is promising. Especially after the article I read over the weekend. Then again, by Friday night I could be dead. Problem solved, either way.

  TEMPLE UNIVERSITY

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 6

  Bobby Ryall’s dead sure she’s not gonna show.

  When she does show, Bobby’s sure she’ll refuse to let him into her car.

  And when she does let him into her car, he starts to wonder if he’s maybe picked up the wrong girl. Maybe she’s one of those Latino grifter types, and she’s going to pull a knife or a gun or even a can of Mace, pointing it right at his eyes, demanding all his money. (She is taller than him.) And when she finds out he really doesn’t have much in the way of money, she’ll probably unload the full can right in his face, push him out of the car, then laugh all the way back to the barrio.

  So when she doesn’t do any of that and asks where they’re headed, Bobby relaxes a little bit.

  Bobby Ryall’s been working up his nerve to pull this scam for a few weeks now, ever since he heard about the clinic over in University City. Sounded too good to be true (which meant it usually was). But his own connections had dried up—okay, not so much dried up as gotten seriously fucking expensive. And he didn’t want to have to start going to the hood and shit. So when he heard all he needed was a young girl in her twenties, preferably in a brown shade, Bobby decided to give it a try. Only problem: He didn’t know any young ladies of color. Just wasn’t his thing, you know.

  But this girl last night—Bobby was still stunned. She was pretty and all, but definitely Mex-looking. When Bobby nodded and said “hey,” he expected her to open her mouth and sound like Rosie Perez or something. But no! She was quiet-spoken, with no traceable accent. Brain in her head, too, with clever banter and shit. Could this be the one? And then she talked about “partying” and he knew, yes, this was the one.

  She even had her own car! Much better than taking the subway and the El over there.

  Question now: Will she go through with it, or freak out when she realizes what Bobby Ryall has in mind?

  Bobby directs me through some really sketchy-looking neighborhoods. He told me not to dress too neatly, not to shower, and not to eat anything after midnight. Does this mean we’re headed to a crack house?

  This would be bad for a number of reasons, not least of all: a) it’s a crack house and b) Wildey doesn’t want a crack house. He can find plenty of those. He probably lives next door to one.

  But Bobby promised me a “connection,” foolproof, safe as can be.

  When the directions bring me toward Center City, with the giant City Hall tower coming at us, I feel a little better. When we turn right and start heading out to West Philly, not so much.

  —Where are we going?

  —Okay, listen …

  —I’m listening.

  —There’s this doctor over near Drexel University. You know Drexel?

  —I know Drexel. Who’s this doctor? Is he a professor?

  —No, a doctor for ladies. You know, female stuff. But he’s not a perv or anything. He’s like a grandpa. A great-grandpa, in fact. I saw this picture online. He just likes to help underprivileged girls and stuff.

  —Help them with what?

  —Oxys and shit. We’re going to go in there, you’re going to ask to see the doctor. I’ll slip the receptionist a little something, and the doctor will look at you and hook you up with a prescription. He does this all the time. You go to a CVS or whatever and we’re all set.

  —Wait, wait. Look at me? What do you mean?

  But I know exactly what he means. Suddenly this is worse than a crack house.

  —No way.

  —Look, I heard he hardly checks anybody. He’s old, it’s a formality.

  I pull over, right on JFK Boulevard. We’re on that part of the road that stretches over the Schuylkill River. In front of us looms Thirtieth Street Station, where Danny Glover once killed that guy in that movie with the Amish kid. Not the best omen.

  —I’m sorry, I’m not going to do that.

  —What’s the big deal?

  —Let’s go to some drug dealer and have him look at your genitals.

  —If that’s all it took, I would. Believe me. Look, it’s not like that. Girls who go there love the guy. He’s apparently some local hero, a women’s rights activist and shit. You can look him up.

  —A real hero, huh.

  —Just tell him you’re sore and he’ll hook you up. No hassles. We split the prescription. I’ll even front the fee. And when you see it’s not creepy, you can come back every couple of weeks. We can keep this going for as long as we want.

  Not if I have my good friend Ben Wildey bust this hero’s ass after I make a buy. But I don’t tell him that.

  Bobby’s spiel, though, makes me wonder what I’m doing. Is this guy truly some women’s rights hero? And I’m going to narc on him and send him to prison? In place of D., who’s probably upstate right now doing a gynecological exam of his own?

  —Come on. Just try it. If he tries anything strange, I’ll be right outside in the waiting room. But he’s not going to try anything strange.

  —Okay.

  CI #137: You around this a.m.?


  WILDEY: What you got Honors Girl?

  CI #137: Can you get out to Drexel University real quick?

  WILDEY: Tell me where

  CI #137: Hang on

  I hate waiting rooms.

  Everybody does, I know that. But especially after what happened to you last year. Waiting rooms are merely places where you spend hours staring at the walls, waiting for them to tell you how bad things are going to get. And it’s always worse than you thought.