Carlucci's Edge

by Richard Paul Russo

  Andrea was still asleep, lying on her side. Carlucci bent over, kissed her lightly on the lips, then her cheek. Andrea smiled, murmured, and dug her face deeper into the pillow, but her eyes didn’t open. Carlucci quietly left and walked to the other end of the house and the kitchen.

  He looked at the clock. Ten after six. Lots of time before I he was due to meet Paula Asgard. He made himself a cup of coffee and took it out to the small backyard deck, where he sat in one of the plastic chairs. The air was warm and quiet, a little muggy, but not too bad, and the sky was orange and pink and blue, the colors not yet looking sick as they almost certainly would later in the day.

  Things were getting more complicated with the mayor’s nephew, and he would start getting deeper into another mess when he talked with Paula Asgard, but for now Carlucci put all those thoughts aside. He wanted to enjoy the two free hours, he would have this morning.

  A thumping sounded on the fence, and a furry gray face appeared over the top, golden eyes wide, followed by the rest of the stocky cat’s body. It was Tuff, the next-door neighbor’s manx. Tuff crouched atop the fence for a moment, then dropped into Carlucci’s yard, padded through the flower beds, and hopped up onto the deck. As Tuff approached the chair, Carlucci reached down and scratched the old gray cat’s ears and cheeks and chin. Tuff purred loudly and deeply, and closed his eyes.

  The cat was missing most of one ear, and had a nasty scar across his nose, just missing his left eye. He’d been a hell of a scrapper, fighting all comers, until Harry and Frances next door finally decided it was time for Tuff’s balls to go. Tuff still defended his turf when he had to, but now he was fat, and incredibly gentle with people.

  Tuff ducked away from Carlucci’s hand and came around to the front of the chair. Carlucci held his coffee out of the way in anticipation, and the cat jumped up onto his lap, claws digging through his pants to his skin. Tuff turned one complete circle, then settled down across Carlucci’s thighs, the deep purr kicking in again.

  I could do worse than this, Carlucci thought to himself as he laid his free hand on the old gray cat. A lot worse. He brought the cup to his mouth and drank, scratching Tuffs head with his other hand. Things were going to get swampy, the rot was going to go deeper, but for now Carlucci felt as he imagined the old cat felt: warm, relaxed, and content.

  EIGHT

  PAULA SPOOKED. SHE spotted Boniface across the street and up a few blocks, heading her way. She ducked into Mama Buruma’s spice shop and stopped just inside the door, blinded by the shift from bright morning light to heavy shadows and dim orange flames. Paula didn’t move for a minute, listening to the East Asian techno-folk, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.

  Mama Buruma’s—a long, narrow store lit only by small flickering candles—was empty except for Mama Buruma herself, who sat on a massive cushion behind the counter. Mama Buruma was fat, maybe even heavier than Graumann. The shop smelled of burning tiki spice, fireweed, and sweat. Tins and baskets and gel bubbles filled the display cases running the length of the shop. Vines and lush plants hung from the ceiling, insects flying among them.

  “Ms. Asgard,” Mama said, shifting position on her cushion. She wore a huge, loose dress of bright floral patterns, and her flesh shook with every movement. “Can I help you with something?”

  As Paula stepped farther into the shop, she could make out the ten or twelve multicolored dermal patches on Mama Buruma’s neck. She imagined them pulsing as they fed the big woman a steady stream of head juice. “No thanks, Mama. Well, maybe yes. Some mondo perv was tracking me out on the street.”

  Mama Buruma grinned and the flesh tightened around her eyes. “You want something to spike him with?”

  “No,” Paula said. “I was thinking of a way out. Through your stockroom.”

  Mama Buruma sighed and the smile melted back into her face. “You’re too nice, Paula.” She sighed again and waved her arm, flesh and sleeve flapping. “Go ahead.”

  “Thanks, Mama.” Paula squeezed around the display case, pushed through the hanging tapestry, then worked her way around the crates and tubes and foam-packs in the stockroom. She pushed open the heavy metal door, stepped out into the alley, and let the door slam shut.

  Paula leaned against the brick wall and waited, trying to decide what to do. It was probably coincidence, seeing Boniface just now. She had no reason to think he was looking for her. She couldn’t stand the guy, because he’d hit on her repeatedly over the years, refusing to get the message, but he’d never come around looking for her. Still, she had just given Carlucci his name half an hour ago.

  Paula thought he was a fuckhead, but there wasn’t anything all that special about Boniface. He was one of a dozen or so names she’d given Carlucci: the people Chick hung with or brought in on his scams, people Chick had seen in recent weeks. Boniface hired out part time as a games courier, and it was hard to imagine that he had anything to do with Chick’s death. But how could she know?

  You’re getting paranoid, she told herself. It came from spending two hours with Carlucci, talking about what Chick did, and who he did it with, running all those names at one time, seeing their faces one after another in her mind. People on the edges, like Chick, any one of which was all right alone. But talking about all of them had made Paula skittish.

  Paranoia, she told herself again. Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they’re not after you. Ha, ha. So what was she supposed to do? She looked at her watch. Already late getting to the theater. Besides, Boniface knew she worked at the Lumiere; if he was trying to find her he could just go there. Or her apartment. He knew where she lived. Yeah, terrific, they all knew where she lived.

  She shook her head, pushed away from the wall. Relax, girl. Boniface wasn’t looking for her. No one was. Chick had been dead two weeks now, and nobody had shown up in her face. Relax.

  She walked down the alley, emerged onto the sidewalk. Her throat closed up and her heart slammed against her ribs, bam bam bam. Boniface was twenty feet away, walking toward her.

  Paula couldn’t move. Boniface came up to her and stopped. Up close, she could see that under his street clothes he was in full courier rig, armored from neck to toes—someone would have to blow or chop his head off to stop him, and they still wouldn’t be able to get what he was carrying.

  “Hey, Paula,” Boniface said, laying a gloved hand gently on her shoulder. “Heard about Chick. I’m real sorry. He was all right with me, you know that.”

  He pulled his hand back just before Paula would have knocked it away. Adrenaline was making her twitchy. Relax, she told herself once more.

  “Thanks, Bonny,” she said; he hated being called that.

  Boniface frowned, then glanced over her shoulder. “I can’t stay and talk now,” he said, looking back at her. “I’m on a run. But if you need anything, a few bucks...” The frown slid into that nasty smile he’d used every time he’d hit on her. “Or maybe just some comfort. You know where I am.”

  Yeah, I know where you are, asshole. But she managed some kind of smile, said, “Thanks, Bonny,” again, and stepped aside, waving him down the street.

  Boniface’s smile turned into a frown again, but he nodded and walked away. Paula watched him walk down the block, cross the street, then go into Ah Minh’s. He was on a run. It had been a coincidence. But he was just as scummy as ever.

  Paula breathed deeply several times, tried to shake out the excess adrenaline. Then she jammed her hands into her jacket pockets and headed for the theater.

  By mid-afternoon most of the jitters were gone, and by the six o’clock intermission after the showing of Xerxes Agonistes, Paula was feeling almost normal. They had close to a full house, so the lobby was crowded now, people lined up for food and drinks, lined up at the bathrooms, the smokers huddled together in the corner next to the ventilators. Paula wandered through the lobby, checking on things, but everything seemed under control; for a change, everyone had shown up for work today so she wasn’t understaffed.

  She was hea
ded for the stairs up to the projectionist’s booth when a man moved in front of her. He looked familiar, though she didn’t think she’d ever met him before. An inch or two taller than she was, slender, with short hair and wire-rim glasses. Kind of good-looking, in an odd way. She couldn’t really tell how old he was—he could be in his late thirties, or he might be a youngish forty, forty-five.

  “Excuse me,” he said when she stopped. “Paula Asgard?”

  “Yeah. Do I know you?”

  “My name’s Tremaine. I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  So, that’s why he was familiar. The guy tried to keep low-profile, but he couldn’t keep his own face completely out of the media. A bit of irony there.

  “I’m a freelance journalist,” he said when she didn’t respond.

  “I know who you are,” Paula said. “I’ve read your stuff.”

  Tremaine smiled. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good.” The guy did real investigative reporting, not sensationalist cheap-shotting, and if he couldn’t get the papers or magazines or television to run his stories, which was often, he sent them out over the nets. He’d made a lot of enemies, but probably not very much money. He found stories where there shouldn’t have been any, stories no one else could find, stories no one else knew existed. The anti-cancer implant scam at the UCSF medical school. The firefly distribution ring run by two senior partners of Maxie and Fowler, the largest and most prestigious law firm in the city. Like that.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said.

  “What about?” Paula asked, instantly wary.

  “Chick Roberts.”

  Paula didn’t say anything at first. The sounds and images of the people in the lobby became a smeared blur, highlighting Tremaine’s face. His voice had been neutral, as if what he was asking had little real importance, and his expression was just as unconcerned. But hearing Chick’s name made her feel sick, and the morning’s jitters came back.

  “What about Chick?” she managed to say.

  “I’m trying to find out why he was killed.”

  “Why?”

  Tremaine shrugged, but didn’t answer, and it was obvious to Paula that he wasn’t going to say any more about it right now. “I’d like to get together with you,” he said. “An hour, maybe longer, somewhere private. Any time, any place you like.”

  Paula didn’t know what to say to him. Carlucci had warned her against talking to anyone, and she didn’t feel good about the idea, anyway, talking to a stranger about Chick. But why did Tremaine want to know what happened?

  “I can’t,” she finally said. When he didn’t respond, didn’t ask her why, she repeated herself. “I can’t. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “I’d still like to talk to you about him.” He handed her a small black plastic card with light gray printing—his name, and several comm numbers. Paula put it in her back pocket.

  “Just let me know.” He started to turn away, then looked back at her. “Let me buy you dinner.”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” Paula said, shaking her head.

  “Just dinner,” Tremaine said. He gave her a disarming smile. “You get to know me a little better, I get to know you, maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  Paula shook her head again, unable to keep from smiling back. There was something damn charming about the guy. “I can’t take the time. In fact, I’m on my way upstairs to fight with the projectionist over the sandwiches we’re sharing for dinner.”

  “I understand,” Tremaine said, still smiling. “I’ll be back for the ten o’clock show. If you feel any different...”

  “You’re coming back to see City Dogs?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I guess that might be your kind of film.”

  Tremaine nodded, then said, “Enjoy your sandwich.”

  “I will.”

  Termaine turned, then worked his way through the crowded lobby to the front doors.

  Why did he want to know about Chick? What story was he working on? Christ, she had a feeling she was going to end up talking to the bastard. Paula turned and climbed the stairs.

  Mixer was waiting in the lobby when she came down from the projectionist’s booth as the last film was ending. Leah was opening the front doors, and the coffee bar was closed up, but Mixer had managed to get a cup for himself anyway; he was holding it with the exoskeleton.

  “Hey,” Paula said. “What are you doing here?”

  “You saw Carlucci this morning, yeah?” When Paula nodded, he said, “I want to talk. I’m hitting a wham-wham tonight, and I want to hear about your Carlucci talk before I go.”

  People began to filter out of the theater as the closing credits ran, and Paula and Mixer moved out of the way, behind the coffee bar. “Leah can lock up for me,” Paula said, “but let’s hold off until we empty out here.”

  The crowd coming out into the lobby grew, moved past them before narrowing as it squeezed through the front doors and out onto the street, loud and noisy. People who knew Paula waved or nodded to her as they passed, and Paula nodded back. The crowd eventually thinned, and then there were only a few stragglers as the credits finished and the theater went silent.

  Tremaine was one of the last people out, and he stopped in front of the coffee bar. He smiled, glanced at Mixer, nodded, and said, “Good night, Paula Asgard.”

  “Good night.”

  Tremaine strolled out the doors, moved into the street traffic, and was immediately gone from sight.

  “Who was that?”

  Mixer’s voice had a testy edge to it and Paula looked at him, but his face was almost expressionless. “What?”

  “I’m just asking who that guy was.”

  “Tremaine. Why?”

  “The reporter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know him?”

  “No. He wanted to talk to me about Chick.”

  “Chick?”

  “Yeah, Chick. He said he’s trying to find out why Chick was killed.”

  “Tremaine? Why the fuck is he digging into this?”

  “I don’t know, Mixer. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “You’re not going to talk to him, are you?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. He worries me, that guy.”

  Paula sighed and nodded. “Yeah, well, he worries me, too.” She smiled at Mixer. “No, I’m not going to talk to him.”

  Mixer shook his head, but didn’t say any more. Paula checked the theater to make sure it was empty, then asked Leah to lock up after Pietro, the projectionist, left. She got her jacket from the locked cabinet under the coffee bar and left the theater with Mixer.

  They walked down to the corner, then swung right and headed up Polk. Sunday night, the street was full but low-key, people thinking about actually getting some sleep or heading off into dreamland of one kind or another. Mixer stopped at the street window of Sasha’s Bad Eats.

  “Let’s get some coffee,” he said.

  “You want to go inside?”

  “Not a chance. I’m going to be cooped up for hours with the wham-wham, I’d better stock up on fresh air.” He turned to the purple-eyed kid at the window. “Large coffee and”—he glanced back at Paula—“large decaf, right?”

  Paula nodded at the kid, who was bobbing to music Paula couldn’t hear. The kid drew the coffee, then handed the cups out through the window after taking Mixer’s money. Mixer and Paula sat on one of the concrete benches built along the front of Sasha’s.

  “So what did you and Carlucci talk about?” Mixer asked.

  “Not much, really.” She sipped at the coffee, which was almost as good as it was hot—she burned her tongue and nearly enjoyed it. “I told him what I know about what Chick had been up to lately, which is damn little. You know Chick, he didn’t tell me shit, which was always fine with me. I gave him some names of people Chick ran with, his ‘business’ contacts.”

  Mixer cocked his head at her. “You think
that’s wise?”

  “Jesus, Mix, you’re the one who told me to go to Carlucci, what a great guy and honest cop he was. What’s the point if I don’t tell him what I know?” She shook her head, blowing on her coffee, sipping it. “Carlucci’s already told me the whole thing could be risky. I’m willing to chance it for now. It’s either that or drop it.”

  “What did you tell him about me?”

  Paula turned to look hard at him. “Oh, I see. That’s what you’re worried about. Well, he does want to talk to you, Mixer, that’s clear. If you don’t go to him soon, he’ll come looking for you, count on it.” She sighed. “What was I going to tell him, Mix? He knows you knew Chick.”

  “Does he know Chick and I... did business?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t tell him what kind of business. And I didn’t tell him about you talking to me the other night like you might have some idea why Chick got himself killed.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Not right out, you didn’t.”

  Mixer didn’t respond to that. He drank from his coffee, looking away from her. Paula put her hand on his knee, and he tensed for a moment, staring down at it.

  “What is it?” Paula asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. He laid his free hand across hers, wrapping his fingers around it.

  Paula felt cold sweat from his hand, and she could have sworn she felt his heart pounding hard now through his leg and wrist. What was going on? God, don’t tell me Mixer’s got it for me, too. Jesus, what was it today, was she secreting some kind of pumped-up pheromones? First Boniface, and what, now Mixer?

  Mixer sighed heavily, then let her hand go and drank more of his coffee. “So Carlucci wants to see me,” he finally said.

  “Of course, Mixer.” Paula took her hand off his knee and stuck it in her jacket pocket. Maybe she was just imagining things. “You going to tell him what kind of business you and Chick did?”

  Mixer shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably. What’s he going to do, arrest me? Arrest Chick?” He shrugged again. He finished off his coffee, crushed his cup, then looked at his watch. “Gotta go. Checking out my own lines tonight on Chick.”