“Oh, you heard about that.”
“Did you really think I wouldn’t? Why didn’t you tell me yourself?” he added quietly.
“I, um…”
“Forget it. I know why. I’m just glad you’re okay…you are, aren’t you?”
I blinked back a fresh set of tears and downed my beer.
“Brandy, this wasn’t your fault. You shot that guy in self defense. He would have killed you.”
I shrugged, swallowing hard.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet like in never?”
“Yeah, probably. Listen,” I said instead. “I need to ask you something, and I’m serious, so don’t make a joke out of it, all right?”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Well, yesterday at work, I was talking to Eric, and he said something, just kidding around, but—well, do you think I’m some sort of—death magnet?”
“Death magnet? Get outta here.”
“Listen, I’ve been back in town for what—less than a year, and I’ve spent the entire time either being shot at or shooting someone else. I’m like that kid from Peanuts, the one with a cloud of dust that follows him everywhere. Only in my case it’s dead bodies. I just don’t know why I can’t live my life like a normal person.”
Bobby stared at me for a beat, and I stared back, taking note of the deep circles under his eyes. He should’ve been home sleeping or spending time with his kid instead of sitting there comforting me.
“Bran,” he said, taking my hand, “I don’t know about normal, but you’re the best person I know. Most people run the other way at the first sign of trouble, but you’re not wired that way. I wish you were,” he added, quietly. “Listen, if you’re getting more than your share of the ugly side of life, it’s because you’re one of the few people with the guts to take it on.”
I looked into Bobby’s smokey blue eyes and smiled. “Thanks for not making me feel like a freak, Bobby.”
“Hey,” he grinned and whispered in my ear. “You want me to take care of this Eric character? I got friends in high places. I could arrange to have his car booted.”
It was the first laugh I’d had in days.
“Speaking of the ugly side of life,” DiCarlo said, his voice turning unexpectedly sour, “Mike Maho picked up a friend of yours the other day on a weapons’ charge.”
“Who?”
“Raoul Sanchez. He was hauling around a load of semi-automatics in the trunk of a stolen car. They also found three cases of hollow points in the back seat. You keep some rough company, Sweetheart.”
Raoul Sanchez was not a friend—an acquaintance, at best, if you count the time I ran over his hand. (It was an accident…more or less.) Anyway, Bobby wasn’t talking about Raoul. He meant Sanchez’s sometime employer, Nick.
I didn’t take the bait, so Bobby pressed. “So what’s going on with you and Santiago these days? You guys an item?”
“Well, it’s not like I’m upgrading my Facebook status to “In a Relationship” or anything…”
It was awkward talking to DiCarlo about Nick. First off, Bobby and I share a lot of history and residual feelings that, once acknowledged, we tacitly agreed to ignore. And secondly, it was way too soon to tell if Nick’s declaration of love would actually translate to us being the aforementioned item. Then there was the whole “opposite sides of the legal fence” thing they had going on. DiCarlo was pre-disposed to believe the worst about Nick, and I didn’t have the energy to challenge him. Luckily I didn’t have to.
“Hey, look who’s back,” I said, nodding toward the door. The blond bombshell cop had reappeared this time sans uniform and sporting a thigh high mini skirt.
DiCarlo jumped to his feet. “I’ll be right back. She must’ve forgotten something.”
I’ll say. The rest of her skirt, for starters.
*****
Try as I might, I could not stop thinking about the dogs in the trunk of Mario Lewis’ car. One was dead; the other so physically and psychically traumatized it might as well be. So, against my instincts for emotional self preservation, I decided to go see the surviving puppy.
He was being housed at Jacob’s Place, a pit bull rehab center located in Ambler. I’d called ahead and spoke at length to Eunice, a volunteer at the center. She told me I’d be more than welcome to visit, but the news wasn’t too encouraging. The dog had lost an eye in the fight, and he was still very weak.
I’d almost changed my mind after hearing that, but since I was the one who’d discovered him, he felt like my responsibility. I mean once someone touches your life, you can’t just walk away. That’s the rule. Well, my rule, anyway. Besides, they opened a retro hoagie shop on Plymouth Road, and I promised Uncle Frankie I’d bring him back a “Bobby Rydell with ‘the works’.”
Jacob’s Place was located on ten acres of farm land donated by a local philanthropist, in memory of his rescued Pit. The facility housed between 100-150 abused and abandoned dogs, and, due to the rising popularity of breeding pit bulls for sport, the numbers were growing.
I learned all this from the Facilities Director, Judy Harrison. Judy was a tall, pretty woman in her late forties.
“These dogs are the lucky ones,” she said, stopping in front of a kennel full of canines. “I could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end, and then just when you think it couldn’t get any worse, you hear about some fresh, new horror. It’s just beyond me that people are capable of such intense cruelty.”
“How do you do it?” I asked. “How do you keep going day after day?”
Judy shrugged. “You take it one dog at a time. The reward is in helping the ones we can get physically and emotionally healthy enough to be placed in good, loving homes. I have to warn you, though,” she said, her look turning somber, “sometimes the damage just goes too deep, and that may be the case with Popeye.”
“Popeye?”
“That’s what we call the little one you found. Since the operation to remove his damaged eye, he has this funny little squint and he looks just like—”
“Popeye,” I finished for her.
Her smile was disarming. “He’s become a favorite of the staff. He’s a beautiful puppy with the most unusual markings. Would you like to see him?” she asked.
I nodded, although I knew this was an invitation to heartbreak.
We walked up to the onsite veterinary clinic, past a long line of cages filled with dogs in various stages of recuperation. Judy stopped in front of a small dog. He was cream colored, with a pinkish nose and belly. On his left hind leg there was a large, distinctive, brown spot in the shape of a near-perfect heart.
Popeye’s head was swathed in bandages. A plastic cone collar had been placed around his neck to keep him from tearing at his wounds.
The puppy didn’t look up when Judy called to him. In fact, he didn’t seem aware of our presence at all.
“This little guy is in bad shape. If he doesn’t start eating soon, we’re going to have to feed him intravenously. Then there’s the risk of infection from the puncture wounds he suffered. The saddest part,” she added softly, “is he hasn’t connected with anyone here. We have people working with him around the clock but trust is a fragile thing.”
Judy stopped for a moment, and when she continued, her voice was laced with bitterness. “We do the best we can to help every dog that comes through our doors, but sometimes it feels like a lost cause.”
I tried not to turn away, but the look on Popeye’s face was too much to bear.
On my way out I stopped to make a donation. I didn’t think I’d be back. I just didn’t have the stomach for it.
*****
“Somebody’s here to see you, Ms. Alexander. Says he’s a friend of yours.”
I was at work, looking up information on dog fighting when Al, my buddy from security, called. “He looks like a gangster,” Al whispered into the phone.”
Well, that could be anyone. I had an eclectic mix
of friends, some of which were, in fact, actual gangsters. “What’s his name?” I asked.
“Alphonso Jackson.”
Alphonso. I smiled to myself. “Send him up.”
Five minutes later there were audible gasps from my co-worker, Shelley, as Alphonso entered the room. Tall, dark and gorgeous, in a totally gang-banger kinda way, Alphonso epitomizes the word cool. He freelances for Nick and is a sort of Jack of all things bad-ass Trades.
He cut me a full-watt smile. “Hey, Sweetcakes. Nice digs.” Then he turned a smoldering gaze on Shelley, who didn’t know whether to run for her life or drop her drawers.
“Okay, rein it in there, cowboy.”
Alphonso let out a full throated laugh and settled into the chair opposite my desk. The Alphonso Show over, Shelley made a wobbly exit.
“So what are you doing here?” I asked. Alphonso and I are friends, but not the “Let’s do lunch” kind. If he showed up at my work, it was for a reason.
I started to get nervous. “Is Nick okay?” Nick was away on business, and was in communicado—at least with me. He says he doesn’t like mixing business with pleasure, but I suspect it’s his way of keeping me safe. The less I knew about his business dealings, the less likely I could be used as a pawn somewhere down the line.
“Relax. Santiago’s okay.”
“Do you know if he’s up on the local news?”
Alphonso peered at me over his shades. “If you’re asking does he know about you almost getting taken out by that fuckwad, dog-abusing tweaker, he might’ve heard something about it.”
“Oh,” I smiled. “That explains it. You’re here to check up on me. Well, I’m happy to report I’m fine. So when you talk to Nick, tell him there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Ah, how do I put this gently, Sweetcakes? You’re not fine. Not by a long shot.”
“Well, that’s a little judgmental,” I sniffed.
Alphonso leaned in close and tapped my computer screen, leaving a thumbprint on Mario Lewis’s acne-scarred face.
“I’m not talking about your mental health here, although that may be up for debate. Word on the street is when you shot this asshole, you pissed off about thirty of his closest friends, AKA The Junk Town Gang. Ring any bells?”
“Aren’t they the ones who trashed a Seven-Eleven last month, because they ran out of Big Gulp cups?”
“And set the clerk on fire. Listen, Santiago thinks it might be a good idea if you stayed at his place—just until things settle down.”
“Oh, c’mon, Alphonso. You really think the Junk Town Gang is going to come after me just because I shot one of their own? What babies. If they can’t stand the heat, they should stay out of the kitchen.”
Alphonso shook his head. “Nick said you’d start talkin’ crazy. You always do when you’re scared. Don’t give me a hard time about this, okay?”
I was about to go round two with him when my phone rang.
“Brandy Alexander,” I said tersely. “Oh, hi…uh huh… yeah, okay then…thanks for letting me know.”
I turned back to Alphonso. “So, on a scale of one to ten, how pissed off do you think the Junk Town Gang would be if Lewis uh, y’know—died?”
Chapter Three
Thanks to some rather spectacular gang-inspired nightmares, I awoke the next day before dawn too afraid to go back to sleep. Rocky and Adrian had crept off the bed in the middle of the night, (probably driven away by all my thrashing about) leaving me all alone. Suddenly, I missed Nick so much that I wanted to cry. Instead, I got dressed and headed for the shooting range. There’s nothing like playing with high tech ammo to chase away the blues.
The place was already packed, but I ran across Vince and he offered to share his space with me. I was taking a chance. Vince is not a morning person.
“Your aim is all off,” he scowled and tightened the strap on his protective goggles, making his naturally chubby cheeks stick out more than usual. He looked like Rocky the Flying Squirrel.
“Well, how am I supposed to concentrate? I pop a guy in the leg and the next thing I know he drops dead in his hospital bed.”
“You have nothing to feel guilty about, Brandy. You did what you had to do.”
“Yeah, I know.” The trouble is it didn’t help. Rationally, I understood that Lewis had left me with no choice, but emotionally—not so much.
I shot off another round and missed by a mile.
“You’re flinching on the recoil. Try taking a deep breath before you shoot.” I did as I was told, aimed and fired. Not bad.
“It’s just sort’ve a shock, y’know?” I said, as I reloaded my gun. “I mean Lewis seemed to be on the mend and then, boom, he’s gone. So, what happened to him, anyway? Did he develop an infection or something?”
Vince shrugged. “We’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“Autopsy? But if he died of natural causes, why would they perform an autopsy?”
Too late, Vince realized his mistake. The corner of his mouth began to twitch. “Just routine. So anyway, did you catch the Phillies’ game the other night?”
“Vincent.” I fixed him with a stare. “Autopsies haven’t been routine since the 1950’s. They wouldn’t have ordered one unless the family wanted it, in which case they’d have to pay for it—unless the death was suspicious…that’s it, isn’t it? The death was suspicious!” I yelled, waving my ‘shootin’ arm in the air.
“Hey, hey! Put that thing down, ya maniac. It’s loaded.”
“Oops.” I put down the gun and took off my goggles. “Vince, are you saying my shooting Lewis may not be what killed him?”
“Brandy, I’m not saying anything. Would you please just give it a rest?”
“Look, if there’s a chance I wasn’t responsible for Lewis’ death, I have a right to know. And if he was murdered, well, that’s the public’s right to know.”
Had he been physically able to, Vince would have kicked himself in the butt.
“Will you keep your voice down? Nobody said anything about murder. We’re still looking into things.”
“So you admit there’s something to look into.”
“Jesus, you’re a pain. And to think you were once my girlfriend.”
“Oh, please. We were in the third grade. And don’t change the subject.”
“You’re not gonna let this go, are you, Alexander?”
“Vincent, I shot the guy. Now he’s dead. I was willing to accept responsibility for that, but now you’re saying you don’t know for sure if the two are related. Only some people might get the idea that they are and be kinda—y’know—homicidal about it.”
Vince’s ears perked up. “Has someone threatened you?”
“No.” I answered honestly. It was all rumor, and I refused to live my life in fear, which was why I’d declined Nick’s offer to let me stay at his place while he was gone. (Well, that, and because for reasons I couldn’t fathom, I was feeling upset with him. My mother would chalk it up to hormones. Then again, my mother chalks everything up to hormones.)
Vince took off his goggles. “Look, Bran, I can’t tell you what I don’t know, all right? I don’t have the final report. But mistakes get made, y’know what I mean? So until we get the results of the autopsy I’ve got nothin’ to say.”
“But—”
“Nothin.’”
*****
Two days later, I drove over to the hospital cafeteria to pick up some lunch, because as everyone knows hospital food is the yummiest! Oh, and as long as I was there I figured what would it hurt to ask a few questions about Mario Lewis? I polished off my pudding cup and headed for reception.
A couple of uniformed guards stood at the desk having a heated discussion over the cancellation of Jersey Shore. They stopped talking as I approached. The female guard stared at me curiously. She appeared to be about my height, (5’2” give or take an inch) but broader in the shoulders. Her name tag said Edie Wyncote.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Thanks.�
� I whipped out my Press I.D., attempting to channel the cocky assurance of, say, Geraldo Rivera. I’m a very important person, and I need my questions answered, stat!
“My name is Brandy Alexander.”
“I knew it!” she shouted. “High five, girl!”
I stuck a reluctant hand in the air, truly hoping her enthusiasm was due to my in-depth reporting on Skinny Jeans, but she burst that bubble in a hurry.
“You are my hero. What you did to that douche bag was awesome.” Edie whipped her head back around to her colleague. “You know who she is? She killed the guy who shot the cop.”
“Woah,” I said nervously. Sitting in the lounge a few yards away, a group of young men in baggy pants with matching red streaks in their hair puffed away under the “Positively No Smoking” sign. One of them looked up at the reference to Mario Lewis. He cocked his finger at me, gun style, and blew a smoke ring in my direction. The hostility packed in that small gesture made my skin crawl.
I turned back to the guards. “Let’s not jump to conclusions here. I mean I don’t want to take credit where it isn’t due.”
The male guard gave me the once-over. He was white, with a crew cut and a scar over his right eyebrow that sliced it in two. Tats peeked out from the collar of his uniform. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Brandy. Look, whether or not I actually killed this guy is subject for debate, and I’m afraid I don’t have time right now. Could you just direct me to the floor he was staying on?” I was going to make up an elaborate ruse for going up there, but it turned out not to be necessary.
“Fifth floor,” Edie directed me. “Ask for Suzanne Dunham. She’s the floor nurse. I believe she was on duty that night.”
“Thanks.”
I could feel the heat of several pairs of eyes on my back as I headed for the elevator.
No Such Thing as a Lost Cause Page 3