“Did Lewis ever mention a side business he might be involved in? I mean besides working for the ambulance company.”
“Lewis is one of those guys who’s always got something going. He owns some dogs—y’know, pits, and I overheard him talking on the phone one day about setting them up in some fights. I told him what I thought about people who did shit like that, and he got real unfriendly after that.”
“Do you have any idea why he hasn’t shown up for work?”
Jimmy shrugged. “About a week and a half ago, some drugs turned up missing from one of the trucks. Lewis was the only one around at the time, and everybody thought he’d taken them. But there was no proof so nothing ever came of it.”
“Well, why didn’t they call the cops?”
“The company’s had some legal problems recently, and the owner didn’t want any more bad publicity.”
“Do you know what was taken?”
“Yeah, and that’s the thing. It wasn’t like it was a drug you could get high off of or anything. It’s called Succinylcholine. It’s a paralytic, used for intubation. They carry it in their RSI kits. I don’t know what the hell he’d use it for. Anyway, I’m just glad the asshole’s gone.”
After Jimmy took off, I fired up my laptop and typed in Succinylcholine. “What possible advantage could Donte Lewis have in stealing a drug like this?” I thought to myself. And ten minutes later, I had my answer.
Chapter Six
I called Bobby on the way out of the café.
“Yo, Bran.”
What? No “Sweetheart?”
“Where are you?” I shouted over the din of clinking glasses and clattering plates. I’d hoped it was somewhere good. Those espressos made me hungry, and, what with being newly unemployed, maybe Bobby would take pity on me and buy me lunch.
“I’m at Tortelli’s.”
“Oh, I love that place. Listen, I need to talk to you. It’s important. Stay put and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Uh, Bran, this isn’t a good—”
“See you soon,” I said and disconnected.
Tortelli’s is a popular Sicillian restaurant located on Passyunk Avenue. They’ve got a terrific oyster bar and a great cover band on Friday nights that plays music from the fifties. It’s always packed, so I was lucky to find parking only four blocks away.
One of the perks of a caffeine high is you feel like you can do anything. On the downside, it’s just an illusion. I jogged the quarter mile, oblivious to the heat and humidity. By the time I got to the restaurant I was puffing so hard I thought I had a collapsed lung.
Before I went in search of Bobby, I made a pit stop at the bathroom. I opened the door and found a toddler pulling mini pads out of a broken vending machine while his mother yelled at him from inside the stall not to touch anything. He had opened each packet and was now affixing them to the tile wall in kind of a cool pattern.
As I bent down to pick up the stray papers he’d left on the floor, he came up behind me and wrapped his chubby arms around my neck and gave me a big hug. Kids. Ya gotta love ‘em.
Maybe it was my imagination but it felt like people were staring as I worked my way through the lunch crowd. One guy nudged his friend and snickered. They must’ve recognized me from the last segment I had taped for the station. I’d come in fourth in an air guitar contest. I would’ve won but my string broke, which I thought added a touch of realism to my performance, but the judges thought otherwise.
I found DiCarlo in a booth in the back, examining the dessert cart. I squeezed past it and was about to take the seat opposite him when I felt the presence of someone sidling up next to me.
“Excuse me.”
I turned to see who was speaking and accidentally stuck my hand in the Chocolate mousse. My impulse was to lick it off, but I changed my mind when I saw who had snuck up on me.
Shit! Why didn’t Bobby tell me he was on a date!
Officer Blondie stared at me in kind of an “I’m not really staring at you” way. Well, of course she’d be curious. Bobby must have filled her in on how he’s still in love with me.
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to get my bag,” she said, reaching into the booth. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” I lied.
DiCarlo stood, handing me a paper napkin. “Brandy, this is Lauren. Lauren, Brandy.”
Hmm, he’s looking at me funny too. What is with everyone?
Before Lauren and I could finish exchanging the usual pleasantries Bobby interrupted. “Brandy, you’ve, uh, got something in your hair.”
“What do you mean?” I raised my non-moussed hand and felt around. Oh crap. What is that? I began to pull. “Ow.”
“Would you like me to help you?” Lauren offered.
“No, I’m good, thanks. Ow. Yes, actually, would you please?”
Lauren gave a quick tug and disengaged whatever it was, along with about three hundred of my favorite strands of hair. Discreetly she slipped it to me.
Oh, for the love of God! I’ve been parading around the restaurant with a sanitary pad glued to my hair. No wonder people are staring. I look like a crazy person!
“Listen,” I said, treating the situation as if it were the most natural thing in the world to wear feminine hygiene products on my head, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll catch up with you later, Bobby.”
“No, please. Sit down,” Lauren insisted. “I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for the lunch, Bobby. Next time it’s on me. Brandy, it was nice meeting you.” Her smile was quick and genuine and I liked her despite my natural inclination not to.
“Nice meeting you too,” I called after her and settled into the spot Lauren had vacated. I waited until she was safely out the door.
“I can see why you like her,” I told Bobby, reaching for a forkful of linguine off his plate.
Bobby shook his head and pushed his plate toward me. “Could you please not make a big deal out of this, Bran? She’s just a friend.”
“Uh huh.”
Bobby took a slow, deep breath. “Look, I just came off of a 48 hour shift staking out a guy who we’re pretty sure chopped up his girlfriend and fed her to his dog. I’m tired, Sweetheart, and I’m not having this conversation right now, especially with you.”
So, that explained why DiCarlo hadn’t called me after the “Shoot-out at the B.A. Corral” but that last part hurt.
“Why not me?” I huffed. “Don’t you think I’m capable of being happy for you?”
Bobby leaned across the table and wiped the gravy off my chin. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s a shitty thing to say.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It’s just that—look, Bran, I’ve accepted that you’ve moved on in your life, and I’m trying to do the same. But you and I have a lot of history, and it’s not always easy, y’know?”
I did know, only too well. “Okay, so maybe I’m not the best person to discuss your love life with.”
Our eyes met and, for a brief moment, we traveled back in time to when Bobby was mine. The yearning was so strong I half expected Barbara Streisand to pop up from behind the next booth and start belting out The Way We Were. And then the moment passed.
DiCarlo’s mouth turned upwards into a slow grin. “So, you want to tell me what was so urgent that you had to interrupt my first official date in three years?”
“Second,” I corrected him, and then I filled him in. “Bobby, just think about it. Donte was worried that his cousin was going to screw up a business deal. He was there the night Mario got the shit beat out of him, and Donte himself threatened to kill him.
“Donte had access to Succinylcholine, a drug that not only temporarily paralyzes the muscles, but can’t be detected in an autopsy unless they’re specifically looking for it. The drug goes missing a few days before Lewis croaks and Donte’s the only suspect. The results of the original autopsy were inconclusive. And if that’s not enough, the guard outside Lewis
’ door gets called away at the precise moment Lewis decides to kick the bucket. Look, I know this is all circumstantial evidence, but could you at least concede it’s a possibility that Mario Lewis was murdered?”
DiCarlo didn’t answer right away. He took a long slug of beer, not stopping until he drained the bottle. Then he carefully placed the bottle on the table and signaled the server for the check.
“Well?” I prompted when I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“You make a good case.”
“Yes!” I shouted, pumping my fist in the air.
“Okay, Brandy, don’t go nuts here. Even if I agree with you, this isn’t my investigation. And it’s going to be a hard sell to get the D.A.’s office to agree to another autopsy.”
“But you’ll talk to Vince?”
“I’ll talk to Vince.”
*****
After leaving Tortelli’s (minus the “hair bow”) I was still hungry, so I swung by Paul’s club. The place is closed from 3-6 p.m. in order to get ready for the dinner and late night crowds, but I knew he’d be there, regardless. My brother is a little on the obsessive side. Some people say it runs in the family but, personally, I don’t see it.
I pulled in next to his 1972 Alpha Romeo, (a gift from me back in the days when I was a contributing member of society) and went in through the side entrance. Paul sat in the back booth eating a roast beef sandwich and going over the receipts.
“Hey, Paulie.” I sat down opposite him and helped myself to the side of slaw. Paul held up an index finger. “Hey, Sis. Hang on a minute,” he said and went back to his accounting.
“Um, okay.” To tell the truth I’d expected a lot better reception, given the fact that I could’ve been killed the night before. But Paul never even called to see how I was doing.
After a bit he closed his laptop. “So, how’re you doing?”
“Fine.”
“Great.” A grin began to spread across his face. “So, Mom tells me you’ve got plans for the entire month of August and you won’t be able to go to Cousin Marlene’s daughter’s wedding.”
And something snapped. “Paul, I can’t believe this. Our childhood home was practically blown to bits by a gunman’s bullets and you’re mad because I sleazed out of Cousin Marlene’s kid’s wedding?”
Paul choked on his roast beef. “What?” Wh-wh-what?”
“You didn’t know?” What was I thinking? Of course he didn’t know. He would have called me. Jeez, doesn’t anyone watch the news anymore?
“I’m sorry, Paulie. I thought you knew,” I said, and filled him in as best I could.
Paul swung around to my side of the booth and wrapped his arms around me. “Th-thank God you’re okay. Jesus, Brandy, how could you believe I knew and just didn’t care?”
“I don’t know. I guess I figured that violence has become such a part of the norm for me that even you’ve become immune to worrying about me.”
“Yeah, like that could happen. I guess I’ve been a little too wrapped up in the club, lately,” he added. “How can I make it up to you?”
“Well, there’s this puppy—”
“How else can I make it up to you?”
“Well, someone has to go to Cousin Marlene’s daughter’s wedding—”
“I’ll take the puppy.”
*****
On the way back to Nick’s I cruised by my house. The yellow crime scene tape had been taken down, but the boarded up windows served as a reminder of everything that had gone wrong lately, and it depressed the hell out of me. On the up side, I guess I still had at least one friend in the neighborhood. On the front step beneath the words, “Bitch-ho” someone had spray painted a huge arrow pointing directly at Mrs. Gentile’s house. Karmically speaking I shouldn’t have thought it was funny. I thought it was hilarious.
It was a little after four when I got to Nick’s. Adrian and the puppy greeted me at the door trailing brown crumbs and bits of orange peel. Although they only stood three and a half feet between them, somehow they’d managed to reach the croissants I’d accidentally left out on the kitchen counter and had helped themselves to a Continental Breakfast. The puppy yawned revealing a chunk of orange pulp that was lodged between her teeth.
“I hold you responsible for this mess,” I told Adrian. “You’re the oldest.”
He ignored my admonishments and waddled off, returning a few moments later with an expensive-looking Italian loafer with the toe chewed out of it.
“Bad dog!” I threw the loafer into the back of Nick’s bedroom closet and took Adrian and his cohort in culinary crime for a walk.
When I got back, I still had over an hour until Nick was expected home. I debated whether to pass the time obsessing over who the woman in his office was or worrying about where the next attempt on my life would come from. Both good choices, but in the end I opted for a nap.
Here it comes again, the dream that haunts me every night. It follows me to Nick’s place, my safe haven. Mario Lewis holding a gun against my temple, eyes spinning like twin roulette wheels, his drug-induced laughter echoing inside my head. Officer down, tortured wails, blood everywhere flowing like lava, why won’t it stop? Something is different this time. But what? This time the blood is mine.
I feel a weight around my arms; someone pulls me to an upright position. I scream and struggle against him and feel soft lips and a soothing voice in my ear. “You’re okay, Angel. It’s just a nightmare.” My heart rate slows as I breathe in the subtle, yet irresistible essence that is Nick. I stop struggling and open my eyes.
I blinked and looked around. Nick’s gun rested on the coffee table. The front door was open, a bag of Chinese take-out strewn across the entryway. Nick picked up his gun and checked the safety and returned it to the table.
A neighbor poked his head in the door. He was in his late fifties, with a large, muscular build and a South Philly accent that was so pronounced it couldn’t possibly be for real. The guy looked beyond Nick to me.
“I heard some yelling. Everything all right?” Only it came out as “err’thing a’ite?”
I flushed with embarrassment. “Yes. Thank you. Everything’s fine. Just a bad dream, that’s all.”
“A’ite.” If he saw Santiago’s gun it didn’t faze him. “My name’s Ed,” he told me. “I’m just down the hall if you need me.” He pointed a warning finger at Nick who, thankfully, looked more amused than annoyed, and retreated from the doorway.
“Seems you have a protector,” Nick observed.
“Oh my god, how loud was I?” I stretched and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“You may have broken the sound barrier. Must’ve been one hell of a dream.”
“I’ve had better.”
“Mario Lewis?” I nodded, happy not to have to spell it out.
Nick picked up the groceries he had abandoned on his way in and set them on the counter. He put plates down and opened two Xinjiang Black Beers. Paul had told me they’re difficult to find in America. I was impressed but not surprised.
Over steamed rice and Moo Shu Vegetable I filled Nick in on what I’d learned about Mario Lewis’ death. “DiCarlo thinks he may be able to convince the D.A.’s office to redo Lewis’ autopsy. But what if Donte gets wind of it and takes off? The cops aren’t going to waste man power doing surveillance on the guy before it’s even proven that his cousin was murdered.”
“I can arrange some private surveillance until the results come in.”
Nick believed in me, no questions asked. “Thank you,” I said, choking up. Guess a noodle went down the wrong pipe.
Santiago finished his meal and took his beer over to the couch. I started to clean up the dishes, but he asked me to sit down with him instead. “If I recall, we have some things to talk over.”
His tone was so serious I broke out in a sweat. “Talking is overrated, Nick. Except for the fact that people are trying to kill me, everything’s cool. Let’s talk about you for a change. So, what’s with the army fatigues? Have you gone “m
ilitary?” Y’know, you’ve never really explained just what it is you do during those mysterious trips you take. That would be a good topic of conversation…feel free to jump in at any time.”
Nick leaned over and kissed me. “We can have that conversation another time, Darlin’. A few weeks ago you thought you might be pregnant, and your reaction to finding out that you weren’t was—surprising. We need to talk about it.”
“Oh, that,” I said, as the Moo Shu Vegetable formed a basketball-sized lump in my stomach. “It’s no big deal. I’m sure it was just the stress of the situation.”
Nick offered me a half smile. “I think there was a bit more to it than that.”
I couldn’t imagine what. No joke. I really couldn’t.
“Brandy,” he said, lifting my chin so that I had to return his gaze, “I believe that a very small, but powerful part of you wished the pregnancy test had come out positive.”
“What? No! Why would you think that? I don’t even like babies, well, except for my Goddaughter, but that’s because she’s the cutest baby in the entire history of the world. No.” I shook my head emphatically. “I am relieved.”
“So,” he pressed, “in the darkest recesses of your mind, you never wished it might be true.”
“Absolutely not.” I took a huge gulp of my beer.
Nick watched me with enormous patience. He seemed to be waiting for something, and I squirmed in the silence.
“Okay,” I finally relented, “maybe for like—a nano second I might’ve wondered what it would be like if—y’know—well, haven’t you ever thought about it?”
Nick looked at me steadily. “No, Angel, I haven’t.”
“Yeah. Me neither. So, you wanna watch the Phillies’ game?” I got up and made a big show of searching for the remote. “Found it,” I shouted a little too loud and turned on the television.
Nick took the remote from me and clicked off the TV. “I don’t think we’re quite finished with this conversation.”
“What’s to finish? We’re on the same page. No babies.”
“Brandy,” Nick said, taking my hand in his, “I believe the reason you reacted so strongly to the news that you weren’t pregnant is because a part of you wanted it to be true. A baby is symbolic. It implies a future together. But that’s not something I can guarantee.”
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