No Such Thing as a Lost Cause

by Shelly Fredman

  “I’m not asking for a guarantee.” I was lying and we both knew it. “Look, let’s just forget it, okay?”

  “It’s not that simple, Angel.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said, panic rising in my belly, “…unless you’ve changed your mind about me…oh my God, that’s it, isn’t it?” Just like Mr. Sheffield.

  “This isn’t just a matter of how we feel about each other,” he said, quietly. “The reality is our relationship makes you a target. There are a lot of people out there—”

  “Oh, puh-leeze.”

  I jumped to my feet, one hand on my hip, the other waggling my index finger in his face, channeling Queen Latifah before she went all mainstream. “Spare me the Turner Classic movie spiel. ‘I’m no good for ya, kid. You’re better off with me.’ You said you love me. Are you trying to take it back? Because there are no take backs. You said it and I get to keep it.”

  “I do love you.”

  “Then, there’s no problem. Look, you want to slow things down? Fine. I’m not asking for an engagement ring or your Letterman’s jacket. I don’t want to change you and I sure as hell don’t want you to change me. All I want is for you to give us a fair shake. And then if you want to walk, I won’t stop you.”

  Nick studied me for a beat and then deftly pulled me down onto his lap. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a piece of work?”

  “Let’s just say you’re not the first.”

  We let the discussion drop for the time being, and I settled back in his arms and tried to ignore the creeping anxiety that curdled my stomach. But my mind would not let go of the very real possibility that I could lose Nick before we’d ever even gotten started.

  I turned the game back on. It was the bottom of the ninth and the Phils were trailing six-nothing.

  “Get a hit,” I prayed. It was a long shot.

  Chapter Seven

  “What’s the puppy’s name?”

  “It doesn’t have a name. If I name it, I’ll have to keep it.”

  Janine lifted Rocky’s cat carrier off her futon and onto the floor, gathered her shoulder length auburn hair into a pony tail and flopped down on the bed that doubled as her couch/dining room table.

  “Makes perfect sense. I feel the same way about the guys I’ve gone out with lately,” she said, shoving a slice of mushroom pizza into her mouth.

  I’d arrived at the door of Janine’s walk-up studio apartment with Rocky, Adrian, and Little No-name in tow. She asked me if I was okay and did I want to talk about it. I answered “yes” and “no” respectively and she hugged me and moved on.

  It would take another two days until the glass company could replace my windows and I didn’t want to outstay my welcome at Nick’s. Not that he was giving me the boot or anything. In fact, he’d begged me to stay.

  “Don’t go, my angel. Never leave my side.”

  Okay, what he’d actually said was, “You’re welcome here for as long as you want,” which was a generous offer but, for all my Big Girl sensible spiel about taking things one day at a time, my feelings were hurt by the lukewarm invitation. I guess it’s my fault for saying, “No, no, no. I couldn’t possibly impose,” when what I meant was, “Please, insist!” But that’s the trouble with Nick. He treats me like an adult and takes me at my word.

  “Thanks for letting me crash here tonight, Neenie. Fran offered me her extra bedroom, but she’s got enough going on already with Eddie and the baby.”

  Janine stretched across the bed and snatched her pillow from Adrian who had been happily gnawing at it like it was prime rib. “What are you thanking me for? This is fun. We haven’t hung out together in ages.”

  That’s Janine, God bless her. Only she could take a life and death situation as an opportunity to catch up on girl talk.

  “Hey, so how’s Mike?” she inquired. “When you saw him did he happen to mention me?”

  Mike met Janine a little while back and he really liked her. We all heaved a collective sigh of relief when she expressed an interest in going out with him.

  “Uh, your name didn’t come up. But don’t take it personally. We were a little busy.”

  “Oh. Well, how about you call Bobby and ask him if Mike’s going to ask me out.”

  “Good idea, Janine, and then I’ll ask him what he got on his history test and who he’s taking to the big dance on Friday night!”

  “Just call him, okay? It’ll get your mind off your problems.”

  In truth, I was happy to have an excuse to call. I’d been trying to wait it out until DiCarlo called me with Vince’s decision about the new autopsy, because I didn’t want to appear pushy. Plus, I’d already called twice today and he’d threatened to stop taking my calls if I didn’t knock it off. I pulled out my phone and hit speed dial.

  Bobby waited until the fifth ring to answer. “Yes?” He sounded a tad exasperated. I chose not to take it personally, even though it probably was personal.

  “You busy?”

  “Up to my ass. But that’s okay. Actually, I was just going to call you.”

  “Did you hear from Vince? What did he say?”

  “It’s a go.”

  “Whoo hoo!”

  “Yeah, and that’s not all. I just got word they’ve arrested someone in connection with the shooting at your place.”

  “Oh, Bobby, that’s great news.” Maybe now my life would get back to some semblance of normal. “Who is he?”

  “Name’s Anthony Gibbons. He’s a fringe member of the Junk Town Gang. It’s gonna be a long haul. He’s not talking. Listen, Brandy,” DiCarlo added, as if he’d read my mind, “just because they’ve got someone in custody doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Until Lewis’ death has officially been deemed a homicide, you’re still number one on their dance card. And even then, they may not be so forgiving.”

  “But why? Once it’s proven—and don’t say it, Bobby, I know I’m right, that Lewis was murdered, won’t they want to go after the person who really killed him?”

  “Sweetheart, when you took Lewis down you humiliated the entire gang. And that viral video didn’t help. They have to avenge their honor or lose their street cred.” His voice tensed. “I’d like you to at least consider getting out of town for a while.”

  Or, I could find out who killed Lewis and maybe that will be enough to get them to back off.

  Janine pinched me and gave me the rolling hand sign for “hurry up and get to the point.”

  “So, Bobby, speaking of Mike Mahoe,” which was the worst transition ever, since we hadn’t mentioned Mike’s name once in the entire conversation, “Janine was wondering if he was going to ask her out.”

  I could almost feel the vein in Bobby’s temple pounding against the phone.

  “Have you heard anything I said?”

  “I did, Bobby. Every word. Look, this isn’t about me being brave, or stubborn or stupid. And I promise I’ll think about your suggestion, but—just for tonight—I want to pretend everything’s all right.” My voice broke. “I need this.”

  He waited a beat, then, “Tell Janine Mike’s gonna call her.”

  *****

  “So, Garrett, John tells me that you hail from Minnesota and that since you moved to Philadelphia, you’ve been working on anti-smoking bans in all public areas. How did you find your way to our fair city?”

  I was seated opposite John and Garrett at the super trendy, Café L’Orange, in Roxborough, where everyone pretends to like opera and truffle soup. We ended up there because Garrett had been “dying to try their veal scaloppini,” and I went along with it just to show him it’s not always about me, but really, what kind of a person orders veal? I guess Garrett’s obsession with political correctness doesn’t extend to his palette.

  I dabbed at the corners of my mouth and was about to fire off another round of questions when I felt a sharp pain in my shin. I looked over at John and winced.

  “Brandy, isn’t that Mrs. Krababappel over near the door?” he said, standing up.

 
; “Who?”

  “You know, our fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Krababappel. We really have to say hello. Excuse us for a minute, will you, Garrett?”

  John practically dragged me to my feet and hauled me outside.

  “What are you doing? You’ve been asking Garrett questions since the minute we got here.”

  “It’s called showing an interest, John. The world doesn’t revolve around me you know.”

  “Since when? And what’s with the British accent? You sound like you’re interviewing him for the BBC.”

  “It’s called using proper diction, John.”

  “Yeah? Well, knock it off. It’s weird. Just be yourself, okay?”

  “All right, fine,” I sulked. “But let’s be honest here. We both know that being myself didn’t exactly wow him, so I thought I’d try a different approach.”

  John’s Adam’s apple did a little wiggle dance, a sure sign that I’d hit a nerve. “How did you—I mean—Garrett just needs time to get to know you. Trust me, he’s going love you.”

  “Yeah? Well, what if he doesn’t?”

  “He will. C’mon, Bran, Garrett’s the first guy I’ve met in God knows how long who actually has something to offer. He’s got a real job, his own apartment, he’s worldly. He knows about wine and art and…and…the capitals of all the European countries. Remember Pete? I dated him for two months last year. He lived in his mother’s basement and he smelled like bug spray.”

  “Oh, yeah. Whatever happened to him?”

  John did a major eye roll. “I’m trying to make a point here.”

  Before I could think of a snarky response his cell phone rang. It was Garrett calling to let him know his Trout Almandine was getting cold.

  “See?” I said. “Garrett never once mentioned that my meal was getting cold. He hates me.”

  “You ordered Vichyssoise.”

  “Yeah, and I only did it to impress him. What I really wanted was a BLT. Look, you might think it’s silly, but Garrett’s important to you, so I really want him to like me.”

  “I like you,” Johnny said, throwing his arm around me. “In fact, I love you.”

  We walked back to the table and the Vichyssoise was sitting there waiting for me; little lumps of cold potato swimming in a pool of heavy cream.

  John signaled our server over to the table. “She changed her mind. She’d like a BLT.”

  *****

  Five sleepless nights (on the floor of Janine’s studio apartment) later, I was back home. The windows and doors had been replaced and the steps scrubbed clean. All that remained was a pervasive feeling of doom and a bill for the reconstructive surgery on my house that, with my recent work history, would take decades to pay off. I celebrated with a Bud Light and some pistachios.

  In the middle of shelling about three pounds of nuts (pistachios are cool, because they’re a snack and an activity—a snacktivity, if you will) my phone rang. I checked caller I.D., happy for the sound of anyone’s voice as long as the conversation didn’t start with “I’m gonna kill you, bitch.”

  It was Alphonso. “What’chu up to, Sweetcakes?”

  “Cleaning my gun.”

  “Right,” he snickered. “Although, now you mention it, it’s probably not a bad idea.”

  My stomach clenched. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I heard some interesting news about the guy who shot up your house.”

  “Anthony Gibbons?”

  “That’s the one. Word on the street is the cops didn’t have enough evidence to hold him, so they were lookin’ to release him today.”

  I put down the pistachio nuts, having suddenly lost my appetite. Gibbons was free to finish what he’d started.

  “Well, that’s just dandy.”

  “You’re not listening, Alexander. The operative word here is was. He hung himself at the Roundhouse this morning.”

  “Get out!” Relief flowed through my veins, overshadowing all sense of decency.

  Only, if he was getting out, why would he kill himself?

  I put the question to Alphonso.

  “This was the real deal, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Yeah. And Mario Lewis died of a gunshot wound to his thigh.”

  “I’m telling you, this is legit. I’ve got a friend with some local gang connections. He was picked up on a B&E charge last week and was there when Gibbons was brought in.”

  “So?”

  “So, according to this guy, Gibbons was trying to make a name for himself by going after you. He thought it would impress the higher ups. Only trouble is the gang didn’t authorize the killing.”

  “Um, not that I’m disappointed, but why not?”

  “I don’t know. Could just be good business sense. With all the illegal shit they’ve got goin’ on, the last thing they need is public scrutiny.”

  Adrian hopped up on the kitchen table and snagged the bag of pistachio shells, dumping them all over the floor. Satisfied with a job well done, he wondered off to eat the couch. I picked the shells up and tossed them in the trash.

  “Alphonso, I know I’ve been sort’ve slow on the uptake lately, but I still don’t get why Gibbons would kill himself.”

  “Gibbons showcased the gang in a really bad light. He didn’t just act without permission; he went and fucked it up. That’s a huge public embarrassment. You don’t cross your gang family and live to tell about it. I guess he figured he was going to end up dead either way, so he might as well choose the least painful method.”

  “Well, that’s a little drastic.”

  “Brandy, the JTG specializes in torching their victims. Dead or alive, it don’t make a difference. In fact, they prefer alive. Makes more of a statement, y’know what I mean?”

  In spades. Fighting the mental image of burning flesh that Alphonso had conjured up for me, I said, “So, now that Gibbons is out of the picture, can we just forget the whole thing and go back to business as usual?”

  Alphonso chuckled softly through the phone and almost parroted Bobby’s warning. “I wish I knew, Sweetcakes. It’s all fucked up how this pride and revenge thing works. The gang may have wanted Gibbons dead, but they could blame you for forcing the circumstances that made it happen.”

  Unhh! The clenching in my stomach turned into a full fledged panic attack. I got hot all over, my forehead breaking out in an unholy sweat, frizzing up the bangs that had taken me twenty minutes to straighten with a flat iron. I tried to talk, but nothing came out.

  “You still there?” Alphonso asked. “Listen, I feel like hanging out and watching a movie tonight. Something heartwarming, with maybe that Julia Roberts chic in it. I’m coming over.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Alphonso. I’ll let Nick know you offered.”

  “This has nothing to do with Nick,” Alphonso said, dropping his customary street swag. “We’re way past that. We’re friends. Friends watch each other’s backs.”

  *****

  Alphonso fell asleep on the couch ten minutes into Pretty Woman, his head resting on my Mr. Peanut Pillow, (a classic, which I won off e-bay in a huge bidding war…okay, not exactly a war, since I was the only bidder, but I still won). He woke up just as Richard Gere proclaimed his love for the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold.

  He sat up and peered at me as if he were inspecting bruised fruit. “You crying?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, wiping my eyes. “I’ve got allergies.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I do.” I fake sneezed. Good touch, Brandy. High five!

  Alphonso stretched his legs and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, a gesture I found endearingly child-like, considering the man was 6’2” with a semi-automatic hanging out of the back of his pants. His phone beeped and he checked for a text message and smiled.

  “You gonna be okay?” he asked, rising, “because I got some business to take care of. But I could stay…if you need me to,” he added and glanced longingly at the phone.

  I shook my head. “I’ll be
fine. So, what’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “Your business.”

  Alphonso’s grin got wider. “Nicole.”

  “Have fun,” I told him and walked him to the door.

  “You’re sure now?” He hesitated at the threshold.

  “I’m sure. Alphonso?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for tonight.”

  *****

  “Have you been avoiding me, Darlin’?” Nick stood at my door at 5:00 a.m. the next morning, looking sexy beyond words in disheveled formal wear and black, horn rimmed glasses. He was holding a box the size of a toaster oven.

  I glanced down at my bare legs, the rest of me hidden beneath Hello Kitty shortie pajamas, which I’d like to say was a relic from my youth, but, in actuality, was a recent purchase. I looked back up at him and blushed.

  We’d been playing phone tag for days, which may have been by design on my part. Ever since our talk, my insecurities had grown exponentially, to the point where I was convinced Nick was going to leave me. I happened on a solution to this while in the throes of insomnia in the middle of the night, when all your epiphanies seem like the best idea ever! I figured if we didn’t see or speak to each other, he wouldn’t discover my considerable flaws, thus giving him no reason to break up with me.

  “Avoiding you? Of course I’m not avoiding you,” I have found that the best defense is a strongly-worded denial, spoken in huffy tones.

  “That’s good, because I’ve missed you,” he said, completely disarming me.

  I opened the screen door and let him in.

  “What’s in the box?” I asked. I’d hoped it was something to eat. Something delicious, like doughnuts.

  “I’ll show you in a bit.” He shifted the box to one arm and pulled me to him with the other. My arms automatically wrapped around his neck, my ingenious plan to play it cool forgotten in the pleasure of his touch.

  He smelled faintly of expensive cigars and aged bourbon. The dark circles under his eyes told me he’d pulled an all-nighter, and yet, he exuded a sexual energy that was so palpable it made me weak.