No Such Thing as a Lost Cause

by Shelly Fredman

  Frankie considered this for a minute. “I think it’s like that old joke, ‘How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb? One, but it’s really got to want to change.’ I think if the desire is there, it’s do-able.” He waited a beat, and when I didn’t say anything he added, “Are we talking about Santiago?”

  “No. I was just, y’know, wondering.”

  Uncle Frankie cut me a sympathetic, knowing look and finished off the rest of my fries.

  *****

  Being unemployed is not without its perks. It gave me a chance to catch up on my laundry and to check out some really great daytime TV. That took about twenty minutes of my day. Then I called the police station a couple of times to see if the new autopsy results had come in.

  “Not since you called fifteen minutes ago,” DiCarlo told me.

  “Oh, well, keep me posted.”

  “You’re at the top of my list.”

  I called John next. He didn’t pick up so I called a couple of six more times.

  He answered after eight rings. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You called me six times.” He seemed a kind of annoyed.

  “Seven. How come you didn’t pick up?”

  “I’m in the middle of a photo shoot.”

  “So who are you shooting? Maybe I could come down and help you.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve gotta go,” he said, and hung up.

  I’ll bet he wouldn’t have hung up Garrett.

  I walked into the living room. The puppy had made up a new game called “Give the Cat a Heart Attack.” I wasn’t real sure of the rules, but they seemed to include lying in wait for Rocky to come down the stairs and then chasing her back up again. I decided to cut the cat a break and take the dogs for a walk.

  On the way back, I ran across my neighbor, Heather, and her pug, Mr. Wiggles. Mr. Wiggles and I have an adversarial relationship. Several months ago, he peed on my shoe. On purpose. Heather says it’s a sign of affection, but I have my doubts.

  “Ooh,” said Heather, bending to scratch the puppy behind her ear. “You have a new dog. She’s sweet.”

  “Yeah, thanks. You want her?”

  Heather laughed like I couldn’t possibly be serious.

  “No, really, Heather, you want her, she’s yours. Look, Mr. Wiggles really seems to like her!” In truth, Mr. Wiggles was actively ignoring her, the pint-sized, pedigreed snob.

  Heather looked skyward. Dark clouds were gathering and the air buzzed with negative ions. We were in for a whopper of a summer storm.

  “She needs a rain coat,” Heather decided. “I’ll make her one with room to grow.” “Listen, you’re sure you don’t want another dog?”

  “Ha ha. Good one, Bran. Well, see ya later.”

  I sighed. “See ya, Heather.”

  It was lunch time so I decided to go visit Paul at the club. His best server was on vacation, and I figured he could use my help…or I could use the tips. One or the other.

  Paul was behind the bar taking “to go” orders. “Hey, Sis. I was just about to call you.” He hung up the phone and I followed him to his office.

  “So, how come you’re not at work? Don’t you have to do the mid-day traffic report? By the way, you make a way better Godfrey than the other guy did. You really make traffic come alive.”

  “I got fired.”

  “Oh. So, uh, do you need some m-money to tide you over?” He reached into his drawer and pulled out a wad of cash.

  “Paulie, that’s really sweet of you, but I didn’t come here looking for a handout. I thought maybe I could work it off.”

  Paul winced. “Bran, couldn’t you just take the handout?”

  “Just give me a chance, will ya, Paul? I’ve really been brushing up on my people skills. Here, watch this.” I gave him a big, friendly smile and pantomimed taking a plate off a serving tray and placing it on the top of his desk. “Can I get you anything else this evening? The apple pie is to die for.”

  “Um, you p-probably don’t want to m-m-mention our food and d-dying in the same b-b-breath. It’s k-kind of a turn off.”

  “Duly noted. So, when do I start?”

  Half an hour later we were back in Paul’s office. “Are you sure you don’t want to take this?” he asked, waving a wad of money at me.

  “I’m good, Paulie. And just for the record, I didn’t tell that woman that a 25% tip is customary. I said, ‘25% of our customers marry.’”

  “Come back tonight,” Paul said, too polite to choke on his words in front of me. “We can try you out parking cars again.”

  “Love you, bro.”

  “Love you, too.”

  *****

  I woke up the next morning with a dog on either side of me and a cat on my head. The thermostat said 90 degrees, and I was swimming in sweat, which I thought would burn off the cheesesteak calories, but I guess sweating only counts as a calorie burner if it hurts while you’re doing it.

  I hopped in the shower and got dressed and then went downstairs and turned on WINN. Godfrey the Traffic Dog had officially retired. He’d been replaced by something that looked like a hedgehog, but I couldn’t be sure. I also couldn’t figure out the tie-in with traffic, unless there were numerous hedgehog-related deaths during high-density traffic hours on I-95.

  The dog fight bust had barely gotten a mention in the news. Granted, it was small potatoes compared to high profile, celebrity busts with millions of dollars on the line, but it still felt disrespectful, to say the least, to the dogs that suffered at the hands of these people.

  The lack of press infuriated me, and I spent the next several hours in a rage-infused web search frenzy learning all I could about dog fighting and the moral degenerates who engaged in it. Turns out the lure of the money, the excitement of the fight, the sick thrill of torturing another living thing crosses all cultural, economic, and political boundaries.

  Nick called just as I was taking a break. Since I started seriously working out at the gym (well, visiting it occasionally, anyway) I’ve tried to cut down on my chocolate cupcake habit. I was down to two a day, and only the icing off of three more.

  I got a pang of yearning at the sound of his voice. “Are you back from your errand for Sal?” I asked.

  “Safe and sound, Darlin’. I wanted to pass along a bit of news. Kenzo lost track of Lewis. He hasn’t seen him since the morning of the dog fight. My guess is he heard about the new autopsy and split the state.”

  “Unh! If the police had just listened to me in the first place, the man would be behind bars by now.”

  “I think you might be forgetting about due process, but I understand your frustration.”

  “So, what are the chances that I’ll get to see you?”

  Did that sound too needy? Oy. Now I’d spend the rest of the day wishing I could take it back. Low self esteem is exhausting.

  “I’ve got a late training session set for tonight, but I’ll be through by ten.”

  “I’ll be over then.” Love has no pride.

  *****

  “Brandy, where are you? Carla and I have been waiting outside Freddy’s for half an hour.”

  Yikes. I’d told Janine and Carla I’d meet them for Happy Hour at a local bar and grill. It was our way of economizing, since Janine’s been out of steady work for almost a year, and I, apparently, was unemployable. I’d spent the afternoon alternating between job hunting off Craig’s List and playing on-line Scrabble. The job pickin’s were slim. A parochial school in my neighborhood was looking for a P.E. coach, and the Acme needed baggers. It was a toss-up as to which occupation I was less suited for.

  “Oh, Neenie, I’m sorry. You guys go on in and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Well, hurry up. The Buffalo wings go fast, and you always complain about the fish sticks.”

  “Set some aside for me. I’m on my way.”

  Twenty minutes later I found Carla and Janine seated at a booth in the back of the bar. They were
drinking Mojitos and Carla was arguing with the server. They had stockpiled the wings for me, a definite no-no in Happy Hour etiquette.

  “I can’t keep bringing you free appetizers until you finish the ones you have.”

  “These are for our friend,” Carla explained to the server and half the restaurant. She’s depressed, and, by God, if Buffalo wings make her happy, I will see to it that she has them.”

  There was no hole for me to crawl into so I waited for the server to leave before slinking into the booth.

  “I’m not depressed,” I said, stuffing a wing into my mouth. I washed it down with a Bud Light.

  Carla and Janine exchanged a look, complete with eyeball rolls.

  “I’m not depressed. Okay, so I’m out of work, but so are you, Janine…no offense.”

  “None taken,” Janine said with a cheerful Mojito glow. “I’m just better at it than you are. Brandy, you can’t sit still for a minute. This must be killing you.”

  “I’ve been keeping busy. Just yesterday I painted Adrian’s toe nails (my dog really wants to explore his feminine side) and I promised Mrs. Gentile I’d paint the interior of her house in exchange for her dropping the petition against me.”

  That spurred another round of eyeball rolls.

  “I’m right here, you guys.”

  Carla fixed me with a stare. “Brandy, honey,” she said, invoking her right as a slightly older friend to impart parental wisdom to me, “You’re probably smarter than Janine and me put together—no offense, Janine—”

  “None taken.”

  “—and yet, you’ve been knocking around in a job that’s beneath you for years now. It’s time you figured out what really matters to you and go for it.”

  Carla was right about my needing to find a job I cared about, but she was dead wrong on at least one count. In her own, dipsy way, she was one of the wisest people I knew.

  Janine’s phone rang some time into her third Mojito. “It’s Mike,” she mouthed. “How do I look?”

  Oh, jeez. This could be a disaster. I pulled the phone out of her hand.

  “Mike, it’s Brandy. Janine is um, indisposed at the moment. Can I relay a message…she’d love to…no, I don’t have to ask her….Saturday night is fine…she’s looking forward to it too.”

  I clicked off and handed the phone back to Janine. “He’s taking you to that new Sushi place on Market, followed by some foreign film whose name I can’t pronounce. Listen, Neenie, Mike’s a really nice guy, so don’t break his heart or anything, okay?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it. Bran, are you all right?”

  “Fine. Great. Why do you ask?”

  Janine and Carla exchanged another look, this time, minus the eye exercises.

  “What? I’m fine, you guys. I’m just looking out for Mike is all. So if you don’t want the same things in life, you’d better tell him now, because he could fall in love with you and end up really getting hurt.”

  Nobody said anything for a minute. Then, Carla waved her hand in the air, signaling the server. “Another round of Buffalo wings for our friend, here. And keep ‘em comin’.”

  Chapter Nine

  The sun was just disappearing over the Schuylkill as I set out for Nick’s studio. I wasn’t supposed to be there until 10:00 p.m., but I took a detour to Paulie’s to drop off Adrian and Little No Name. My brother is a soft touch, and I figured some bonding time might score the puppy a new home. Plus, I didn’t want to have to worry about them being left alone if I got invited to my own sleepover.

  “Now, d-don’t get any ideas that I’m going to keep her,” Paul warned, in between bouts of wheezing. “I’m n-not a dog person.”

  “I won’t,” I lied. “Thanks for babysitting. I’ll be back tomorrow to pick them up. Oh, and you might want to take them over to the park in the morning. Puppies are total chick magnets. Be good for Uncle Paul, you guys.”

  Once the dogs were safely ensconced at Paul’s I still had some time to kill. And, since I was only about forty minutes away, (practically around the corner) I thought I’d drive by Donte Lewis’ place—because that’s the spontaneous kind of gal I am! I just wanted to see where he lived, is all. I promised myself I wouldn’t even get out of the car, and I knew that I wouldn’t because I always keep my promises.

  North Philadelphia touts some of the oldest Victorian houses in the city, as well as beautiful murals that depict a rich cultural history. Unfortunately, none of that was evident on the street where Donte Lewis resided. His block was ugly, stark and mean. One side of the street had been taken over by government-subsidized apartments built in the hideously boxy style of the mid-sixties. On the other were ramshackle row homes, circa 1940. Their owners had obviously given up the fight against natural erosion and gang graffiti.

  Donte lived in a side by side duplex located at the end of the block. An unlit alley snaked around behind it like the River Styx. His was the only house with any semblance of livability. The other half of his duplex was a boarded up abomination with trash strewn all over the porch, and a dead patch of lawn out front.

  The next unit over looked like an abandoned fortress with metal bars covering glassless windows. The stucco siding was riddled with bullet holes.

  There were no lights on at Donte’s. I parked across the street from the duplex, cut the engine, and sat there, thinking.

  “Okay, you’ve seen it,” said Sensible Me. “Now move along. On your way.”

  “Yeah, but Lewis is gone,” tempted Compulsive Me. “It’s safe to get out and look around a little.”

  “Excuse me,” Sensible Me butt in. “Not to be a Debbie Downer, but these things rarely turn out well for you. If memory serves me right, you usually get caught in the act of snooping.”

  “Perfect timing,” reasoned Compulsive Me. “The odds of not getting caught are in your favor now. And who knows, you might find evidence to tie him to his cousin’s murder. C’mon. You know you want to.”

  I honestly did not want to. But there is something wrong with me. I just had to go take a look. I grabbed my cell phone, mace, and brass knuckles and climbed out of the car.

  The heat of the day lingered on the pavement as I made a mad dash across the street. It was doubtful that anyone would have noticed me, anyway. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

  I walked up the sidewalk and headed toward the alley. A six-foot high cinder block wall ran along the perimeter of the property, with a rusted iron gate that led into a small back yard. In the dark I could barely make out the broken padlock that hung from the latch.

  The gate had been left partially open, so I squeezed on through into the yard. Tiptoeing up to the back door of the apartment, I tried to peer in but it was too dark to see anything. I thought about jiggling the door handle, when common sense made an overdue appearance and reminded me that Breaking & Entering is still considered a crime in Philadelphia, no matter how many times I’ve gotten away with it. Besides which I’d started to feel seriously creeped out, so I let go of the knob and turned to leave. Just a hair too late.

  My body snapped to attention at the sound of a car rolling down the alley. It stopped just on the other side of the cement wall, the engine idling.

  “Keep going, keep going, keep going,” I silently chanted.

  Damn it. Whoever was behind the wheel cut the engine. The car door opened and quickly closed, and a shadow appeared at the gate.

  “Oh, crap, it must be Donte!” screamed both Sensible and Compulsive Me in perfect two-part harmony. They’d finally found something to agree on.

  I scanned the barren back yard, but there was no place to hide. How many times have I gotten myself into these situations, and when the hell would I learn not to? Both good questions, but they would have to wait. My mind went numb and autopilot took over.

  Turning back to the door, I was all set to hip check my way in, when I noticed someone had already done the work for me. The lock had been jimmied. “That’s weird,” I thought, only I didn’t have time for an in-depth an
alysis, as whoever had been in the car was now squeezing through the gate.

  I pushed my way into the apartment, figuring I’d leave by the front door, like in some delightful, screwball comedy where the main characters keep just missing each other and hilarity ensues.

  The door led into a small storage room. It had a weird smell, like bad BBQ. As warm as it was outside, it was surprisingly cold in the apartment. It struck me as odd that Donte would leave the air conditioning on, but I guess if he was about to be indicted for murder, he wasn’t all that concerned about running up his electric bill.

  I hauled ass out of the storage room and into the living room, dodging furniture in the dark. My heart was three steps ahead of the rest of me, as I reached the front door and lunged for the lock. Christ on a stick. It was a key-operated dead bolt with no key in sight.

  The back door scraped open and the mystery man entered the apartment. His rubber soled shoes squeaked as he moved across the linoleum floor.

  Shit. Shit. Shit!

  With ever-growing panic, I retreated from the front door and escaped into the kitchen, scanning the room in search of a weapon. A vegetable peeler sat on the counter in front of me. If I ever get out of here alive, I could really use one of these things. I scooped it up, wielding it like a shiv.

  There were steps just off the kitchen that led to the basement. With any luck at all there would be a basement door. The BBQ smell got stronger as I fumbled my way down the cellar stairs. It filled my lungs with a sickeningly sweet, musky, yet, slightly metallic stench, and I almost gagged as I felt my way across the pitch black room.

  Overhead, footsteps hesitated at the entrance to the basement and, to my horror, began descending the stairs. Frantic for a place to hide, I inched away from the bottom of the staircase. Without warning, a beam of light illuminated the room. I sucked in a breath and fell backwards, and crashed on top of something soft…and hard… and…oh, Jesus…crispy.

  My stomach roiled, and I screamed so loud it could have woken the dead guy I’d landed on. At least I thought it was a guy. The skin was torched, and it flaked all over me as I struggled to right myself.