No Such Thing as a Lost Cause

by Shelly Fredman

  My cat is in love with Bobby DiCarlo, and she doesn’t care who knows it. As soon as he walked through the door, she was all over him like a cheap, furry, little suit.

  “How’s my girl?” DiCarlo bent down to pet her.

  “Your girl chewed a hole through my computer cord. I’m not too thrilled with her at the moment.” I headed upstairs. “Just going to get some antiseptic for your knee. Be right back.”

  When I came back down, I found Bobby sitting at the dining room table. He was holding a sketch pad in his hand. “What’s this,” he asked. He pointed to a childlike rendering of what appeared to be an alien with spaghetti all over his face.

  “Oh, that,” I said and tried to grab it from him. “It’s nothing.”

  He held the pad aloft and began to turn the pages. “Did you draw these?”

  “I’ve got a lot of time on my hands. I decided to take an art class. Could you close that, please? I’m not ready to show my work.”

  I knelt down by his leg and rooted through the first aid kit for antiseptic. He wouldn’t put down the damn sketch pad, so I chose the one that stings.

  “Hold still.” I swabbed his knee.

  “Jesus Christ,” he hollered and jumped up. “What are you putting on there? Gasoline?”

  “Oh, stop being such a baby. And will you please put that thing down?”

  I covered his wound with a bandage and stood up.

  Bobby gazed at the pictures for a moment longer. “Shit,” he said, getting it. “You’re trying to draw that burn victim, aren’t you?”

  “Well, so what?” I countered. The best defense is a well played offense. Unfortunately, I had neither.

  The little vein in Bobby’s temple began its ritualistic dance. “Leave it alone, Bran. You’re in enough trouble without borrowing any more.” He walked back into the living room.

  “Bobby, I know this guy. At least, I think I do. The cops haven’t been able to identify him. How can this possibly get me into trouble?”

  “If there’s a way, you’ll find it.”

  His back was to me. I wanted to plant my foot on his well-formed ass and push him down. Instead, I flung open my screen door.

  “Great to see you, DiCarlo. Sorry you can’t stay longer.”

  A flash of anger crossed his beautiful face. “You know what? Do whatever the hell you want. You will anyway.” He stepped outside and I started to slam the door behind him, except that I hadn’t gotten the last word in. I followed him outside and down the walkway.

  “You think you know everything, don’t you?” I yelled.

  Only he had stopped listening. Bobby’s eyes were trained on a tricked out, dark colored sedan parked across the street. His brow furrowed as the car slowly pulled away from the curb.

  The car windows were tinted, as if it belonged to royalty or the Godfather, and the license plate was spattered with mud. Instinctively, I memorized the numbers and letters that were still visible.

  “Do you have new neighbors?”

  I scrunched my eyes to get a better look, and as I did so, I noticed the passenger side window start to go down. Bobby, almost imperceptibly maneuvered himself between me and the car.

  In an instant, a gleaming piece of metal appeared at the car window. Simultaneously, I felt Bobby’s full weight, and he slammed me to the ground as a hail of bullets passed over us.

  I knew Bobby was alive because I felt his heart thumping against my back. I opened my eyes and looked for blood and found plenty. I truly hoped it was mine.

  “Are you okay? Oh my God, Bobby. You saved my life.”

  DiCarlo rolled off me and stood up. He scanned the street, but the car was long gone. He looked down at me and grimaced.

  “Try not to panic, Sweetheart, but you’re bleeding. I’m not sure where it’s coming from.”

  “I do.” My arm felt like someone had set it on fire.

  Gingerly, he rolled me over. “Okay, here’s the problem,” he said, and picked a chunk of Mrs. Gentile’s terracotta planter out of my shoulder. She was going to be so mad.

  “This’ll need stitches. And probably a tetanus shot. There’s another piece still embedded in your arm.”

  “Can you get it out? It really hurts.”

  Bobby shook his head. “I’m afraid if I do, I won’t be able to stem the bleeding. Where are your house keys?”

  “On top of the TV.”

  Five minutes later I was strapped into DiCarlo’s mustang, on our way to the E.R. He’d packed my shoulder with clean strips of laundry he’d found hanging off Mrs. Gentile’s wash line. I shouldn’t have gotten such a kick out of that, and I knew I’d pay for it later, but at the moment, it made me laugh. Probably just delirium setting in.

  The pain was making me dizzy. “Are we there yet?” I whined.

  “Are we there yet?” he repeated. “You sound like my three-year old.”

  I knew Bobby was trying to start a fight in order to keep my mind off things, but it wasn’t working. It hurt like a mutha. Every bump in the road was like a direct shot in the arm.

  After what felt like an eternity, we turned into the entrance of the E.R. I sat up in the seat and, suddenly, my head felt like it was going to explode. “Bobby,” I shouted.

  “Hang tight, Sweetheart. We’re almost there.”

  “No. I mean—this is it. This is where I know the dead guy from!”

  “What?” He parked his car in a no parking lane and popped a mag mount beacon on the roof. Then, he climbed out of the car and ran around to the passenger side to let me out.

  I clung to his arm with my one good hand, as blood seeped out of my right shoulder. “The dead guy—y’know, Crispy Critter. He was a guard at the hospital.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I spoke to him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  I tried to picture his name tag, but drew a blank.

  “Bobby, I need to sit down.” I was starting to get the chills.

  “We’re so close, Sweetheart. Just a few more steps.”

  “O—”

  I woke up on a gurney in a cubicle. A young, male nurse stood over me waving smelling salts under my nose. It made me nauseous, so I pushed his hand away and sat up.

  “Take it easy. You lost a fair amount of blood. He eased me back down and made notes on my chart. “The doctor will be with you in a minute. In the mean time I’m going to clean your wound.”

  I looked around for Bobby, but he was nowhere in sight.

  “Excuse, me. Where’s that guy I came in with?”

  The nurse cut away at the sleeve of my tee shirt. Damn. It was one of my favorites. Classic Firesign Theater.

  “Your friend’s in the hall. I’ll get him for you when I’m through.”

  Bobby peeked in from the other side of the curtain. “How’re you feeling, Sweetheart?”

  “Fine. Great.” I felt a sudden, sticking pain in my shoulder. “Ow. What was that?”

  “Something to numb your arm,” the nurse said. “This should take effect in a few minutes.” He finished cleaning the wound and signaled for Bobby to enter.

  “Keep her company, will you?”

  Bobby looked like he could have used a gurney himself. I’d forgotten that as tough as he was, the sight of blood made him woozy.

  “Bobby. I’m fine. Really. You don’t have to stick around. A couple of stitches and some antibiotics and I’ll be good to go.”

  “I brought you here, I’m taking you home. Well, where I’m taking you is up for debate. You’re not going back there.”

  DiCarlo’s phone rang, interrupting my protest before I could get rolling. He looked at the readout and walked toward the curtain. “Be right back,” he said, and disappeared outside.

  Funny thing about curtains. They’re not much good at keeping out sound. I didn’t even have to strain to listen in on his conversation.

  “Yo,” he said. “Yeah… I ran into a little problem…no, we’re still on. It’s just going to take a little l
onger is all. I’ll pick up some pizza and wine on my way home… Yeah, me too.”

  I fished my phone out of my pocket and stuck it against my ear, just as Bobby walked back through the curtain.

  “Oh, that would be great, Nick.” I positively gushed with girlish enthusiasm. “Half an hour? Perfect.”

  The nurse did a double take, probably checking to see if my brain had seeped out of the wound in my shoulder. I ignored him and kept talking.

  “Steak and baked potato sound wonderful. I’ll see you soon.” I pretend-disconnected and smiled at the phone as if we’d just had sex.

  “Well, I guess you won’t be needing a ride after all.” DiCarlo shoved his phone into his back pocket. I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or annoyed. Maybe a touch of both.

  “Bobby,” I said, and started to well up. (I’m sure it was the anesthetics. Everyone knows lidocaine makes you cry.) “Look, um…”

  Robert Anthony DiCarlo, my first love, peered at me with such intensity, I nearly lost it.

  “What I’m trying to say is—” Unh! “Look,” I blurted out in a rush, “you could have been killed today, because of me. And you ended up saving my life. I—I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you.”

  Bobby crossed the room and held me close. Half of me was comforted by his warmth. The other half was, literally, too numb feel it.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me, okay?”

  I nodded, unconvinced. “Okay.” I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. “You can go now.”

  Bobby kissed me and let me go. “So, I’ll see you soon then.”

  I nodded again. “See ya.”

  He reached the curtain and then spun on his heel and came back the other way.

  “Nothing,” he repeated, and kissed me again. And then he left.

  I felt a pair of eyes on me. I’d forgotten the nurse was still in the room.

  “What are you lookin’ at?”

  *****

  When I was sure Bobby was gone for good I called Nick.

  “Hello, Darlin’.”

  I could just make out the murmur of some deep, masculine voices in the background.

  “You busy?”

  “Just finishing up. How was your visit with DiCarlo? Were you able to smooth any ruffled feathers?”

  “Yeah, everything’s cool…listen, there’s been a little accident.”

  Instantly, Nick’s tone changed from playful teasing to high alert.

  “Are you okay? Where are you?”

  “At the E.R. Look, I’m fine. Really. I was just calling to see if you could pick me up. But if you’re in the middle of something, I can grab a cab.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  He was there in ten.

  “That was fast.” I slapped on my “brave” face—the one my mother used to say fools no one—but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

  If Nick noticed, he didn’t let on. “I know how impatient you are. If I got here any later, you might have tried to jog home.”

  I laughed, mostly because it was true.

  He ran his eyes over my bandaged shoulder. “You were in one piece when I left you, this afternoon, Darlin’. What happened?”

  “Funny story.” We walked back to the car, and I told him how I’d acquired my latest injury. When I got to the part where Bobby saved me from the gunman’s bullets, Nick’s jaw tightened. A fractional change in expression, but it was enough to set off my internal alarm.

  I tried to make light of what happened by cracking a joke. Only it’s hard to spin getting shot at into an amusing dinner party anecdote. I abandoned the effort and changed the subject.

  “When I called it sounded like you were busy. Anything interesting going on?”

  “I was on the street talking to some of my contacts. There was a rumor going around about a possible JTG hit.” He turned to face me, his look somber. “Turned out to be more than a rumor. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

  “Nick, you couldn’t possibly have known. And anyway, I wasn’t alone. It was just bad timing.”

  We had reached the car. Nick held open the passenger door and waited while I maneuvered myself into the seat. Then, he leaned over and buckled me in. I could have done it myself, but I let him.

  The lidocaine had just about worn off, and the pain meds hadn’t had a chance to kick in yet. I shifted in my seat and tried to ignore the uncomfortable pull of stitches in my shoulder.

  Nick was unusually quiet on the ride back. He stared straight ahead, both hands gripping the wheel. The silence was unnerving. It was probably only about four minutes, but it seemed like an hour. I wondered what he was thinking. Note to self: Take mind reading lessons.

  Finally, he broke the silence. “I’m glad DiCarlo was there for you, Angel.”

  I leaned over and kissed his cheek. His skin felt smooth and warm on my lips.

  The corners of Nick’s mouth relaxed and he dropped one hand off the wheel and onto my knee. I put my hand on top of his, our fingers intertwined.

  The last vestiges of day time began to slip away. A new moon hung in the sky like a giant croissant, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten dinner. “I’m hungry,” I announced.

  He swung the car around and we headed east on Spring Garden. I watched, longingly, as we passed about four Dunkin Donuts and a McDonald’s. When we got to 3rd Street, he hung a u-ie and drove back the other way. A block later he pulled up in front of a tricked out diner and parked. We were in the Northern Liberties section of town, just north of Center City. I read the neon sign on the roof. Silk City.

  The place was ultra cool and jam-packed with college students, young professionals, and artsy types. There was a bar and dance club to the left and a restaurant on the right.

  I followed Nick to the dining area, where, miraculously, a booth opened up. (Well, maybe not so miraculously. It probably had more to do with the host’s rather obvious attraction to Nick than an ability to turn water into wine.)

  Nick sat across from me, his back to the wall. “I’ve been thinking about what happened tonight, Angel, and something doesn’t add up.”

  I took a look at the menu. Ooh. Truffle fries. I promised myself I’d eat super healthy in the near future and ordered a giant plateful. “What doesn’t add up?”

  “It seemed like everyone I talked to heard the rumor about the hit, but no one had any specifics. This isn’t how it usually works.”

  “Well, maybe they just weren’t into ratting out a fellow gang banger.”

  “They will if the price is right. It just doesn’t fit the pattern that nobody would claim bragging rights.” He shook his head, thinking.

  “I got a partial on the license plate, but I should have paid more attention to details.”

  “You were a little busy trying to stay alive. Give me what you’ve got on the plate and I’ll see what I can do.”

  After dinner Nick swung by my place to pick up the dogs and Rocky and waited while I threw some things in a bag. It was getting to be quite the routine. When I was all packed he drove me over to his apartment.

  I followed him into the bedroom and he deposited my bags on the floor. Suddenly, all the tension I’d felt earlier flooded back. What if he doesn’t want me there, only he doesn’t know how to tell me? I sat on his bed, smoothing out the sheets with my hand.

  “Nick, I really appreciate you letting me stay here for a while, but I have other options. So, if you need your space, just let me know.”

  He stood over me, the look in his eyes saying it all. “I don’t need my space, Angel.” And to prove it, he invaded mine.

  Afterwards, he rolled over on his side and propped himself up on one arm. I spooned into him, relaxed by the combination of superb love making and prescription pain killers. It was sheer bliss—for about a minute. And then my phone rang. It was my mother. Crap.

  I had to pick up. She’d left fourteen messages. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?” I could feel Nick’s breath, hot on my
back. He pressed his lips against me, and I felt them form a smile.

  “Doris Gentile called. She said you broke her planter.”

  *****

  “He kissed you?” Franny stood wide-eyed at the counter of Caperelli’s Guns & Ammo, a local gun shop located at 10th and Wharton. My goddaughter, Chrissy, snuggled in close to Fran’s chest, asleep in her baby carrier, while her mother checked out an array of unloaded pistols and revolvers, “especially designed with ladies in mind.”

  “It’s not what you think, Fran. There was nothing romantic about it. It was just a spontaneous, Hey-I’m -glad-we’re-alive-let’s-kiss-on-it kiss.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Shut-uh-up. We could’ve been killed, for God’s sake.”

  “Hey, you and Bobby have a unique way of celebrating life. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  That was not all Fran was saying. And the worst part was she had a point. Something stirred inside me when DiCarlo kissed me. It didn’t begin to be on the same level as me and Nick, but there was just enough there to wondering if we’d ever completely reconcile our past.

  “Could we drop this now?”

  “Already dropped. Okay, this is the one you want.” Fran handed me a Smith & Wesson 638 Bodyguard, a small, .38 caliber revolver.

  “It’s not loaded, right?” I frowned, holding it loosely between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Of course it isn’t loaded. And why are you handling it like it’s a flaming bag of dog poop? Hold it like you mean it.” She wrapped her hand around mine and adjusted my grip. My hand started to shake so hard I nearly dropped the damn thing.

  “Brandy, what is wrong with you? You go to the firing range all the time.”

  “I know. But this is different. I was hitting paper targets. If I actually go through with this, I will forever have crossed a line. The sole purpose for me owning a gun would be the intent to do bodily harm to someone before they did it to me.”

  “Yeah, well, that seems like a good plan, hon.”

  “I guess.”

  Franny pried the gun out of my hand and laid it on the counter. “Look, if you’re not absolutely sure, then you shouldn’t be doing this. If you carry a weapon, you need to know without a shadow of a doubt that you will use it. A moment’s hesitation could cost you your life.”