On the way home, I stopped at a liquor store to pick up some lottery tickets. I figured in the past week, I thought I was pregnant but wasn’t, I almost got laid off but didn’t, and Mario Lewis tried to kill me but couldn’t. Plus, I didn’t lose any teeth when his girlfriend punched me, so, obviously, I was on a lucky streak!
A girl in line ahead of me cradled a six-pack of Budweiser. She looked about fourteen. When it was her turn she sidled up to the clerk and hoisted the beer onto the counter. “I’ll take a carton of Pall Malls,” she told him.
“I need to see some I.D.”
“No problem.” She reached into her back pocket and laid a driver’s license on the counter.
The clerk took a look and laughed, and handed it back to her. Then, he scooped up the beer and placed it on the counter behind him.
“Sorry, I don’t sell to minors.”
The girl leaned over the counter and jabbed the card with her index finger. “But it says right here I’m over twenty-one.”
“Yeah. It also says you’re a man.”
“So, what’s the problem? It says I’m twenty-one.”
“A twenty-one year old man.”
She let out an exasperated sigh and turned around to me. “Hey, will you buy me some beer?”
The clerk leaned across the counter and tapped her on the shoulder. “Uh, you know I can hear you, right?”
I figured anyone with that kind of chutzpah didn’t deserve to go away empty handed. I bought her some string cheese and a Red Bull and headed back to the car.
As I climbed into the driver’s seat, I spied a thirty-ish looking guy with a crew cut rounding the corner. He was wearing shorts and flip flops and a tee shirt that said, “I’m great in bed.” A spotted boxer- terrier mix puppy with big dark eyes, and ears that stuck out like a bent antennae trailed along beside him.
I whipped out my cell phone and called Janine. “There’s a guy wearing a tee shirt that says I’m great in bed,” I reported.
“Is he cute?”
“If he was cute, would he have to wear the tee shirt?”
“Good point. Well, at least he’s confident in his abilities. Do you think I’d like him?” she asked.
Janine’s great, but her taste in men is borderline icky. The last guy she went out with asked her if she’d be cool with a ménage a trois with a stripper he’d met at a bachelor party (she wasn’t). Fran and I are trying to wean her off the weirdos.
The puppy stopped about two yards from the car and began sniffing the ground, then squatted to do her business. The guy looked away, like he had no idea in the world there was a dog attached to the other end of the leash and that he would be responsible for what came out of it.
The puppy finished up, and the guy yanked on her leash and kept walking, ignoring what the dog had left behind.
“Hang on, Neenie.” I rolled down the window and leaned over curbside. “Yo! Pick that up, ya yutz.”
Mr. “Good in Bed” flipped me the bird and kept walking. How rude was that!
The guy reached the liquor store and tied the leash to a lamp post. The puppy lay down and began to whimper.
“Shut the hell up,” her owner muttered, and punctuated his words with a vicious kick to the dog’s hind quarters. The puppy yelped in pain.
My heart stopped. “Are you insane?” I screamed.
Ignoring me he turned and went into the store.
“Bran, what’s going on?” Janine yelled through the phone.
“I’ll call you back.”
Without thinking, I scrambled out of the car and ran over to the puppy. “Hi, Baby.” I soothed.
She licked at her injured leg, but stopped to lick my hand, instead. I could see her owner standing at the counter, talking to the clerk. In a flash, I untied the leash and coaxed the dog to her feet. She began moving forward with a slow, painful limp. I bent down and scooped thirty-five pounds of puppy in my arms, waddled back to the car, and shoved her into the back seat of the LeSabre. Then I climbed into the driver’s side and locked the doors, shaking with rage.
At that moment, the jerk came barreling out of the store and ran full steam toward my car, only he stumbled and tripped on his flip flops. He yanked them off and threw them at my windshield. They bounced off into the street. I scrambled to start the engine, but sometimes it stalls in the heat and this was one of those days.
The guy reached the car and pounded on my window, his face turning the color of cooked lobster. Any minute I expected his fist to come flying through the glass. I prayed for a miracle and tried the key again. This time it worked.
“Give me my God damn dog!” he roared.
“Bite me!” I stomped on the gas and took off.
Oh my God. What have I done? I just stole a dog! I called Janine back. “I just stole a dog.”
“Oh. Um, congratulations!”
“Neenie,” I huffed, swerving out of the way of a van, “I could be in real trouble here.”
I glanced in the rear view mirror. The dog kicker appeared out of nowhere and was following me in a black Ford pickup. He was about five cars back and gutter sniping to close the gap.
“Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“He found me.”
“Who?”
“Jeez, Neenie. Keep up. The guy with the dog. I gotta go.”
He gunned his engine and tried to squeeze in right behind me. Luckily, the friendly drivers of Philadelphia didn’t care much for this yahoo bolting the line. They closed ranks and locked him out. I took the opportunity to hang a left on South Street and prayed he didn’t notice. Unfortunately, he did. Three blocks later he was two cars back. Great. What now?
I was only a few blocks away from Uncle Frankie’s gym. Now, normally, I don’t like to involve my friends and family in my petty problems. But so far, the day really sucked, and I was tired of fighting my own battles, even if I was the one who’d started them. I hit speed dial and called my uncle.
“I’m in trouble,” I announced. “Could you meet me outside the gym in about a minute?”
“You got it, hon,” he said, no questions asked.
I looked in the rear view mirror again. The guy was practically riding my bumper. He looked really mad. “Oh, and Uncle Frankie, you might want to bring some friends.”
Half a block later, I pulled into South Street Gym’s parking lot, the Ford pick-up riding my bumper the entire way. Uncle Frankie was standing there waiting for me, flanked by three giant gym rats with muscles to spare. I pulled up next to them and jumped out of the car.
The dog kicker had gotten out of his truck and was headed in my direction. He was so focused on me he didn’t seem to notice my steroid enhanced entourage.
Frankie gave me the once-over. “What happened to your face?” Without waiting for an answer, he added, “Did he do this to you?”
My uncle has a soft spot for me and a short fuse when he thinks someone has done me wrong. Before I could set him straight, he broke ranks and was on the guy like Whiz on a cheese steak.
He grabbed him by the front of his shirt, stretching the collar all out of proportion. “You’re a real big man, beatin’ up on a girl, aren’t ya?”
“Whoa,” the guy said, stumbling backwards. “I didn’t lay a hand on this whack job. She stole my dog.”
“Hey, watch your mouth.” Frankie turned to me. “D’jou steal his dog?”
“I had to. He kicked it.”
“You swear he didn’t hurt you?”
I nodded.
Frankie smoothed down the guy’s tee shirt, and shoved him backwards toward his car. “Get the hell outta here, you creep.”
“What about my dog?”
Frankie snarled at him. “What dog?”
“Yeah, what dog?” The gym rats echoed like a Greek chorus.
He stood there for a minute appearing to weigh his options. “Ah, you’re all nuts. You can keep that pain in the ass hound. I’m tired of her pissing on my rug, anyway.”
We watched him as he drove off. “So, Uncle Frankie, you want a dog?”
*****
Halfway home, my breathing began to return to normal. The puppy had settled into the back seat and was busy gnawing on a bag of beer pretzels I keep on the floor of the car in case I’m ever lost in a snow storm and have resort to cannibalism in order to survive—but, wait—no, I don’t, because I had the foresight to pack a bag of pretzels!
“Don’t make crumbs,” I told her and reached for my phone to call Paul.
“I found a puppy,” I announced.
“Yeah? Where?”
“Right on the street. It followed me home. I put signs up and all, but nobody’s come to claim her, so I was thinking maybe you’d want her.”
“Brandy, you know I’ve got asthma. How am I supposed to breathe?”
“I’ll pick up some Benadryl on the way over. Please, Paul. Just until I find a permanent home for her. I’d take her, but I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”
“I k-know,” Paul said, his stress stutter kicking in, “I’ve b-been w-worried about you.”
“No need, Paulie. I’m fine. Honest. Listen,” I said, feeling warm, wet, puppy breath on the back of my neck. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. Just think about it, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow.” I drove the rest of the way home with the puppy’s head on my shoulder.
*****
I woke up at 6:00 a.m. to a ringing phone and the combined weight of two canines sitting on my chest. Rocky was stretched out on the pillow next to me, unfazed by the puppy’s unexpected arrival. I shoved the dogs off me and grabbed the phone.
“Brandy?” The voice was vaguely familiar.
“Yes?”
“It’s Roger King.”
I have found that early morning phone calls generally fall into two categories. Either someone died, in which case you probably didn’t need to be woken up, they’d still be dead at a reasonable hour, or the occasional time zone mix-up. Since we lived on the same coast, I went straight to the worst case scenario.
“Is Candice okay?” I asked, slightly panicked.
“She’s fine. Listen, I’m sorry about calling so early, but I’ve got to get to work, and I didn’t think I should wait on this.”
“Wait on what?”
Roger lowered his voice. “Something happened about a week before Lewis got shot. Candice doesn’t know about it, and I want to keep it that way. Can you meet me at the McDonald’s at Broad and Snyder in an hour?”
I had to be in Horsham by nine to cover their annual Police VS Firefighter softball game. I was throwing out the first pitch. I did a quick mental calculation. It would take me twenty minutes to shower, throw on some clothes, and feed and walk the dogs. No time for breakfast, but I could grab a bite at Mickey D’s. Oh boy, breakfast fries!
“I’ll be there,” I told him. “Can you give me a hint as to what this is about?”
Roger hesitated. “I can’t say now,” he whispered, and hung up.
Forty minutes later, I slid into a booth across from Roger King, balancing a tray of Egg McMuffins and coffee. He waited until I settled in, and then he turned an earnest eye on me and cleared his throat.
“A couple of weeks ago, Candice spent the night at her sister’s, and I had a boys’ night out.”
“Oh.” I said, squirming uncomfortably in my seat. “Listen, Roger, I barely know you. Don’t you have a friend or someone more appropriate to confess that sort of thing to?”
Roger laughed so hard that he choked on his coffee. “Candice is the only woman for me, and she knows that. This is about something I saw that night. I’d been over to a friend’s place for a poker game. It broke up at around two, and I came home and parked in front of the house. I’d just shut off the engine when a car turned the corner and cruised down the street. I got a little suspicious because they didn’t have their lights on, so I sat there waiting to see what they were going to do.”
“Could you tell the make of the car?”
Roger shook his head. “It was too dark out. I guess the city don’t want to spend money on street lamps. All I know is it was some kind of SUV, but I couldn’t tell the make. Anyway, it pulled up in front of Lewis’ house and this guy got out. He made a phone call and a few minutes later, Lewis came out of his house. He wasn’t wearing nothin’ but a pair of shorts, and it looked like he’d just woke up.
“The next thing I knew, two more fellas piled out of the car. Can’t be sure, but I think one of them was white. The other one was black. The black guy was holding a bat, and the white guy grabbed Lewis as he tried to run back into the house. The one with the bat started swinging at Lewis’ head. Lewis raised his arms up and tried to protect himself, but they wouldn’t let up. I could swear they was gonna kill him, but they just messed him up a whole lot.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
“Clear as can be. He was laid out on the sidewalk, moaning the same name over and over. Donte. That’s when the guy with the phone went over to him, and Mario started blubbering something about blood. I thought he meant he was bleeding, but then Donte went off on him. He said, ‘Yeah, we blood, but this is business, bro. You fuckin’ up. You fuck up again, you dead.’ Then he said he blew the whole deal with the dogs.”
“The dogs?”
“That’s right. Then the white guy pulls out a gun and says he don’t wanna wait. He just wanna cap his ass. So that guy, Donte, said he’d see to it that Lewis wasn’t any more trouble. That’s when the guy with the bat looked over to my car and saw me sitting there.
“I’ll tell you, my heart just about leaped right out of my chest. He crossed the street and threatened to smash the window if I didn’t open up. I thought about leaning on the horn to scare him off, but in this neighborhood it’s unlikely anyone would pay much mind. So I started fumbling around a bunch, pretending I was drunk and he finally walked back to his car.
“I thought I was in the clear, but a minute later he came back, and damn if he wasn’t holding a blow torch. He fired it up, and said I’d better mind my own business or he’d burn my house down. Then Donte yelled for him to come on. He said, ‘Hey, Torch. Stop fuckin’ around, man.’
“After that, Donte helped Lewis off the ground and got him back inside, and they all piled back in the car and took off. I waited until they turned the corner and then I got in my house real quick. The next night when I came home from work, the dogs were gone.”
So, Mario was in business with a relative named Donte, some white guy with anger management issues, and a gentleman named Torch who liked to set people on fire. Rough crowd.
“Roger, do you think you would recognize these guys if you saw them again?”
Roger shook his head. “Honey, I made it a point not to. If they thought I had the potential to identify them in a line up, they might’ve killed me on the spot.”
I put down my sandwich mid bite. “Wow. No wonder you don’t want Candice to know.”
“Look, this may amount to a whole lot of nothin’, but I wanted someone to know—just in case…”
*****
“You wanna keep them pearly whites? Tuck in your chin and get those hands up.”
I did as I was told and fended off a couple of sharp jabs. I even managed to throw a quick counter punch. Although it never actually landed, Danny Jenkins, my sparring partner, winked and assured me I was “doin’ just fine.” Danny works at my uncle’s gym. He’s old enough to be my grandfather, but he’s the best trainer in Philly, and I needed all the help I could get.
After my talk with Roger King, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to let this thing with Mario Lewis go. Something fishy was going on, and whatever it was, it put King and his family in jeopardy. So, if I was going to stick my nose in other people’s business, I had to learn how to protect it.
“I’d be careful, Danny. She’s short, but she’s scrappy,” a familiar voice teased from ringside.
I peered over my shoulder and found DiCarlo watching me. He looked damn good in new boxing trunks and a fresh, white tee shirt that showcased tanned, sculpted arms. Bobby had shaved. It was a departure from his usual scruffy look. Plus, I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I smelled cologne.
“Think I’ll take a break,” I told Danny and hopped out of the ring.
Bobby gave me his usual greeting. “Yo.”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, taking in a whiff of Polo Extreme Sport. I recognized the scent from a shopping excursion with John, pre-Garrett, when he was looking to “exude a manlier image” for some guy he’d met at a shoe sale at Barney’s.
DiCarlo shrugged. “No occasion. Can’t a guy smell nice every once in a while?”
Before I could come up with a clever retort, he asked, “What happened to your face?” I guessed that was going to be the question of the week.
“Tripped over the cat. Listen, I need to talk to you about something. Got a minute?”
Bobby glanced at the front door. “Sure.”
We walked over to the bench, and he untied my gloves while I filled him in on my conversation with Roger King. DiCarlo listened with the ear of a cop, taking mental notes, and interrupting only to ask the occasional clarifying question.
“Mario and those guys were involved in some kind of business, probably something to do with dog fighting,” I concluded. “And Mario screwed up the operation somehow, so they killed him.”
“I don’t know, Brandy. That’s a really big assumption. Look, if they’d wanted him dead, why would they wait until he was in the hospital with an armed guard standing outside his door? They would have killed him that night. If anything, they were just trying to scare Lewis.”
“They would’ve killed him that night, Bobby, if it hadn’t been for the one guy speaking up for him. Something else must’ve happened to make them change their minds. But what?”
“Beats me. But I see where this is heading.” DiCarlo set his smoky blues on me. “Cut yourself a break and stay out of this. And if your pal, Roger King, is so concerned for his safety, he needs to talk to the cops.”
“Yeah?” I challenged. “Well, who’s gonna speak for the dogs? Listen, I’ve got a gut feeling about this, Bobby. I saw with my own eyes what Lewis did to those puppies. What if there’s more to that story? What if Lewis was only a small part of a much bigger operation? What if—”
DiCarlo cut me off. “Okay, okay. I get it. Look,” he sighed, “if it was anybody else talking about ‘gut feelings’ I’d say they were crazy. But it’s you, and I’ve never known you to be wrong.”
Bobby ran his fingers through his hair, messing up the perfect “do” he had going.
“Listen,” he said, finally. “I heard from a buddy that’s working the case that the night Lewis died, there was some sort of distraction on the floor. And the cop watching his room left his post for a few minutes.”
I considered playing dumb, but if DiCarlo was willing to be honest with me, I had to do the same. “I know,” I confessed.
“How the hell did you—ah, never mind.”
“According to my source (Mohindar, the future laundry mogul), it was an officer named Carl Abrams. Can you get him to talk to me? Off the record, of course.”
“Not on a bet.”
“Don’t you mean you’ll think it over and get back to me?”
But Bobby had checked out. “Listen, Bran,” he said, standing up, “my, uh, sparring partner’s here.”
I followed his gaze and spotted the blond cop from DiVinci’s headed our way. Oh. Now the cologne, the shave, and the haircut all made sense.
“I’ll see ya later, okay?” And he was gone like a shot. Crap.
*****
“My life sucks.”
“True,” Franny agreed and hand me her baby. “But this should cheer you up.”
Gazing down at my beautiful goddaughter lying in my lap, I watched in awe as she grabbed my thumb in her tiny little baby hand.
“You are the sweetest thing ever,” I cooed. “How can people like Mario Lewis exist in the world alongside someone as precious as you? Oh, look, Fran, she loves me. See how she’s smiling?”
“That’s gas.”
“Oh…are you sure?”
“Yeah. But she really does love you, hon.” Franny wiped some spit-up off my sleeve and tossed me a burp cloth. “You should feel honored. She doesn’t spit up on just anyone.”
I suspected she did, but being desperate for approval, I didn’t argue the point.
We sat outside on Fran’s stoop slurping Italian ice and watching the neighborhood kids play tag in the street. It was 90 degrees out, and the public pool was closed for repairs, so someone had taken pity on them and opened up the fire hydrant.
“What kind of moron would open the hydrant?” Fran grumbled. “No wonder there’s no water pressure in the house.”
I shrugged. “It was probably the guy up the street with the spider monkey. It just seems like something he would do.”
A barefoot kid in knee-length swim trunks moved toward us. Discreetly I tried to shoo him away, but he kept on coming. Maybe he was dyslexic and thought I meant “come closer.” He stopped in front of me, one arm extended. “Hey, Lady. Here’s your pipe wrench back. Thanks for the loan.”
Franny eyed me. “You’re such a pushover.”
“Well, it’s hot out. And look how much fun they’re having. Besides, it’s only slightly illegal.” I put the wrench down next to me and handed the baby back to Fran. She placed her in her infant swing and gave it a gentle shove.
“So where were we?” she said. “Oh yeah, your sucky life. By the way, I’m with Vince and DiCarlo on the Lewis thing. Your life will suck way less if you just stay out of it.”
“It’s not just that, Fran. It’s everything. Instead of moving forward in my career, I’m stuck doing traffic reports dressed as a St. Bernard. And now John is so wrapped up in Garrett, he doesn’t have time for me anymore. Plus, his boyfriend hates me—for no good reason at all.”
“And don’t forget the whole ‘Bobby dating someone else’ thing, and you feeling jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Right.”
“I’m not.”
“If you say so.”
“Shut uh-up. I’m very happy for him…really.” I slumped forward and took a large bite of water ice. Oh great, brain freeze. Well, that’s just fabulous.
“Brandy,” Fran said, not without sympathy, “all these things are a drag, but you’ve been through worse. There’s something else going on here, so why don’t you just spill it?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I’ve just been so down lately.” I rubbed my hands over my face and winced. The bruising on my cheek had mostly subsided, but it still hurt to the touch. “I can’t believe I walked right into that flag pole.”
Fran leaned in close to me, her nose practically grazing my forehead. “Wait a minute,” she said, thinking. “You told me you got hit with an air hockey puck at the arcade…oh my God, Bran. Did Nick do this to you? He did, didn’t he? The bastard!”
“No! Franny, have you completely lost your mind? As if I’d ever put up with that shit! Besides, Nick would never hit me. And anyway, I haven’t seen him in weeks.” The words caught in my throat, and I stopped this short of bawling my eyes out.
“Oh,” she said, as if I’d just unlocked the secrets of the universe.
“I haven’t seen him in weeks,” I repeated. And then I completely lost it. Pent up tears rolled down my cheeks and splash-landed in the Italian Ice.
“Franny, I thought that when he told me he loved me—”
“Birds would sing, flowers would bloom, and you’d walk off into the eternal sunshine of your fantasy-driven life?”
“Pretty much,” I admitted miserably. “But if you tell anyone, I will have to kill you—and I’m not without practice.”
“My lips are sealed.”
I reached into my jeans and fished out an old Kleenex, and blew my nose. “Okay,” I began. “I know Nick isn’t purposely avoiding me or anything. I mean if it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine. He tried to talk to me after my—uh, ‘scare,’ but I just wasn’t ready. And then he took off on business and—jeez, Fran, I don’t even know where he goes…or what he does…or who he’s with. I mean, I love the guy—but who the hell is he? I have no friggin’ idea.”
“And maybe you’re just a little afraid to find out.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” In truth it was more like if he had time to think about it, maybe he’d change his mind about me. But I just couldn’t admit that. Not even to Fran.
We hung out the rest of the afternoon watching Dora the Explorer and pretending we’d put it on for the baby. I just love that Dora. She’s a little spitfire!
The sun had already set by the time I left Fran’s. She walked me to the door, hesitating as I stepped outside.
“I know it won’t do any good to ask you to stop your investigation,” she said, “so just be careful, okay?”
“I will. Thanks. And, uh, thanks for talking to me today. I really don’t know how to repay you. Say! Would you like a puppy?”
*****
Two nights later I was headed home, having just wrapped up the latest humiliating effort to hang onto my job, doing a promo as the ever-popular Godfrey. (“This rush hour traffic report is brought to you by Doggie Donuts. So good, you may be tempted to dunk them in your morning coffee—but save them for your canine pals!”) The costume weighed about twenty-pounds. It’s a bitch to take off, so I didn’t bother to change back into my street clothes. Plus, it was kind of fun to see the looks on people’s faces when I pulled up next to them at red lights.
I turned onto my street and immediately tensed as a slew of police cars came into view; their rotating lights making my head ache. They had converged on a house at the other end of the block. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was my house.
Oh, crap! The dog’s owner must’ve changed his mind about wanting his dog back, and now they’re here to arrest me…is dognapping a federal offense? I could go to jail… I can’t go to jail! I’m claustrophobic…I hate sharing a bathroom…Prison jumpsuits only come in orange… What do I do? What do I do? I’ll keep driving. I’ll just cruise on down past my house, real nonchalant, check it all out…
As I got closer, I panicked and tried to cut a u-ie in the middle of the road, only my street is so narrow I grazed my neighbor’s bumper and set off his car alarm. As Mr. Yong came out of the house to see who was trying to make off with his Ford Fiesta, a uniformed cop stuck his head in through my car window. Fortunately, it was Mike Mahoe, a friend of mine.
“Brandy?”
I reached up and removed the top of the costume, revealing my sweaty, prison-bound head. “I don’t want to go to jail, Mike. I can explain about the dog.” I started to blurt out the whole story, but Mike drowned me out.
“Brandy. It’s not about some dog. It’s—ah, hell, just try not to freak.” He stepped away from the car and I squinted into the growing darkness and freaked.