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  The minutes tick by and, yes, Mom, I know I’m screwed. Another hour for the sandwiches; another thirty minutes back north to campus. I’m not getting home until 2:00 a.m. at least. All for a boy.

  I met D. the first week of school, at some honors program social in some pseudo-nightclub on the first floor of the union building. Later I heard that the social was referred to as “Trader Ho’s” by the upperclassmen. All of us fresh young geeks on display, ripe for the picking. Turnout for the social was predictably huge. D. was different, though; he kind of just joked around, inviting a group of us over to his off-campus house for some beer—my first ever, by the way. (Dad would be proud.) Some of the other girls from my honors triple, who bragged about drinking beer since sophomore year of high school, were more into the shots of Jack.

  D. just smiled at them all, flirted with them equally, including me. Apparently he liked to date freshman girls who had their own cars. To D., the ability to go off campus at will was a magical thing. Word around the honors nerds was that he’d gotten in some serious DUI trouble in high school and pretty much wouldn’t be driving until the end of the second Obama administration.

  Not that a carless D. is a bad thing. The dude clearly drinks a lot and smoked his fair share of the wacky weed. The idea of him behind a 2,700-pound motor vehicle frightens me.

  After a few more minutes of awkward waiting with the Valet to the Friend of Chuckie, watching sketchy-ass characters come and go, along with the Goodfellas parade up the street, my mind goes back to D., and cars, and weed. Wait wait. What if he’s not here picking up a book? Of course he’s not here for a book.

  This is probably the place where D. scores his weed.

  Party’s running low, so they ask D. to conjure up some more. He doesn’t have a car of his own (and shouldn’t be driving anyway) so he finds the only sober person with a car in the general vicinity.

  Me.

  I feel like a world-class idiot.

  So Thanksgiving Eve, as my drug counselor Dad is boarding a plane in California, I’m in South Philly on a drug run.

  Happy Thanksgiving, right?

  Undercover narcotics officer Benjamin F. Wildey, 32, seated behind the wheel of his unmarked car, maintains a laserlike focus on the front door of the row house. Feels like the city’s one big freezer tonight. Not much warmer in this piece of junk hooptie, either. The whole day’s been an icy raw mess with rain and sleet and Wildey out on the street for most of it. He glances at his watch. Look at that. Thanksgiving, as of three minutes ago. Time flies when you’re posted in your car doing surveillance based on a tip from a couple of desperate snitches.

  At first glance there’s nothing about the place on South Ninth Street that screams “drug house.” Clean unmarred sidewalk, freshly painted window frames, refaced brickwork. This was the kind of South Philly row home that immigrants struggled to buy for $4,000 back in the day and now could easily fetch $400,000.

  But a snitch swore that a guy at this address is doing a lot of slinging with college kids. Word is he’s a midlevel dealer who calls himself “Chuckie Morphine” and specializes in small-time trappers who work the universities, sometimes doing direct sales to kids who are leery of driving to the Badlands or Pill Hill. Years ago this whole neighborhood—Passyunk—used to be solid working class, maybe a little sketchy in places. Wildey remembers those days. But now it has gastropubs and consignment shops and pop-up restaurants and all that other hipster catnip. Kids feel safe popping down here.

  If the past few hours are any indication, it’s clear something’s going on inside this house on South Ninth. Lots of visitors. Could be a pre-Thanksgiving party, sure, but why is everybody staying for only a few minutes at a time? With no music? No noise of any kind?

  What Wildey needs is a legal way inside the house. One that won’t raise any objections from the Man in the Widener Building. Doing narcotics work these days, you’ve got to be careful. Knuckleheads, perverts, and money grubbers in the department have made the job difficult of late. Take the guys whose blazing stupidity got them featured in a Pulitzer Prize–winning series a bunch of years back.

  Yeah. That Pulitzer. A narcotics squad in the Badlands came up with the brilliant idea of busting neighborhood bodegas for selling small plastic baggies. Questionable at best. But that wasn’t the stupid part. Once inside the bodegas, the narcs helped themselves to hoagies, Tastykakes, batteries, milk, loose cash, whatever. You know, because Tastykakes and hoagies are so expensive.

  Now, skimming from a dealer is a time-honored Philadelphia law enforcement tradition. But the thing with skimming from a dealer is, you have to actually skim from the dealer—the perp. You don’t steal from the frightened immigrant couple selling plastic baggies that, the last time Wildey checked, were not illegal. So these idiots sold out the department for a bunch of Tastykakes. Bravo.

  Following the Tastykake Takedown, there seemed to be new scandals popping up all the damn time. A local reporter crunched some numbers and realized that, over the last four years, a Philly police officer was charged with a crime something like every three weeks. Not just narcotics, of course. But those were the ones that seemed to stick in citizens’ minds. Perhaps the most notorious being the cop who shook down a junkie, making her strip naked before jacking off on her jeans. “He was too disgusted to touch me, but he wasn’t too disgusted to touch himself and ejaculate on my seventy-dollar friggin’ pants,” the junkie told a federal judge. The cop gave her six dollars for cigarettes and told her to get dressed and scram. The local tabloid had a field day: THOUGHT YOU GOT OFF, EH? And a new phrase entered the local legal lexicon: “the masturbation civil rights violation.”

  All of this culminated in a full-scale clusterfuck that closed an entire field unit, saw five hundred drug cases tossed, and sent a bunch of cops to desk duty or early retirement. As a result, the D.A.—most likely sowing his mayoral oats—declared war on the entire narcotics division from his office in the Widener Building.

  So Wildey knows to be super-careful. The old ways don’t fly anymore—“old” meaning as of six months ago. Last spring he could have braced any one of these college kids and ordered them up against a wall, pockets out. Boom, probable cause. A ticket to the show.

  But Wildey can’t stop any of them. Not without a solid, defensible-in-court reason. In the wake of all this departmental chaos, defense lawyers would knock the whole thing down without so much as a thanks for nothing. Chuckie Morphine himself was too smart to be caught in the open. The name on the lease of the property is a corporation, probably a shell. Nobody knows Chuckie’s real name, or even what he looks like. Wildey has yet to snatch a glimpse of him.

  But he’s exactly the kind of guy Wildey’s dying to bust. Nobody else in his unit’s even heard of this guy, which means he’s relatively new.

  So Wildey keeps an eye on the place, waiting for an opening. This is only one of a half-dozen leads he kept tabs on, but this is the fattest—a bloated tick ready to pop. Lots of traffic. And a pusher with an irritating nickname. Man would Wildey love to be the guy who busted Chuckie Fucking Morphine. Idiot should serve time just for that name.

  There is also the little matter that Morphine is almost certainly a white dude. Now, Wildey isn’t racist. But a few months before he was recruited to the newly formed Narcotics Field Unit-Central South (NFU-CS for short, as in Nobody Fucks with us) he read a study from the ACLU that said the majority of people arrested for pot were black. Yet whites bought and smoked more dope than anybody else. In Philly, something like 80 percent of the marijuana arrests were of blacks. Wildey had arrested his fair share in the Badlands, though he tried to be an equal opportunity cop, busting black, brown, and white alike. Still, it would be nice to get those percentages down.

  Lieutenant Katrina “Kaz” Mahoney told him the day she hired him: Find me the cases others have missed. Forget the street corner busts. Bring me big cases. I don’t care who’s paying who or what’s happened before today. The rules are different now.

&
nbsp; So sorry, rich white drug lords. A brother has to start his career somewhere.

  And here’s hoping it starts with Chuckie Morphine.

  But of course … done right.

  In the words of his superior: “Imagine the Man in the Widener Building is wedged up your ass at all times, watching everything you do, second-guessing every thought in your head. You take a leak, imagine him complaining you’re taking too long and massaging your prostate to get things moving.”

  Ten minutes after midnight Wildey perks up when he sees a silver Honda Civic glide into the usual spot—up near the corner, where the valet guy lets all of Chuckie’s (alleged) customers idle for a bit. Breaking no laws.

  Wildey actually likes this setup. Makes it easier to keep tabs on the customer base. A hat-wearing hipster, about twenty or twenty-one, bright red pants, green backpack slung over his shoulder—yo slick, Christmas ain’t for another month yet—launches himself out of the passenger seat, clears the sidewalk in a few long strides, then jogs up the short stoop to the front door. Knocks three times. Door opens. Red Pants slips inside. Say yo to Chuckie for me.

  He picks up his notebook, scribbles quickly:

  0044 Sub 1—W/F, driving Honda Civic

  0045 Sub 2—W/M, passenger, 6'2" skinny build, green backpack over

  shoulder, bright red pants, navy windbreaker

  0046 S2 approaches target house, unknown male lets him in. S1 stays in car in valet spot

  Once the guy goes into Chuckie’s place, Wildey turns his attention to the driver. The girl. Maybe eighteen or nineteen? Latino? Italian? Hard to tell in this light. Her hair’s up, held in place by some kind of silver piece. She’s doing the awkward idling-in-the-valet-area thing. Looking around, body language nervous, shoulders fidgety. An older cop told him most times you don’t need a confession. Just watch the body; it’ll tell the whole story. Clearly this girl doesn’t want to be here. Is she here against her will? Wildey writes down the Civic’s plates to look up later. There’s no laptop to run a search. All he has is a notebook, pen, badge, gun, and a portable dashboard lights/screamer that plugs into the cigarette lighter. You know, just in case this gets real.

  Wildey’s hoping this is the case. C’mon, girlie, gimme a little reasonable suspicion. He’s been watching Chuckie’s pad off and on for almost a week now with no luck.

  After quite a long while Big Red pops out of the house, tattered green backpack still slung over his shoulder. What you got there? He trots back down the stoop, crosses Ninth, not even really looking, and opens the passenger door. Taillights blink. They’re pulling out. Come on, Wildey thinks, give me something. Some reason to pull this car over. A twitchy taillight? Any reason to believe her inspection’s past due? Somebody cut the tags off her license? Wildey knows cops who would do that. Instant probable cause. Can’t do that anymore, though. The D.A. is probably right now sitting on the edge of his bed, nursing a glass of pinot noir, just waiting for someone to call to tell him that narcotics cops have fucked up again.

  The Civic continues up Ninth—she’s almost to the stop sign. Wildey rolls the dice in his head. How do we feel about this one? Do we follow and hope? Or do we stay put in our stuffy car and wait for the next one?

  Wildey has four such cars situated around Philly, each within visual range of a suspected baby kingpin’s house. The lieutenant had encouraged them to think outside the box. Well, this is what Wildey came up with. Just take a car from the impound lot, something boring that runs. Slap some city council tags on it so the parking authority leaves it alone. Take turns inside each car, watching the customers bounce in and out. See something you think might be good, give up that precious parking spot and you pursue. But do so with caution. Parking spots are tough to find—especially down here. Wildey spent a lot of time fighting for the four spots he has. For him to pull out, this Civic’s got to be worth it.

  That green bag, though. Wildey’s feeling good about that green bag.

  He puts his car in drive and slides out of a parking space that will be occupied within seconds, guaranteed.

  Just one bust. A Chuckie Morphine–sized bust. That’s what Wildey needs to put his name out there. The scumbags he’d really love to bust are elsewhere in the city and virtually untouchable by departmental degree. But things change. Wildey scores enough Chuckies, he can touch the untouchables. Which is what this whole thing is about. And maybe it starts now.

  D. heaves himself into the passenger seat so hard the suspension rocks. I’ll bet his mom yells at him for stomping up stairs and slamming doors. He’s like a goofy puppy who has no idea of his own size.

  —Still up for that cheesesteak, Sarie?

  I can’t help it. My eyes are drawn to the grubby green North Face backpack now on the floor between his legs.

  —Uh, sure.

  When I met D. at that mixer I thought it was sort of cute that he was a stoner nerd guy. He talks about pot like some guys talk about craft beers. “Dankness” is one of his favorite words. D. is the kind of boy who would annoy Dad for any number of reasons, mostly because Dad was probably a lot like D. back when he was a teenager. At least based on the stories you told me.

  But now I see Dad is probably right. Because now I’m just the silly girl who has a car, takes him on drug runs.

  The blocks surrounding Pat’s are swarming with drunks and roving packs of hungry carnivores looking for a fix of greasy meat and processed cheese before gorging on turkey and stuffing tomorrow. Thanksgiving Eve is a well-known national drinking holiday, the night everybody goes out, front-loading for the family holiday ahead. So there are no empty parking spots. Maybe we would have been better off telling the valet we were really, really good friends of Chuckie’s—and hey, would you mind darting over a few blocks and scoring a cheesesteak for us? Calm as I can, taking a deep, soothing breath before opening my mouth, I ask where we might park. I try to stop staring at that green backpack. How much does he have in there? A little baggie? Or like a few Midnight Express–sized bricks? Meanwhile D. is tugging off his jacket and nearly elbows the side of my head. I flinch and jerk back just in time. Navy jacket fabric brushes my nose.

  —What’s that?

  —I said where am I supposed to park?

  Jacket finally peeled off, D. bunches it up into a loose ball and gently lowers it into the backseat with a mumbled “hang on” before turning back around and squinting out of the windshield. He halfheartedly points out spots that aren’t legal spaces by any stretch of the imagination. I suspect he isn’t really trying to help; he’s trying to exhaust the conversation so I’d agree to circle the block while he picks up his food. Which is what I eventually agree to do. Of course.

  —I’ll be two seconds.

  D. kicks open the passenger door, offers to bring me back something. I decline, telling him I don’t like to eat this late. Not worth getting into the whole vegan thing with the requisite lecturing about how I’m gonna fucking starve or something because I don’t eat animal flesh. He nods. I notice his green backpack in the foot well of the passenger seat. You know, the one probably containing illegal substances.

  —Wait! Hey!

  —What?

  —Don’t you want to take your bag with you?

  —Why? I’ll be right back.

  —No, seriously, I’d feel better if you took it with you.

  D. blinks in confusion.

  —Why?

  —Please just take it!

  After a few seconds of a dumbstruck stare, D. opens the door, picks up his backpack, slings it over his shoulder. He seems like he’s about to say something mean, but instead he just smiles and slams the door shut. I flinch like a dumbass.

  A minute later I join the Cheesesteak Merry-Go-Round. Up Ninth Street one block. Right on Wharton. Right on Eighth. Right on Reed. Right on Ninth, and so on, and so on, and so on, and if you look out the window, you can see poor Sisyphus with his rock following the same route. The crowds and cars make it extra-slow going, but I press on like a good drug-run
ning accomplice. Which, by the way, is a one-and-done deal for me. Yep, my intention is to go to drop off D. and go home and consider myself Scared Straight.

  Which of course is when I turn right onto Eighth for the eighth or ninth time and hear a loud shriek from hell.

  Mom, I swear, I had no idea what was going on. Did I make an illegal right-hand turn? Cut someone off? Hit an elderly nun in slow motion? No. I may be many things, but I am an insanely safe driver. I do not screw around behind the wheel. What is going on?

  Then I remember there is a chance I might have a wee slight high going on. And this is on top of that single warm beer swimming around my bloodstream. Shit, why did I do that bong hit! Did I weave or something? Give some other kind of tell? My heart is racing. Shit, shit, shit.

  I flip on the right blinker and look for a spot along Reed. There are none, of course, so I settle for a half-spot near the corner, which means my front end is sticking out a little. I check the rearview. The car following me is not a standard police vehicle; it’s a normal car with one of those domes you slap on top. Shit, shit, shit. Why is an unmarked cop car pulling me over? It slides into a spot in front of a driveway. Guess cops in unmarked cars can do that.