No Such Thing as a Lost Cause (10 page)

I stood, brushing powered sugar off my face, and extended my hand in greeting. “Thanks
for meeting me.”

“You’re not what I expected,” Jimmy told me, sliding into the booth opposite me. He
sounded more than mildly disappointed.

“Yeah, I get that all the time.”

“Have you ever considered changing your name? I mean, it’s kinda misleading.”

“I’ll take it under advisement. So, you’d said on the phone that you have some information
about Donte Lewis. Were you good friends with him?”

“Christ, I couldn’t stand the guy. But I want to know why you’re so interested in
finding him.”

“I told you—”

Jimmy cut me off with a shrewd look. “You don’t work for a bank, and your name’s not
really Linda Lovelace. Am I right?”

I nodded. “Look, I can’t explain it right now, but if you help me out, there’s—hang
on—” I rooted around in my bag for my wallet and dumped every cent I had out on the
table. “There’s $17.23 in it for you.”

Jimmy laughed and shoved the money back across the table. “Keep it. What do you want
to know?”

“Did Lewis ever mention a side business he might be involved in? I mean besides working
for the ambulance company.”

“Lewis is one of those guys who’s always got something going. He owns some dogs—y’know,
pits, and I overheard him talking on the phone one day about setting them up in some
fights. I told him what I thought about people who did shit like that, and he got
real unfriendly after that.”

“Do you have any idea why he hasn’t shown up for work?”

Jimmy shrugged. “About a week and a half ago, some drugs turned up missing from one
of the trucks. Lewis was the only one around at the time, and everybody thought he’d
taken them. But there was no proof so nothing ever came of it.”

“Well, why didn’t they call the cops?”

“The company’s had some legal problems recently, and the owner didn’t want any more
bad publicity.”

“Do you know what was taken?”

“Yeah, and that’s the thing. It wasn’t like it was a drug you could get high off of
or anything. It’s called Succinylcholine. It’s a paralytic, used for intubation. They
carry it in their RSI kits. I don’t know what the hell he’d use it for. Anyway, I’m
just glad the asshole’s gone.”

After Jimmy took off, I fired up my laptop and typed in Succinylcholine. “What possible
advantage could Donte Lewis have in stealing a drug like this?” I thought to myself.
And ten minutes later, I had my answer.

I called Bobby on the way out of the café.

“Yo, Bran.”

What? No “Sweetheart?”

“Where are you?” I shouted over the din of clinking glasses and clattering plates.
I’d hoped it was somewhere good. Those espressos made me hungry, and, what with being
newly unemployed, maybe Bobby would take pity on me and buy me lunch.

“I’m at Tortelli’s.”

“Oh, I love that place. Listen, I need to talk to you. It’s important. Stay put and
I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Uh, Bran, this isn’t a good—”

“See you soon,” I said and disconnected.

Tortelli’s is a popular Sicillian restaurant located on Passyunk Avenue. They’ve got
a terrific oyster bar and a great cover band on Friday nights that plays music from
the fifties. It’s always packed, so I was lucky to find parking only four blocks away.

One of the perks of a caffeine high is you feel like you can do anything. On the downside,
it’s just an illusion. I jogged the quarter mile, oblivious to the heat and humidity.
By the time I got to the restaurant I was puffing so hard I thought I had a collapsed
lung.

Before I went in search of Bobby, I made a pit stop at the bathroom. I opened the
door and found a toddler pulling mini pads out of a broken vending machine while his
mother yelled at him from inside the stall not to touch anything. He had opened each
packet and was now affixing them to the tile wall in kind of a cool pattern.

As I bent down to pick up the stray papers he’d left on the floor, he came up behind
me and wrapped his chubby arms around my neck and gave me a big hug. Kids. Ya gotta
love ‘em.

Maybe it was my imagination but it felt like people were staring as I worked my way
through the lunch crowd. One guy nudged his friend and snickered. They must’ve recognized
me from the last segment I had taped for the station. I’d come in fourth in an air
guitar contest. I would’ve won but my string broke, which I thought added a touch
of realism to my performance, but the judges thought otherwise.

I found DiCarlo in a booth in the back, examining the dessert cart. I squeezed past
it and was about to take the seat opposite him when I felt the presence of someone
sidling up next to me.

“Excuse me.”

I turned to see who was speaking and accidentally stuck my hand in the Chocolate mousse.
My impulse was to lick it off, but I changed my mind when I saw who had snuck up on
me.

Shit! Why didn’t Bobby tell me he was on a date!

Officer Blondie stared at me in kind of an “I’m not really staring at you” way. Well,
of course she’d be curious. Bobby must have filled her in on how he’s still in love
with me.

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to get my bag,” she said, reaching into the booth. “I
didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” I lied.

DiCarlo stood, handing me a paper napkin. “Brandy, this is Lauren. Lauren, Brandy.”

Hmm, he’s looking at me funny too. What is with everyone?

Before Lauren and I could finish exchanging the usual pleasantries Bobby interrupted.
“Brandy, you’ve, uh, got something in your hair.”

“What do you mean?” I raised my non-moussed hand and felt around.
Oh crap. What is that?
I began to pull. “Ow.”

“Would you like me to help you?” Lauren offered.

“No, I’m good, thanks. Ow. Yes, actually, would you please?”

Lauren gave a quick tug and disengaged whatever it was, along with about three hundred
of my favorite strands of hair. Discreetly she slipped it to me.

Oh, for the love of God! I’ve been parading around the restaurant with a sanitary
pad glued to my hair. No wonder people are staring. I look like a crazy person!

“Listen,” I said, treating the situation as if it were the most natural thing in the
world to wear feminine hygiene products on my head, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll
catch up with you later, Bobby.”

“No, please. Sit down,” Lauren insisted. “I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for
the lunch, Bobby. Next time it’s on me. Brandy, it was nice meeting you.” Her smile
was quick and genuine and I liked her despite my natural inclination not to.

“Nice meeting you too,” I called after her and settled into the spot Lauren had vacated.
I waited until she was safely out the door.

“I can see why you like her,” I told Bobby, reaching for a forkful of linguine off
his plate.

Bobby shook his head and pushed his plate toward me. “Could you please not make a
big deal out of this, Bran? She’s just a friend.”

“Uh huh.”

Bobby took a slow, deep breath. “Look, I just came off of a 48 hour shift staking
out a guy who we’re pretty sure chopped up his girlfriend and fed her to his dog.
I’m tired, Sweetheart, and I’m not having this conversation right now, especially
with you.”

So, that explained why DiCarlo hadn’t called me after the “Shoot-out at the B.A. Corral”
but that last part hurt.

“Why not me?” I huffed. “Don’t you think I’m capable of being happy for you?”

Bobby leaned across the table and wiped the gravy off my chin. “I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s a shitty thing to say.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It’s just that—look, Bran, I’ve accepted
that you’ve moved on in your life, and I’m trying to do the same. But you and I have
a lot of history, and it’s not always easy, y’know?”

I did know, only too well. “Okay, so maybe I’m not the best person to discuss your
love life with.”

Our eyes met and, for a brief moment, we traveled back in time to when Bobby was mine.
The yearning was so strong I half expected Barbara Streisand to pop up from behind
the next booth and start belting out
The Way We Were.
And then the moment passed.

DiCarlo’s mouth turned upwards into a slow grin. “So, you want to tell me what was
so urgent that you had to interrupt my first official date in three years?”

“Second,” I corrected him, and then I filled him in. “Bobby, just think about it.
Donte was worried that his cousin was going to screw up a business deal. He was there
the night Mario got the shit beat out of him, and Donte himself threatened to kill
him.

“Donte had access to Succinylcholine, a drug that not only temporarily paralyzes the
muscles, but can’t be detected in an autopsy
unless they’re specifically looking for it.
The drug goes missing a few days before Lewis croaks and Donte’s the only suspect.
The results of the original autopsy were inconclusive. And if that’s not enough, the
guard outside Lewis’ door gets called away at the precise moment Lewis decides to
kick the bucket. Look, I know this is all circumstantial evidence, but could you at
least concede it’s a possibility that Mario Lewis was murdered?”

DiCarlo didn’t answer right away. He took a long slug of beer, not stopping until
he drained the bottle. Then he carefully placed the bottle on the table and signaled
the server for the check.

“Well?” I prompted when I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“You make a good case.”

“Yes!” I shouted, pumping my fist in the air.

“Okay, Brandy, don’t go nuts here. Even if I agree with you, this isn’t my investigation.
And it’s going to be a hard sell to get the D.A.’s office to agree to another autopsy.”

“But you’ll talk to Vince?”

“I’ll talk to Vince.”

*****

After leaving Tortelli’s (minus the “hair bow”) I was still hungry, so I swung by
Paul’s club. The place is closed from 3-6 p.m. in order to get ready for the dinner
and late night crowds, but I knew he’d be there, regardless. My brother is a little
on the obsessive side. Some people say it runs in the family but, personally, I don’t
see it.

I pulled in next to his 1972 Alpha Romeo, (a gift from me back in the days when I
was a contributing member of society) and went in through the side entrance. Paul
sat in the back booth eating a roast beef sandwich and going over the receipts.

“Hey, Paulie.” I sat down opposite him and helped myself to the side of slaw. Paul
held up an index finger. “Hey, Sis. Hang on a minute,” he said and went back to his
accounting.

“Um, okay.” To tell the truth I’d expected a lot better reception, given the fact
that I could’ve been killed the night before. But Paul never even called to see how
I was doing.

After a bit he closed his laptop. “So, how’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Great.” A grin began to spread across his face. “So, Mom tells me you’ve got plans
for the entire month of August and you won’t be able to go to Cousin Marlene’s daughter’s
wedding.”

And something snapped. “Paul, I can’t believe this. Our childhood home was practically
blown to bits by a gunman’s bullets and you’re mad because I sleazed out of Cousin
Marlene’s kid’s wedding?”

Paul choked on his roast beef. “What?” Wh-wh-what?”

“You didn’t know?” What was I thinking? Of course he didn’t know. He would have called
me. Jeez, doesn’t anyone watch the news anymore?

“I’m sorry, Paulie. I thought you knew,” I said, and filled him in as best I could.

Paul swung around to my side of the booth and wrapped his arms around me. “Th-thank
God you’re okay. Jesus, Brandy, how could you believe I knew and just didn’t care?”

“I don’t know. I guess I figured that violence has become such a part of the norm
for me that even you’ve become immune to worrying about me.”

“Yeah, like that could happen. I guess I’ve been a little too wrapped up in the club,
lately,” he added. “How can I make it up to you?”

“Well, there’s this puppy—”

“How else can I make it up to you?”

“Well, someone has to go to Cousin Marlene’s daughter’s wedding—”

“I’ll take the puppy.”

*****

On the way back to Nick’s I cruised by my house. The yellow crime scene tape had been
taken down, but the boarded up windows served as a reminder of everything that had
gone wrong lately, and it depressed the hell out of me. On the up side, I guess I
still had at least one friend in the neighborhood. On the front step beneath the words,
“Bitch-ho” someone had spray painted a huge arrow pointing directly at Mrs. Gentile’s
house. Karmically speaking I shouldn’t have thought it was funny. I thought it was
hilarious.

It was a little after four when I got to Nick’s. Adrian and the puppy greeted me at
the door trailing brown crumbs and bits of orange peel. Although they only stood three
and a half feet between them, somehow they’d managed to reach the croissants I’d accidentally
left out on the kitchen counter and had helped themselves to a Continental Breakfast.
The puppy yawned revealing a chunk of orange pulp that was lodged between her teeth.

“I hold you responsible for this mess,” I told Adrian. “You’re the oldest.”

He ignored my admonishments and waddled off, returning a few moments later with an
expensive-looking Italian loafer with the toe chewed out of it.

“Bad dog!” I threw the loafer into the back of Nick’s bedroom closet and took Adrian
and his cohort in culinary crime for a walk.

When I got back, I still had over an hour until Nick was expected home. I debated
whether to pass the time obsessing over who the woman in his office was or worrying
about where the next attempt on my life would come from. Both good choices, but in
the end I opted for a nap.

Here it comes again, the dream that haunts me every night. It follows me to Nick’s
place, my safe haven. Mario Lewis holding a gun against my temple, eyes spinning like
twin roulette wheels, his drug-induced laughter echoing inside my head. Officer down,
tortured wails, blood everywhere flowing like lava, why won’t it stop? Something is
different this time. But what? This time the blood is mine.