No Such Thing as a Lost Cause (3 page)

“Stand back,” he told me and grabbed the key out of the ignition. Cautiously, he approached
the trunk and popped it open.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said, and I swear there were tears in his eyes.

“You don’t want to see this,” the cop warned. He was right.

I turned my head, but not before I caught a glimpse of two dogs—bloody and torn—one
lying motionless, the other, eyes wide open, tummy heaving, whimpering in pain. It
looked young and frightened.

“It’s called ‘trunking’,” Officer McCabe explained to me, later, on the way to pick
up my car at the station. “Takes dog fighting to a whole new level of torture.”

“So—you mean this is like a real—thing?” It was hard enough to believe it was the
brain child of one lone nut case, let alone a thriving business enterprise.

McCabe pulled his cruiser up next to my car and cut the engine. “It’s a real thing
all right. Gang Bangers love it because there’s no overhead. They just throw the dogs
into the trunk of a car and ride around town with music blasting to drown out the
sound of them tearing each other apart. Whoever’s left breathing at the end is considered
the
winner
. Sick, fucking sons of bitches,” he added. “Pardon my French.”

Officer McCabe dealt with more horrific acts of inhumanity in a single shift than
most people experience in a lifetime. I did not envy the man his job.

I opened the car door. “What’s going to happen to the dog?”

“Depends. He’s in pretty bad shape. He may have to be destroyed. And even if he makes
it, who would want him? The poor bastard is so traumatized. Listen, you gonna be okay?”
he asked as I hopped out of the patrol car.

“Absolutely. Thanks for the ride.”

I watched him head into the police station, and then I walked over to the nearest
bush and hurled.

*****

“Pass the beer nuts.”

“You’ve had three bowls already, Sunshine.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s the only thing I can keep down. There’s just something about witnessing
the decline of western civilization that wreaks havoc with the digestive system.”

My friend John and I were seated at the bar at DiVinci’s, a local pizza joint. We
were waiting for my Uncle Frankie and his girlfriend, Carla, to arrive. For some reason,
they thought I needed “emotional support.” Personally, I’d rather forget the whole
thing, but they weren’t about to let that strategy fly.

John shoved the bowl of beer nuts toward me and gave me a look I knew only too well.

“Uh, oh, here it comes,” I mumbled.

“Bran, would you stop minimizing what happened to you? I thought the one and a half
sessions you spent in therapy last month cured you of that.”

“It was three sessions, and the issue never came up.”

“I saw you being interviewed at the scene,” he continued, ignoring my response. “It
was all over the news. You were covered in blood from head to toe.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like it was mine. I wasn’t in any real danger.” Okay, so I glossed
over the part where psycho-man pulled the gun on me before I blew his leg to smithereens.
My friends didn’t need to know it could have been
me
they were hosing off the pavement. And to be totally honest, I wasn’t in love with
the thought either.

Thank God John knew better than to bring up the dogs. It had been a week, but I’d
only just stopped crying
.

“Johnny, could we just drop this, please? I have bigger things to worry about. The
news crew got there so fast I didn’t have time to clean Wolinski’s blood off me, and
now everybody down at the station is calling me
Carrie.
So, anyway, where’s Garrett? I’ve barely seen you since you started going out with
him. Hey, why don’t you guys come over for dinner tomorrow night? I could order in
from that new Thai place.”

I’d hoped the switch to John’s new favorite subject would let me off the hook for
a while. John had been peering at me, trying to discern my true frame of mind, which
was fragile, at best. Now, he glanced away, inspecting his manicured nails.

“I’m working at the gallery tomorrow night.” The gallery being
Lucinda’s on South.

“Oh, well, what about Sunday? I want to get to know Garrett better. I only met him
twice, but he seems really nice.”

“Sunday, Sunday. Let me think. Oh, we’ve got tickets to the Annie Leibovitz exhibit.
I’d invite you along, but it’s sold out. Sorry, doll face.”

“Get out! I love Annie Leibovitz. I’m sure I can get in on a reporter’s pass. What
time should I be at your place?”

“Ah, well, here’s the thing, Bran. Garrett’s kind of… shy. I want to wait a while
before bombarding him with everybody. Oh, hey, here come Frankie and Carla.”

Frankie is my mom’s much younger brother, and one of my favorite people on Earth.
My uncle, the manager of a boxing gym, graduated from State Pen U. He and Carla met
when he sobered up and stopped knocking off liquor stores to feed his habit.

Frankie walked over to me and kissed the top of my head. “How ya doin’, kiddo?”

I flashed him two thumbs up and reached for more beer nuts.

Carla brought up the rear. She was wearing half a tube of eye shadow and balancing
her signature five-pound beehive on her head. She smothered me in a “poor baby” embrace
and then leaned across the bar to talk to John.

“We had a blast at Garrett’s the other night. What a great guy.”

John rolled his eyes in my direction. “Ixnay Arla-cay” he hissed out of the corner
of his mouth. Carla glanced my way and blushed, and began picking invisible lint off
her halter top.

“Wait,” I said. “You guys went over to Garrett’s?”

“No.” Carla sputtered. “And neither did Paul.”

An awkward silence ensued. I tried to cut John a “WTF,” but he was busy taking inventory
of his feet.

Uncle Frankie ordered a coke and sat down on the bar stool next to me. “I hear Dave
Wolinski’s expected to make a full recovery. I can’t believe the numbnuts wasn’t wearing
a vest. Said they’re too hot and uncomfortable, but I’ll bet it beats a bullet in
your chest.”

“How do you know Dave?”

“He works out at the gym. Word has it you saved his life.”

“It was the least I could do. He let me play with his siren.”

It was easier to make a joke than to dwell on what might’ve happened if I hadn’t been
there. Dwelling’s for losers. I’m all about denial, baby!

The door opened and homicide detective Robert Anthony DiCarlo walked in. His handsome,
Irish-Italian face was edged in five o’clock shadow, his mouth upturned into a killer
grin. Bobby DiCarlo’s got dimples a girl could get lost in. I should know. I navigated
the depths of that smile for ten years. Now we’re strictly friends, but it still manages
to give me a thrill.

I was about to wave when I noticed he had company. He was talking to a uniformed cop;
tall, blond, cute, and female. She leaned in close and whispered something in his
ear which, apparently, was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, because he threw back
his head and guffawed so hard everyone began to stare. (Okay, just me.) He even punched
her arm the way eleven year-olds do when they want to touch a girl but are trying
not to be obvious about it. She eyed him coyly and punched him back. Funny, I felt
like punching him, too.

DiCarlo watched her grab a to-go menu and head back out the door. He was still smiling
when he reached the bar. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and sandwiched in between
John and me.

“Who’s the uniform?” John asked, thrusting his chin toward the take-out counter.

DiCarlo followed his gaze. “Nobody. Just someone from work.”

“She’s pretty,” I said.

Bobby shrugged. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Oh, gimme a break, you big fat liar.
“Well, trust me, she is.”

A seat opened up on the other side of me and Bobby nabbed it. “So, how’re you holding
up, Sweetheart?” He reached for the bowl of nuts, but I beat him to it and grabbed
the last handful.

“Good. Great,” I told him. “I’m always so invigorated after I shoot someone.” I didn’t
mean for it to come out bitchy. It just did.

John and DiCarlo exchanged looks.

“What?”

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

Why, yes. Yes, I am. How dare you move on in your life and be all flirty with someone
new, even though we mutually agreed we’re not meant for each other and I’m in love
with Nick?

“No,” I sighed. “Sorry.”

He nodded and ordered us a couple of Rolling Rocks, tipping the server more than the
price of the beers.

Frankie and Carla wandered down to the other end of the bar to watch the Phillies’
game, and John had to take a call from Garrett, (for some reason that Garrett was
really beginning to bug me) so that just left Bobby and me.

Bobby took a slug of his beer. “I got some news about the shithead that fired on Wolinski,”
he told me. “He’s a twenty-seven year old gang member from North Philly, named Mario
Lewis, with a laundry list of felony charges including assault, dog fighting, and
drugs. When they picked him up he was high as a friggin’ kite, which explains why
you were able to take him down when he pulled the gun on you.”

“Oh, you heard about that.”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t? Why didn’t you tell me yourself?” he added quietly.

“I, um…”

“Forget it. I know why. I’m just glad you’re okay…you are, aren’t you?”

I blinked back a fresh set of tears and downed my beer.

“Brandy, this wasn’t your fault. You shot that guy in self defense. He would have
killed you.”

I shrugged, swallowing hard.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not yet.”

“
Not yet
like in
never
?”

“Yeah, probably. Listen,” I said instead. “I need to ask you something, and I’m serious,
so don’t make a joke out of it, all right?”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Well, yesterday at work, I was talking to Eric, and he said something, just kidding
around, but—well, do you think I’m some sort of—death magnet?”

“Death magnet? Get outta here.”

“Listen, I’ve been back in town for what—less than a year, and I’ve spent the entire
time either being shot at or shooting someone else. I’m like that kid from Peanuts,
the one with a cloud of dust that follows him everywhere. Only in my case it’s dead
bodies. I just don’t know why I can’t live my life like a normal person.”

Bobby stared at me for a beat, and I stared back, taking note of the deep circles
under his eyes. He should’ve been home sleeping or spending time with his kid instead
of sitting there comforting me.

“Bran,” he said, taking my hand, “I don’t know about normal, but you’re the best person
I know. Most people run the other way at the first sign of trouble, but you’re not
wired that way. I wish you were,” he added, quietly. “Listen, if you’re getting more
than your share of the ugly side of life, it’s because you’re one of the few people
with the guts to take it on.”

I looked into Bobby’s smokey blue eyes and smiled. “Thanks for not making me feel
like a freak, Bobby.”

“Hey,” he grinned and whispered in my ear. “You want me to take care of this Eric
character? I got friends in high places. I could arrange to have his car booted.”

It was the first laugh I’d had in days.

“Speaking of the ugly side of life,” DiCarlo said, his voice turning unexpectedly
sour, “Mike Maho picked up a friend of yours the other day on a weapons’ charge.”

“Who?”

“Raoul Sanchez. He was hauling around a load of semi-automatics in the trunk of a
stolen car. They also found three cases of hollow points in the back seat. You keep
some rough company, Sweetheart.”

Raoul Sanchez was not a friend—an acquaintance, at best, if you count the time I ran
over his hand. (It was an accident…more or less.) Anyway, Bobby wasn’t talking about
Raoul. He meant Sanchez’s sometime employer, Nick.

I didn’t take the bait, so Bobby pressed. “So what’s going on with you and Santiago
these days? You guys an item?”

“Well, it’s not like I’m upgrading my Facebook status to “In a Relationship” or anything…”

It was awkward talking to DiCarlo about Nick. First off, Bobby and I share a lot of
history and residual feelings that, once acknowledged, we tacitly agreed to ignore.
And secondly, it was way too soon to tell if Nick’s declaration of love would actually
translate to us being the aforementioned item. Then there was the whole “opposite
sides of the legal fence” thing they had going on. DiCarlo was pre-disposed to believe
the worst about Nick, and I didn’t have the energy to challenge him. Luckily I didn’t
have to.

“Hey, look who’s back,” I said, nodding toward the door. The blond bombshell cop had
reappeared this time sans uniform and sporting a thigh high mini skirt.

DiCarlo jumped to his feet. “I’ll be right back. She must’ve forgotten something.”

I’ll say. The rest of her skirt, for starters.

*****

Try as I might, I could not stop thinking about the dogs in the trunk of Mario Lewis’
car. One was dead; the other so physically and psychically traumatized it might as
well be. So, against my instincts for emotional self preservation, I decided to go
see the surviving puppy.

He was being housed at Jacob’s Place, a pit bull rehab center located in Ambler. I’d
called ahead and spoke at length to Eunice, a volunteer at the center. She told me
I’d be more than welcome to visit, but the news wasn’t too encouraging. The dog had
lost an eye in the fight, and he was still very weak.

I’d almost changed my mind after hearing that, but since I was the one who’d discovered
him, he felt like my responsibility. I mean once someone touches your life, you can’t
just walk away. That’s the rule. Well,
my
rule, anyway. Besides, they opened a retro hoagie shop on Plymouth Road, and I promised
Uncle Frankie I’d bring him back a “Bobby Rydell with ‘the works’.”