He looks down at the table. “Listen, Chuck. I like you a lot, which is why I looked into this thing a little. You’ve done me a few solids in the past, which I haven’t forgotten. But there’s nothing I can do right now—as a police officer—to give you a sense of revenge or justice or whatever you’re after. And I’m worried you might be thinking about taking matters into your own hands. The law says no. And as a friend, I officially say no too. I want to make that clear before I give you this next piece of information.”
I study his face and can see that he absolutely wishes he could exact justice for me.
Jon lowers his voice. “The genius is right here in Oaklyn. His grandmother’s house just so happens to be within walking distance of this very bar. The old lady isn’t around. There’s another elderly woman who lives across the street. She’s apparently very nosy and shares your deep hatred of Randall Street. Likes to call into the station with her theories. We’ve been talking to her, and she says Randall hasn’t gone out for days. She’s been watching the house like a hawk. Day and night. Just waiting to call the police on him once she sees something suspicious. Apparently Randall’s grandmother left for Florida just to escape him, and the old lady across the street misses her knitting buddy. Says all of her other friends have died, and she can’t afford to winter in Florida.”
“When a regular heroin user doesn’t leave the house for days, it means one of two things: he’s either getting clean or he has a supply stockpiled,” I say.
“It’s a shame that I can’t just bust in there and find out for myself. If only there were some sort of need for the police to enter the house. If only someone else busted in there and caused some sort of disturbance that the old lady across the street might be able to officially report, but we can’t wish for that and expect it to just happen. And without a warrant, we’d have to see the drugs right out in the open to search further, which is a distinct possibility if Randall’s shooting up in there.”
My knee is going up and down, quick as a sewing machine needle.
Jon looks around the bar. “The place is right off Kendall Boulevard. On Congress Avenue. A run-down sky-blue number. Only one painted that color on the street. I can’t tell you the actual address for legal reasons. I wouldn’t want you anywhere near that house, Chuck. If the law caught you there, it would be a very sticky situation. So don’t you dare get caught anywhere near that property. You understand?”
“I do,” I say. “You’re being crystal clear.”
“Again, my condolences,” Jon says, and then downs the remainder of his beer in several quick, nervous gulps.
I nod. “Thank you, Jon.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says. “Maybe spend the rest of the night talking with Lisa. That sounds like a good idea. She’d do anything for you. Even though you’re not in here as much as you used to be. Did you know we’re sort of dating, Lisa and me? Keeping it quiet, but yeah. I like her a lot. I trust her too.”
After Jon leaves, I sit in the booth alone, gripping my pint of ice water and thinking, until Lisa says, “Anything else, Chuck?”
“What?” I say, surprised to find her standing right next to me.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“Just a check.”
“On the house.”
“No, I’ll pay.”
“For water?”
“For the beer.”
“We always give the cops free beer. You know that,” Lisa says, chewing her gum nervously. “Jon says you and I should talk tonight for a few hours. Maybe you need to talk? So if anyone asks where you were, tomorrow, I’ll just tell them you were right here with me. No one comes in the back bar after eleven on Tuesdays. No one. Which you already know. So as far as anyone else knows, we had the whole place to ourselves tonight. Maybe we even talked in private back in the kitchen.”
I’m not quite sure what to say.
When the silence starts to get too awkward, Lisa says, “Danielle was my friend too. You can trust Jon. He wants the same thing you do. And you and me go back years, Chuck.”
“Why are you and Jon doing this?”
“I was the one who took in Tommy that night, remember? The one who saw Danielle with a needle sticking out of her arm. So why do you think I’m doing this? Jon’s your friend. He wants to do the right thing. So go, okay? Do what you have to do.”
We lock eyes for a long time, and then Lisa says, “Be careful, Chuck. Will ya?”
I nod once, leave, and make my way down the train tracks parallel to Manor Avenue, headed toward Congress.
I’m not even really thinking about Danielle or Johnny Rotten or revenge—I’m just moving forward like a force of nature, maybe a storm cloud. I have no idea what I’ll do when I find the man who supplied my sister with the drugs that killed her, but I keep moving forward nonetheless.
When I spot the sky-blue house, I notice that there’s a light on across the street. I glance over and see an elderly woman knitting, framed by a bay window. So I walk by Jon’s informer with my hands in my pockets and my head down. At the end of the block I look around and see no one, so I walk up the driveway of an unlit home and then—jumping fences and navigating backyards—I make my way back to the sky-blue home.
I spent years robbing homes for drug money, so I’ve had more than enough practice.
I’m a decent lock pick and can break a window making minimal sound, but I always try the door first. You’d be surprised how many times people forget to lock doors in suburban neighborhoods. And I suggest you always lock yours, because sometimes I just searched for the unlocked entryway—trying every back door in a neighborhood—and never once did I come home empty-handed.