Job or death in Philadelphia

CHAPTER 5

Debbie's current address was written in my memory in huge letters, and yet, being an exemplary assistant, I gave my boss an unanswered phone call, and only then did I set off for my trip.

It took me about an hour to get there. Why Deborah got a job in Center City to drive from New Jersey remained a mystery to me. The town's main street had a shopping center and a used car dealership. I stopped at McDonald's to use a bathroom and to grab something to eat. Larissa had an amazing ability to poison mealtime, and after a couple of skipped breakfasts, the whole idea of having a grandmotherly figure in the family didn't look so wise anymore. But try to tell this to Alexander! To have a live-in grandma is part of a healthy and happy childhood, and nothing could change his mind. I went in, munched down chicken salad, and followed it with soft ice cream to get my daily sugar fix. No matter what they say, fast food is a mood-altering substance, and it always works for me in stressful times.

Pulling in, I saw a couple of trucks and minivans. Right after me, a decrepit maroon Honda had pulled in and parked next to my Jag. The Honda's driver hadn't gotten out, just pulled down the windows.

Now walking back to my car, I peeked at the maroon car on the right. The driver, a very young blond man with sharp cheekbones, ate a sandwich. His car looked like a dump, with all those papers and clothes and newspapers swamping its seats. Even the car radio sounded fuzzy and out of tune, transmitting some weird talk show, as if several men were talking at once, describing their location and little observations: "12:15 Object One is in the parking lot," or "12:15 Object Ten stays at the office."

My sparkly clean Jag felt like a safe haven. Somehow, seeing other people's misery makes me appreciate what I have more. I drove back onto Main Street looking for Pike Road, finally spotted it and turned at the last moment. I found the number 2550 right away. It was especially easy, since several police cars were parked along the quiet street as a free attraction for a few local viewers.

Debbie shouldn't see me yet. That's why, getting ready in the morning, I put on my daughter's clothes: blue bellbottoms and a t-shirt with a yellow windbreaker. My red hair I hid under an NYU baseball cap. It was a decent outfit to become invisible in any crowd. The moment I approached Debbie's place, the entrance door opened, letting out two cops and a tall middle-aged man with cuffed hands. The man looked back at the house and smiled. He looked intelligent and handsome, and a little run down, like an old brick Georgian house.

"What's going on here?" I asked a woman in sweatpants and a t-shirt standing on the lawn.

"Her ex just got arrested for trespassing." She turned her head.

"Is it Debbie's ex?"

"Do you know her?" Ms. Sweatpants turned to me completely. Her gray and brown hair wildly went up in spirals.

Before I came up with a lie, the cops searching Debbie's ex's metallic Pathfinder popped its trunk and removed a long semi-automatic gun. They asked him for a gun permit; "In the glove compartment," he answered. After sorting through his papers, they found the permit. The police officers placed the gun in the trunk of the police cruiser and took off, leaving one behind to console Debbie.

"Do you know her?" Ms. Sweatpants poked my ribs with her elbow.

"Not really. I'm her new social worker. Just came down here from the district office to look at their place," I lied. "Do you know them?"

"They just moved in, you know. But we've already got some questions. You wanna hear this? By the way, I'm Meg. I work as a nurse at a local preschool. Wanna have a cup of coffee at my place? This is my house, just in front of us." Talking, she looked like a beaver with her protruding front teeth.

Her tiny kitchen was furnished with outdated but clean drawers and shelves and stuffed with craft items: heavy clay mugs, animal figurines, blue glass bottles of every shape and size, and glass pictures. Meg poured us a little coffee, talking non-stop.

Debbie and the kids had moved in a year ago. The house she stayed in was a rental, so lots of people lived there over time. Meg never knew them and tried to do her best to stay away.

"Interest rates are so low, everybody buys a house now. Who rents? Just young people and troubled families… Single mothers, like her."

She, herself, had a husband and was very proud of the fact, judging by a dozen shots of her and some bald guy stuck to the fridge door. Noticing me staring at the pictures, she said she was the only married woman at her daycare center.

"It's easy to get married," she said happily. "The trick is to keep your husband."

I couldn't agree with her more. I never managed this trick and saw Alexander as my last matrimonial endeavor.

Meg knew nothing of Debbie, but unfortunately, her son Ken was Matthew's classmate, and Matthew got in the habit of tormenting Ken.

"Is he a bully?" I asked, remembering suddenly that I was his social worker.

"He is… You know, we call these kids `without brakes.' As if he doesn't understand that people have feelings. He doesn't understand what he is doing."

I quickly learned from Meg that during six months of school, Matthew twice went to a psychiatric clinic. Once, for hitting his pregnant teacher in her bulging stomach, and next time, for setting the principal's car on fire.

"You know, I work with kids every day from seven to five. I mean, I would like a different job, but I can't get anything. I'm furious with Matthew, but pity him, too. You understand; he is not an evil boy. He just acts out of desperation, or something. It's all because of his father. I mean, there are police at their place every week, and every week the boy does something stupid. His father doesn't want to leave them alone. He doesn't want to give up. His mother doesn't want her ex back. Can you imagine this kind of mess?"

Meg explained how to find the school building, so I could look at the boy's personal record. Damn, Joe wanted me to talk to people about her, but didn't supply me with any helpful information.

The school was located just a couple of blocks away from Debbie's place in a sprawling cinderblock building with a "No Drug Zone" warning at the beginning of the driveway. I pulled up to the entrance and rang the bell. An elegant lady came from the other side, looked at me through the glass, and unlocked the door.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm the Coopers' new social worker, and I need to talk to the principal. I don't have an appointment. I just drove by."

"It's perfectly okay. I'm the principal. You can come in. Sorry, I can't spend a lot of time with you. School will be out soon. But I certainly can answer a couple of your questions."

It was quiet inside the school, like the eye of a hurricane. I followed the principal to her office, where she introduced me to the state of Matthew's affairs.

"You know, of course, the real reason Matthew Cooper is under the surveillance of the Children and Youth Department?" The principal looked straight into my eyes.

"Well, I just got his case. I'm not familiar with every detail."

"Then you are talking to the right person. Matthew is a pyromaniac. He's fascinated with fires."

Who isn't? I like to sit next to a fireplace and stare at the fire.

"There is always the possibility that he can set fire anytime and anywhere. Here, at school, we keep our eye on him. Home is a different story. His mother, Mrs. Cooper, works full time." The principal apologized and picked up the ringing phone.

"May I look at his personal records, please?" I asked the second she hung up the phone.

"Yes, of course," she said and walked to the door. "Nobody can see the students' personal records, but the school authorities. You are a social worker, so you have the right to view the materials also."

She disappeared behind the door and left me rejoicing quietly. Who said that school ladies are strict and unreachable? They are nice and very gullible. The principal came back with a thick folder in her elegant hands. It looked heavily read, with dog-eared pages, pictures of the burned car, and copies of the police reports.

"I apologize. I have to leave you for five minutes." The principal gracefully left the room.

It turned out that Matthew was fourteen, and that he used to have excellent grades in elementary school. Then something happened, and the boy lost touch with reality. Otherwise, why did all those incident reports suddenly come into the picture? Sorting through the papers, I finally found what I was looking for: the Coopers' old home address at Cherry Hill, which was printed on the top of some inquiry letter. In an emergency form, the phone number of Pitt Cooper, their father, was listed as a priority emergency contact. I copied the address and the number down and was about to return the documents when my cell phone rang.

"Report to my assistant," Joe's voice boomed with excitement. "I have a spider as big as my thumb building a web outside of my kitchen window."

"So?" I feverishly flipped through the remaining pages.

"You have to come here and take it down." My impossible boss was true to himself.

"No, not right now. I'm digging up some dirt here."

"And...."

"I'm all dusty."

"Okay, keep digging. Just remember, you have an appointment with Planet Security at two tomorrow. Don't forget to bring Mrs. Cooper over there. Good luck. Don't flunk it, both of you." And like that, he was gone.

What the hell is `Planet Security'? Aren't polygraph tests administered by the FBI? The office door opened. The principal stood behind it, holding the knob and talking to a little girl. I flipped the last page and saw familiar lettering: NOSE, the National Office of Services to Emigrants. Whoever came up with a name for that place definitely was an illiterate foreigner. Emigrants are people who leave a country for some other country. People who are coming here to America are immigrants! Debbie's workplace sounded trashy to me. I couldn't figure out any reason she decided to take work there. I didn't have time to read the letter, and instead, just folded it and put it in the pocket of my jacket.

"I apologize for leaving you alone, but this time of day is really busy." The principal took the folder from me and tucked it safely under her arm. "Please, let me know if you need any help."

On the way back home, I stopped just once to get gas. While my little red sexy gas-gobbler was getting filled up, I went to the station restroom. Its massive metal door was locked and scratched all over, as if somebody was trying to open it using the wrong key. To get a key, I walked into the station and found myself at the end of a waiting line. A tall, skinny guy was buying several dozen lottery tickets. The cashier needed to enter every number on every ticket manually. Clicking, the machine was gradually spitting printed tickets at him.

"Excuse me!" I shouted, standing at the door.

The cashier didn't even look at me.

"May I get the restroom key?"

The cashier looked at me and opened his mouth to say something, when the skinny man whirled towards me like a blood-thirsty hyena. I saw them in a safari park in Florida. They have glossy eyes, as if thawed after a long-term freezing.

"The cashier is busy; don't you bother him," he whispered.

"I just need the key to the restroom," I said.

But the damage was done. The cashier just stood there, scratching his head.

"Did you want the Powerball, or what?" he asked finally.

"Yes," the thawed guy screamed. "I told you five times; put a hundred dollars on the Powerball lottery! They have one of the biggest games in their history, five hundred million dollars. Hurry up! They are closing up in five minutes."

"I'm sorry." The cashier, a boy merely out of high school, whispered. "I pressed the wrong button. It's all gone to the Number of the Day game. I'm sorry."

The skinny guy started to shake and emit steam like a burning teakettle. "You're not sorry yet. You will pay for this, or I will make you sorry!"

"I can't pay for this. It's a hundred dollars," the boy reminded him, desperately trying to keep his tears at bay. "I'm earning forty dollars a day."

"I don't care how much you earn. Now, I'm not paying for this. The transaction was completed, so you pay." The thawed guy jerked his hundred-dollar bill out of the boy's hand and left the station with a look of triumph shining through his glossed eyes.

A second later, a manager materialized out of thin air. His verdict was similar: your error, pay for it. The cashier was crying openly now.

Nobody said a word. My car was ready to go, but I desperately needed to use the bathroom.

"Hey," I said. "Don't cry. Check those numbers. Maybe you've got a couple of bucks."

"Yeah, right! Check those numbers, bro." The line responded enthusiastically. The winning numbers started to run across the black screen on the top of the counter. Sobbing, the boy looked at his couple of feet of tickets. It would take him an hour to check every ticket, and I was about to piss in my pants.

"Hold it," I said, meaning myself. I moved forward, grabbing the tickets from the boy's hand, tearing them along with the perforation, and giving a bunch of tickets to everybody in the line.

"Look for the numbers I'm reading," I said, and dictated numbers off the screen. The numbers ran too fast, so I wrote them down on my bunch of tickets. Alas, I dictated the numbers several times, and nobody found a match.

"Well," I said finally. "Maybe you can give me a restroom key now?"

"What about the tickets in your hand?" the manager asked me. I was so busy picturing myself opening the restroom door and devoting myself to my guilty pleasures that I forgot about my share of tickets. Two of them had no matches, but the third one had the matching numbers of the day!

"Your total win is one million dollars," I said, handing the winning ticket to the dumbstruck boy. "Now, give me the restroom key."

Driving home, I was trying to recall where I heard the words `number of the day.' Somebody mentioned it recently, but I just couldn't recall. The other burning question was the polygraph test. Two in the afternoon tomorrow was less than twenty-two hours away. I should advise Debbie about that. What was this company's name again? Where was it? Even though the kids were back home, and dinner had to be started shortly, I made a wild turn before entering Mooresville, and went to Joe's office.

CHAPTER 6

Running into the office, I howled, "Joe, I have some new dirt!" He wasn't at his desk. I opened the bathroom door – empty. The kitchen looked deserted as well. Bewildered, I looked in the window to see if his car was in the driveway. A nauseating sense of danger came over me.

"Joe! Joe!" I shouted in panic.

A loud snort from under my boss's desk made me walk around and look there. Joe was lying on the floor with his eyes closed.

"Joe, are you okay there?" I whispered and touched his stomach to make sure he was alive.

"Watch yourself, young lady," he said angrily, and opened one eye for a second. "What do you think you're doing?"

"But, I…"

"You're storming into my office during regular business hours, waking me up from a sound sleep, screaming that you have dirt on my client?"

"But, you…"

"My clients are everything to me. They're above any dirt, like Caesar's wife."

"But, she…"

"By the way, young lady, your husband is about to come back from work; and you're here, touching another man's body. What is that all about?"

"I was looking for your heartbeat."

"For my heartbeat…?" He shook with his impossible laughter. "This is my stomach you were touching. My heart is not in my stomach. No-no, young lady. It's down there. Moo-moo."

No sharp comebacks occurred to me this time around. I got out from under the table and went to the kitchenette to get a cup of coffee. How could he call me a `moo-moo'? I did all this legwork, and that was my reward. Unfair.

"Where is my coffee?"

I turned around and there was my boss, sitting in his huge black leather chair, smoking like a chimney. I offered him my cup.

"Okay, now show me your dirt."

"This morning, Debbie's hubby was arrested for trespassing on her property, stalking, and a gun permit violation."

"Right." Joe was puffing his cigarette, his eyes foggy. "Continue."

"That's it."

"That's it? You spent the whole day of fieldwork just to find out that Pitt Cooper was arrested on his ex-wife's property? I could find it out by just turning on my computer. Nincompoop. Now, listen to my dirt." He emitted a cloud of black smoke. "This morning Debbie had a divorce hearing. She has a Protection From Abuse Order against her ex, and there is no way he should be at her house. However, this is his first trespassing, and if convicted of a misdemeanor, he won't get this conviction on his criminal record. Which is good for him, considering the position he has in his computer company."

"Now, the judge let him off easy and gave him a three hundred dollar fine. You know, the guy is earning more than a hundred thousand dollars a year. He represents himself as if he doesn't have any money. He opens his mouth and says that he will appeal. The judge says, `Thank you for telling us that. Then, it's a five hundred dollar fine. Thank you very much.' But the most important thing is that his appeal is going straight on the docket for the next hearing. This way, the guy had got a criminal case against him. He brought it on himself! Next time he shows up at her house, it's a repeat offense and he gets convicted of a felony and goes to prison. He didn't understand it when he threatened an appeal to the judge. He wanted to piss off the judge as he did during the five years of custody battle, but this time he was pissing against the wind." My boss lit up the next cigarette.

"Do you realize you're a chain smoker?" I asked, showing that I cared about his health.

"Now, you're digging dirt on me, babe? Don't even start. I know more about you than you know about yourself."

"Good for you." I stopped for a moment, trying to recall stuff in my life that was worth hiding.

"Where was I?" my boss asked me.

"The guy was pissing…"

My boss's black eyes smiled.

"Right… Now, the police searched his car and found a gun. A real live gun."

"That's what I was talking about. He wants to kill her, to have the last word in their divorce. She is in danger."

"No kidding?" Joe leaned against his chair. "Well, what do we have to worry about? She didn't pay upfront. If he kills her, we just close the case. Done deal."

I left Joe's office with his promise to come for dinner. Back home, I found Iris sitting on the couch in the living room, watching TV. Evana was in the kitchen chopping vegetables for dinner.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, acting more from motherly duty than really caring.

Evana nodded.

"We're cooking dinner for everybody," Larissa put in her ten cents, in case I didn't notice.

Suddenly, Iris came stomping into the kitchen.

"No," she shouted, tears flying off her rosy cheeks. "Something bad happened. Something terrible happened, and nothing is okay."

"What happened?" I lowered myself onto a bar stool, just in case.

"She signed up for a cheerleading practice and didn't tell me." Iris pointed at Evana with a dramatic gesture. "I wanted to sign up too. I'm the one with a great fit and a good voice to cheer here."

That was only partially true. Since she was born, Iris has been gifted with a very loud, high-pitched voice. Sounds she was making demanding food could be used as a weapon of mass destruction if recorded.

"Evana, how did you sign up for the practice?" I asked my stepdaughter.

"Dad did it, I don't know how," Evana replied, looking very upset. "I'm sorry. I didn't know Iris wanted to do cheerleading also. It's something I wanted to do for the last couple of years, but Dad was busy, but this year he says I should start."

"Mom, do you hear that? A cheerleading practice! I get nothing in this family." My sweet angel ran out of the kitchen sobbing.

"Call my coach. Maybe she needs another student," offered generous Evana. I, myself, decided to talk to Iris about such family values as her stepfather's wealth, and her right to get a piece without tears and hysteria.

My talk helped, and we had a relatively relaxing dinner on the porch next to the grill, consuming a great amount of barbequed chicken and prime ribs. Our shepherd sat next to me, breathing hot and drooling on my leg. I gave him a piece of meat when Alex turned his back to me.