Free Canary by Duane Swierczynski

Local papers caught on anyway and did a big story on them.
    But back then Wildey wasn’t reading newspapers. Wildey was keeping himself indoors those days, but he liked when Batman and Robin would make an appearance because you could step outside and not feel like something was going to happen to you. He especially liked Robin, because he’d slip fifteen-year-old Wildey comic books, ask him, “What’s the word on the street, youngblood?” Not asking for real info, just making conversation.
    A short while after the profiles appeared, a drug gang put a $5,000 hit on the heads of Batman and Robin. The small-time wannabe Tony Montanas were quickly rounded up—you don’t threaten a cop in Philadelphia and expect to be walking around for long. Batman and Robin shrugged it off.
    Robin was the reason Wildey joined the force five years later. Yeah, he knew about his cop-grandfather, but he never met the man. Robin, though, was the real deal. To Wildey, Robin was how to be a black police officer in Philadelphia. When Wildey finally joined the force, he reached out to Robin to thank him. Robin said that he didn’t remember him but was proud of him anyway. “Still reading comics?” Wildey asked him. Robin just laughed. “I never read them. Those were for you youngbloods, calling me Robin and shit.” Yeah, Robin was his hero.
    Until this year, that is.
    In this bad, crazy year, Batman was one of the “tainted six” shuffled out of his NFU. And Robin …
    Oh, Robin.
    In late May, Robin was arrested while stealing drugs and money from a dealer in Southwest Philly. The FBI set up a sting with the help of a CI. Robin, a twenty-four-year vet, caught with $15 in his pocket and five pounds of pot in his jacket pocket. The feds had Robin on a wire, talking about all the dirt he’d done over the years. Even the police union didn’t want to bother with him. Wildey—now reading the papers—stared at Robin’s puffy face staring back at him.
Sorry to let you down, youngblood. But the streets got to me. They’ll get to you, too.
    The scandal sent Wildey into a mental tailspin, one that lasted all the way through Memorial Day weekend, which was strangely cold and rainy. Would the streets get to me, too? Am I staying good just till the right bribe comes along?
    Then came Monday, and the mayor and commissioner are naming Kaz Mahoney to head up a new “untouchable” narcotics field unit, and Wildey decides that no, the streets would not win.
     
    Mom, you’re not missing much this Thanksgiving.
Strange to think that a year ago I was sitting at this very kitchen table, filling out the early admission forms for UCLA, still buzzing from our trip to L.A. the month before. Remember the four of us, walking around Westwood in the warm California sunshine? Me, finding it hard to believe this could be my new life? I kept glancing at your faces, bracing myself for one (or both) of you to tell me, Sorry honey, we can’t do this. But you and Dad were strangely quiet, taking in the sights, holding hands. At the time I thought it was weird but cool. The other weird thing was the headache that you couldn’t seem to shake. It was just the flight, you told me.
On the last morning of our trip Dad suggested an impromptu drive down to La Jolla. You dismissed it, saying it was close to three hours down, then three hours back, and then we all had a red-eye to deal with. Dad just smiled, told you the kids should see the smelly seals. Me and Marty looked at each other—seals? What was so special about seals? And why did they smell? Dad continued to press his case, and you gave in and made the drive, despite the headache.
So you drove down Highway 5 all the way to La Jolla, a hilly, pretty beach town totally unlike the Jersey Shore, which is the only beach I remember. Dad swears we were here once before, when I was three, to look at the seals. Nothing rings a bell but I instantly love the vibe of the place. The harsh salt of the ocean, the wet stairway