But it’s more than that.
I meant what I said. I do want her.
I just have no damn idea what to say if she asks about me quitting the department.
He felt her arms wrap around him, and she squeezed gently back. She buried her nose behind his ear and softly kissed his neck.
As he thought he heard her begin to sniffle, he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.
“I’ve Got You Under My Skin” came softly from the speakers.
IX
[ONE]
2027 Fairmount Avenue, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 7:22 P.M.
H. Rapp Badde, Jr., sitting in his Range Rover parked at the curb near the corner of Corinthian and Fairmount Avenues, knew that his sudden dark mood had not been caused by his view of the medieval Eastern State Penitentiary. But the haunting and imposing two-hundred-year-old structure damn sure wasn’t helping his attitude, despite the signage he’d days earlier ordered bolted to its massive stone walls.
The sign—one of a dozen fabricated by the same local company that did all of PEGI’s projects—was a four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood painted bright white. Its bold black lettering read: MOVING PHILLY FORWARD!
COMING SOON TO FAIRMOUNT: THE VOLKS HAUS AFFORDABLE APARTMENT LIVING
FOUR 500-UNIT HIGH-RISE TOWERS!
ANOTHER FINE DEVELOPMENT FOR YOUR FUTURE FROM PHILADELPHIA ECONOMIC GENTRIFICATION INITIATIVE
A PROJECT OF THE CITY OF PHILADELPHIA HOUSING & URBAN DEVELOPMENT COUNCILMAN H. RAPP BADDE, JR., CHAIRMAN
Though PEGI had not yet received the paperwork from the bureaucrats in Washington, D.C., releasing the decrepit property to them, Badde felt enough time had been wasted and had given the go-ahead for the posting of the signs.
It had taken more of his political skills than he’d expected for his Housing and Urban Development Committee to take over the property from the nonprofit historical association that oversaw it. And he’d really wanted to rub it in the faces of the people who’d tried tripping him up every step of the way.
“For chrissake, Jan,” he’d said in the beginning, “even those damned do-gooders call it a ‘preserved ruin.’ If we have to, we can play the eminent-domain card and say it’s a neighborhood hazard, a danger that needs to be condemned. Who the hell wants something that ugly in their neighborhood that’s not even being maintained? Not when we can take federal funds and build housing for our voters.”
To fight the battle for possession, Badde had educated himself about the property. And knew far more than he really wished he did, like that the prison’s Gothic architecture was intentionally harsh. The medieval style of the dark ages was meant to intimidate those incarcerated—as well as anyone who might consider committing a crime.
Which, he thought, staring at it, damn well may be why it’s bothering me right now.
The prison had been conceived in Ben Franklin’s house in 1787 and opened in 1829. It promoted a new type of incarceration, one encouraging rehabilitation by locking up prisoners by themselves. It was believed that being alone in the cold, hard cells would force inmates to consider their crimes, and perhaps find God as they sought penance—thus the word “penitentiary.” The cells each even had a small skylight, a simple glass pane—the “eye of God”—that was meant to remind the prisoners that they were always being watched.
Probably the only thing about the place that Rapp Badde really found fascinating was that at one time it had housed the infamous Al Capone. Badde appreciated that, even behind bars, the ruthless gangster broke rules. Thumbing his nose at the system, Capone had packed his cold hard cell with creature comforts from woolen rugs to fine linens, even a small library with reading lamps and a wooden secretary desk for his writing.
The prison started going downhill after being abandoned in 1971, when prisoners started getting sent to the new Graterford facility outside of Philly.
“Then some moron gets it made a national historical site?” Badde had said to Jan incredulously. “It’s controlled by a nonprofit organization. What part of not-for-profit doesn’t anyone understand? Rather than subsidizing a damned ancient eyesore that’s taking up valuable land in the middle of the city, we can put the place to good use for our citizens. Which means for us, too.”
And, against the odds and the protests, he’d flexed his considerable political muscle to make the People’s House a reality.
At least this far, he thought.
Which could all fall apart if I don’t make these problems go away.
Badde’s office cell phone rang, and the caller ID announced JANELLE HARPER. Since leaving the basement of the West Philly row house, Badde had been using both cell phones almost constantly. At one point he’d been on both at the same time, requiring him to manipulate the Range Rover’s steering wheel with his left knee.
First he’d had a long talk with Janelle Harper, then an even longer one with his personal lawyer, then another call with Jan to report the gist of what the lawyer had said, which basically had been next to nothing—he’d said he was going to have to think it all over thoroughly. Then, as Badde pulled ten grand in cash from his office safe and stuffed it into a black duffel bag, he’d set up the rendezvous here at Eastern State Penitentiary.
And now Jan was calling again.
“Yeah, honey?”
She said: “The Russian just called and said now that the Diamond property is cleared, it’s time to talk. What do you think he meant by that? I mean the ‘cleared’ part?”
Badde said: “I don’t know what he meant. Just that he was pissed it’d taken so long with those holdouts. We’ll be there. Where and when?”
“He suggested Vista Fiume at ten-thirty,” Jan said. “That’s the nice new five-star. Make sure you change into nice clothes.”
“Ten-thirty? Damn, that’s late! But okay. I’ll pick you up.”
Rapp then heard his Go To Hell cell phone ring. The caller ID read: JACK JONES.
About damn time.
“Honey, I’ve got to take this one. I’ll call you back when I can. Meantime, you get ready for dinner, okay? We need our game faces on for this one. And I think the Russian really likes you.”
He broke off that call, then in his smoothest politician’s voice said into his Go To Hell phone, “Thanks for calling back, brother.”
He wanted to add: And thanks for taking your sweet goddamn time.
“Whut up, Rapp,” Jack Jones replied, his tone depressed. “You know all about Reggie, right?”
“Yeah, Kenny told me. I need to talk to him. That’s why I called. Know where he’s at?”
“Kenny?”
Yes, Kenny.
What the hell’s wrong with you, Jack? You’re not making sense.
Shock, maybe?
I do the bastard a favor and this is what I get.
And what the hell is that noise in the background? Bingo games?
“Yeah, I mean Kenny. I know he’s in trouble, Jack. When’s the last you heard from him?”
“Why?”
“Didn’t he tell you that I’m trying to reach him and arrange for the money?”
There was nothing but silence on the other end.
Badde went on: “Look, Jack, I really need to get in touch with him.”
He then remembered that Kenny, when he’d called screaming that he was the next to be killed if Reggie’s drug debt went unpaid, said that Jack was the one who’d gone to the Medical Examiner’s Office to ID the brutally beaten body.
“You know, we can’t let what happened to Reggie happen to him.”
There was another long moment of silence.
“No shit, Rapp,” Jack said disgustedly. “You wouldn’t believe how bad they beat him, man. About the only way I could tell for sure it was him was those scars on his ass from that dog that bit him when we were in middle school. There was nothing recognizable of his face. The medical guy said he thought they’d used a baseball bat, then poured some kind of acid on him. Nobody deserves that, Rapp.”
Rapp heard a tap-tap on the window of the Range Rover’s front passenger door. He looked and saw Allante Williams standing just outside the door. Williams was a nicely dressed, clean-cut black male in his late thirties. He was also Badde’s second cousin. While Williams tried to project a straight-laced, professional appearance, in reality he’d just gotten paroled after serving seven years on a ten-year rap for murder. He now ran what he called a “private security business.” And, throwing family a bone, Badde had had Urban Ventures put him on retainer.
Badde reached for the master door-locking button and pressed it. Williams opened the passenger door and climbed into the seat. With his right index finger, Badd made a gesture that meant Just one more second, then after Williams shut his door hit the master lock button again.
“Look, Jack. Make goddamn sure Kenny calls me ASAP. Got it? This is a lot of money, and I just can’t wait for him. Later.”
He broke the connection, then made a fist with his right hand and bumped knuckles with Williams.
“Good to see you, Rapp.”
“You, too, man.”
Badde then reached into the backseat, where he had his Italian black leather briefcase beside a small black duffel bag. He pulled from the briefcase two of the ten photocopies he’d made at the campaign house. They were all the same, copies of the bogus badge that Kenny Jones had laminated in clear plastic. It was strung on a black metal bead chain taken from one of the ceiling fans at the West Philly row house. The badge showed a color head-shot of him with long locks and a full beard, underneath which was: KAREEM ABDUL-QAADIR
COMMUNITY REPRESENTATIVE
CITY OF PHILADELPHIA
FORGOTTEN VOTERS INITIATIVE
“Here’s the most recent photograph we have of him. Real name is Kenny Jones”—he paused as he watched Allante pull out a small notepad and pen—“and he grew up at 726 Daly Street, where his older brother, Jack, who I was just talking to, lives with their parents. His younger brother, Reggie, got whacked last night. Kenny’s on the run. He jumped bail a couple years back after trying to sell crack to some cops.”
Allante snorted. “Brilliant dude, huh?”
“Right. Anything but. Anyway, first thing you need to do, Allante, is find him. I already told you about the drug debt we’re supposed to pay. I’ve got an idea how to play that. But first I need to get back some sensitive files, voter records, that he stole from my campaign headquarters.”
“Okay.”
“When he gets turned in for the reward, I can’t have it come back to me. . . .”
“I understand.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You know I got your back, Rapp. I’ll handle this one myself.”
Rapp Badde nodded, then heard his Go To Hell phone ringing again. The screen read: CALLER ID BLOCKED.
“Yeah?” Badde snapped as he answered it.
“Yo, Rapp. It’s Kenny,” he said, his tone flat.
Badde’s eyebrows went up. He pointed at the phone and mouthed to Williams, It’s him.
Badde went back to his smooth politician’s voice: “Hey, brother. Hold on a second while I get rid of this other call.”
Badde, putting his left index finger to his lips, signaled to Allante for silence. Then he hit SPEAKERPHONE.
“Where are you, Kenny?” Badde said casually.
Kenny ignored the question. “You got the money?”
“I’ve got something even better.”
There was a long pause.
In the silence, Badde could hear a familiar sound.
What the hell is that in the background? Badde thought.
That is a bingo game!
That means that bastard Jack is with him.
Badde then said: “Kenny, did you know the basement of the house got broken into?”
Kenny was quiet another moment.
“Really?” he finally said, unconvincingly.
“They took whatever was in the filing cabinets,” Badde went on.
“Don’t know why,” Kenny said, clearly lying. “Just old voter files. Don’t know why anybody’d want those.” He paused, then said, “What’s the something better? You got the money or not?”
“I got the cash. Wasn’t easy.”
“Good man, Rapp,” Kenny said, his voice suddenly more chipper. “I knew you’d pull through.”
Badde looked at Williams and rolled his eyes.
Bullshit, he thought. You’re prepared to burn me at the stake.
“Look, Kenny. What’s this guy’s name we’re paying off?”
“Oh, no, man. He’d pop me just for saying names.”
“Kenny, I don’t have time for these games. It’s my money, and I want to know where it’s going. You don’t want to end up like Reggie, you goddamn well better tell me what I need to know.”
Kenny was quiet a long time while he considered that. And Badde definitely heard someone calling “bingo!” in the background.
“Dude’s name is Cicero,” Kenny then said.
“Cicero?” Badde repeated. “A drug dealer named Cicero?”
“Uh-huh. I think it’s Marcus Cicero. We just call him Cicero.”
Badde looked at Williams, who shook his head, not recognizing the name.
“Okay, Kenny, here’s the deal. I’ll do even better than the thirty-five thousand.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got a forty-five-thousand-dollar payday for you.”
“How much?”
“Ten Gs more than the thirty-five owed.”
He was quiet another long moment.
“Okay, Rapp, you got my attention. Talk.”
“You know the place where they found Reggie in Old City, Lex Talionis?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re aware that whoever took him there is eligible for a ten-thousand-dollar reward because Reggie had a long rap sheet?”
“Say what?”
Rapp Badde explained that, then said, “And it can be paid anonymously. So you could pop this Cicero guy, turn him in, and clear your debt, then get the reward.”
Kenny was quiet again. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch, Kenny, is grabbing Cicero and getting him signed, sealed, and delivered to Old City. But my guy is going to help you do that, too.”
Stupid bastard doesn’t realize the same can happen with him.
I get Allante to pop them both, and it’s twenty large in his pocket.
And my problems disappear.
“Listen, Kenny, I’m going to give you my guy’s number—he goes by Big Al. He’s going to bring the money. Make sure you touch base with him right now.”
“Okay.”
After he’d given Kenny the number, Badde broke the connection, then reached in the back and grabbed the duffel.
“There’s ten grand cash in there, enough to look like a lot of money before they try counting it. Should buy you plenty of time.”
Allante Williams nodded, then took the bag. “I’ll be in touch.”
As he was closing the door, his cell phone rang. He answered it: “Big Al.”
Badde took a long last look at the intimidating ancient prison walls and thought I may never win another election. But I sure as hell am not going to jail. He dumped the Range Rover in gear and sped away.
[TWO]
Hops Haus Cinema de Lux 1111 N. Front Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 8:01 P.M.
Will Curtis had been having a fantastic dream, one of those he called Technicolor dreams because they seemed so extraordinarily real and cinematic. In it, everything was bright and pleasant, complete with amazing sensations that made him feel warm and relaxed.
That was all abruptly interrupted by someone shaking his shoulder.
“Hey, mister, you gotta wake up,” a teenage boy’s voice was saying. “C’mon, wake up! You’ve done slept through the movie twice. Nobody likes Stan Colt flicks that much.”
The movie star Stan Colt—real name: Stanley Coleman—promoted himself as being as roug
h and tough as his hometown of Philadelphia.
A groggy Curtis cracked open one eye.
He was sitting in the highest row of the movie theater’s stadium seating, all the way up and back in a corner. He saw that the theater lights were all up and below him all the seats were empty. There was a large soft drink cup in the cupholder of his seat’s armrest.
Oh, yeah . . . still in NoLibs.
He remembered that he’d come into the Northern Liberties cinema after the shooting, both to hide and to await the safety that the dark of night offered.
He stared back at the pimpled face of a lanky kid who looked to be Asian and was maybe thirteen. The kid wore black slacks and a white shirt, and he held a trash bag and a four-foot-long trash-collecting device that he spun on his arm like some kind of nunchuck.
“Manager finds out,” the kid said, “you’re gonna have to pay twice.”
Will Curtis nodded. He put his hands on the armrests and, when he leaned forward to push himself up to stand, suddenly felt a stickiness in the seat of his pants.
What?
Did I spill my drink when I fell asleep?
No, it’s in the cupholder.
He stood. And then he smelled it.
Dammit!
That dream’s warm fuzzy feeling was me shitting myself!
Goddamn greasy cheesesteak . . .
The kid now looked at him with a wrinkled, soured expression.
He went to the far side of the theater and, occasionally looking over his shoulder, began sticking the pole between the theater seats and pulling out discarded candy wrappers and paper cups.
As carefully as he could, Will Curtis made his way down the carpeted steps of the theater, then out into the corridor. He stopped, looked to the right, then to the left, and saw a pair of restrooms two screening rooms away.
He found the men’s room empty. After grabbing some paper towels, he entered a stall, closing and locking the door.
He unbuttoned his denim jacket, then reached under his shirttail to pull out the Glock. He looked around the stall but could not find a flat surface to put it on. And he could not simply set it on the floor as he had done at the church earlier in the day. Here the stall walls were a foot off the tiled floor, and anyone walking into the restroom would immediately see the gun in plain view.
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