The Vigilantes boh-10
Page 26
“He said, ‘Amanda, so many women go into a relationship thinking they’re going to change the man, make him better. Civilize him. It just doesn’t work.’”
Matt looked in her eyes, then said, “I need civilizing?”
Amanda shook her head. “No, it’s not that at all. It’s more that both people in the relationship need to be in concert from the start. Not, as my dad said, have one trying to ‘fix’ the other along the way.”
Matt took a sip of his Scotch and nodded. “I fully agree with that.”
Amanda was silent a long moment.
Oh, shit! Did I just paint myself into a corner?
“Then why won’t you quit playing cop, Matt? And trying to get yourself killed?”
I wonder if she’s been talking about this with Amy, who’s been banging that drum forever?
The smooth voice of Diana Krall was now singing “The Look of Love,” and Matt thought, She’s got the player on shuffle. Has she been playing those CDs all night?
Amanda took a sip of her wine, then said, “Okay, now the fun part.”
“What?”
“Bear with me,” she said. “Not too long before she died at seventy-three, looking gorgeous even at the end, Anne Bancroft-”
She paused and looked at him questioningly.
Matt said, “Sure. Wife of one of the funniest guys ever, Mel Brooks.”
“Not just a wife. She was a successful actress on her own, you know.”
“Really? Like what?”
“She’s one of the few with a Tony, an Emmy, and an Oscar to her name. And you still only know her as Mel Brooks’s wife?”
Payne shook his head. “Sorry.”
“She was Mrs. Robinson.”
“Mrs. Robinson?”
“The Graduate?”
“Never heard of it.”
Frustrated, she sighed. “Matt! You can’t be that dense.”
He grinned. Then he started whistling the Simon amp; Garfunkel hit tune from the soundtrack, appropriately titled “Mrs. Robinson.”
Amanda punched him in the shoulder. He thought it was somewhat playfully done, but the sad look on her face didn’t seem to support that.
“Oh, you are just impossible!” she said, her tone exasperated, then upended her wine stem, emptying it.
He made an attempt at a smile, but she was having none of it. Then he leaned forward, touched her chin with the thumb and index finger of his right hand to lift her head, and kissed her on the cheek.
“Sorry. I was just playing. What were you going to say?”
“Well, Matt, I’m not playing. Goddammit, I’m serious.”
She inhaled deeply, exhaled, then said: “Not too long before Anne Bancroft died-and she didn’t say it because everyone knew she had cancer; she was very private, and no one knew she was dying but Mel Brooks and her doctors-she was asked in an interview what the secret was to her successful-and quite clearly loving-forty-year marriage.”
Oh, shit. I think I see where this is going.
He said: “Okay…”
“And what do you think she said, Matt?”
Watch out, Matty, ol’ boy.
This is a minefield.
Step carefully or… BOOM!
He thought for a long moment, then said, “I don’t know. What with being married to a brilliant writer, actor, director, probably something about patience. And about respect. And real love, of course.”
“Yes and no.”
“She said ‘yes and no’?”
“No! What she said was all that you said-and more. But she didn’t list them. It was the way she phrased it.”
With his right hand, somewhat anxiously, he made a gesture that said And that was? Then he saw her face, and immediately regretted it.
Amanda said, “Didn’t you just in your last breath suggest that patience was a virtue to have in a good lasting relationship?”
Well, kaaa-fucking-boom, Matty!
Nice job. You may as well have just taken a running dive onto that minefield.
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“Well, damn it, Matt! You should be. Because this is really important to me. Because you’re important to me.”
She paused, and she looked deeply, and genuinely lovingly, into his eyes.
It was powerful, and he felt his throat tighten.
She truly is a goddess.
And I truly am a complete and utter ass.
“Amanda, I’m sorry.”
“What she said was this: ‘When I hear the tires of his car come crunching up the stone drive of our house in Connecticut, I visualize him and think, ‘Now the fun begins.’”
Amanda stared Matt in the eyes again.
“Do you see?” Amanda said softly. “There was an excitement to their relationship. They weren’t together for any reason other than enjoying one another. Love, too, but enjoyment.”
He looked at her and thought, The way it is in the beginning, when just the thought of your mate makes your heart beat faster.
She added, “Theirs was a true companionship. A real relationship. Joyful.”
He nodded.
“Now the fun begins,” she repeated. “I want that, Matt. I need that. Now, and especially later, when most don’t have it.”
She looked down a moment, then back up at him, and softly added: “I felt that when I heard your key in the lock earlier. Now the fun begins…”
They looked each other in the eyes, and after what seemed like a very long time, Amanda said, “You don’t have any response to that?”
Matt didn’t trust his voice to speak.
He raised his eyebrows, then cleared this throat.
“Only,” he said carefully, “that I really admire Mel even more now. And, yeah, I want that, too.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“It sounds like there was a ‘but’ coming,” Amanda said. “Do you think it’s possible?”
He hesitated, then rolled his eyes.
“Nah,” he said. “Obviously, only in the movies.”
Her eyes grew wide with shock. “What?”
Then he smiled, held her hand, and said, “Baby, not yes, but hell yes it’s possible.”
He wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head on his shoulder.
As he gently squeezed, he said, “I do want that, too. I want you, Amanda, more than anything.”
Did I just prove her father’s point-that I’ll say anything she wants to hear? Particularly to get her naked?
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 amp; URBAN DEVELOPMENT COUNCILMAN H. RAPP BADDE, JR., CHAIRMAN
Though PE
GI 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:
“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.