“Jesus! You can’t do that.”
“He’s Public Enemy Number One, Rapp,” Cross said, his tone self-righteous.
“Lenny, damn it! Don’t do it again! It’s not helping the situation.”
“Situation? What situation?”
“You’re on CPOC and now its chairman-”
“And I’m done with using that position to make a change. Now I’m using the ministry-”
“But you’re linked to CPOC.”
“Rapp, how long has CPOC been around?” Cross didn’t wait for a reply. “Fifteen, twenty years? A long damn time. And what’s it ever done? Not one damn thing, that’s what. Every member on CPOC is frustrated. I’m just the only one speaking up.”
“Why, Lenny?”
“Because there’s pretty much been a murder a day forever. It was Killadelphia then, and it’s Killadelphia now. And it’s mostly brothers. You get what I’m saying?”
Badde sighed. “I’m hearing you.”
“So, I don’t know why the hell you’re pissed off about this. The rally is really getting to the people. You should check out the following we’re getting on the Philly News Now link-”
“I’ve seen it. Trust me. .”
“Over five thousand viewers have given it one of those bell thumb things. That means there’ll be a big crowd at the rally.” He paused. “It would look good if you showed up, made an appearance. Sure you can’t make it?”
“Not if you keep calling the cops killers, I can’t!”
“Whatever. Your choice.”
“I’ll be there for the turkey day. But, for now, listen to me, Lenny. I can’t make this plain enough. You are putting a lot at risk here, starting with your CPOC position.”
Cross was quiet a moment, then said, “You didn’t just say that. You really mean that? Wait. You want to know what? I really don’t care, Rapp. It’s my last year anyway.”
Badde blurted: “I meant what I said. You’re going too far, and there’s gonna be a price to pay. I’ve got Carlucci’s new guy breathing down my neck because of this, because I got you on CPOC and now you’re trashing the cops.”
“Got Carlucci’s attention? Really?” Cross said. “Then I’m onto something.”
“You’re onto something, all right. Out on your ass, Lenny!”
“Look, Rapp, I told you I don’t care-”
“No, you goddamn look, Lenny! This is not just about you! What you’re doing is putting me in a really bad light that I cannot afford. Got it?”
Cross grunted. “Is that what this is about? Putting you in a light? You’ve got your name on those construction signs all over town. You and ol’ Willie Lane. Showing folks what all you’re doing for them, just like your daddies done back in the day. But you know what, Rapp? They got put in office, and then we put you all in office, ’cause you promised things would get better.”
“And they have. .”
“Maybe better for you, Rapp! But there’s still that killing a day, and no one seems to care. There’s still good people who can’t sit on their own porch ’cause they’re afraid of crime, afraid of the gangbanging punks running the streets. I’m looking at a bunch of posters of folks-”
“Look, Lenny,” Badde interrupted, his tone frustrated, “we can talk about all this when I get there. Right here, right now, I really need you to back off. Can you give me your word that you’ll do that?”
“So you’re saying that we just stop? Just let the killings go on and on?”
“No, Lenny. I’m saying just dial it down a few notches. Go after the goddamn murders, reach out to our people. .”
Your votes, you mean, Cross thought.
“. . but just don’t go after the police. Okay? It’s important for you and for me.”
Cross, silent and in thought, stared across the room for a long moment.
“And one more thing,” Badde said. “You have to call Carlucci’s guy. Just let him know you’re not giving up on all the murders in Philly-that’s your right-but you’ll leave the police out.”
Cross was silent for another long moment.
“Lenny. .?”
“When do I get that check for the turkeys?”
[TWO]
Torresdale Avenue and Kinsey Street
Frankford, Philadelphia
Saturday, December 15, 3:12 P.M.
The silver late-model Volkswagen Jetta slowed as it passed an automobile salvage yard, then braked hard and turned off the street. It nosed up to the faded orange overhead steel door of a freestanding two-story masonry building. Stenciled on the door in three-foot-high black letters was DO NOT BLOCK DOOR!!! TOW AWAY ZONE!!! To the right of the overhead door there was a steel man door, in the same faded orange, and stenciled in smaller black lettering was MARIANO’S COLLISION CENTER. FREE ESTIMATES.
The driver of the VW, a chunky five-foot-four twenty-year-old Puerto Rican with a black stocking cap pulled low on his head, anxiously hit the horn three times as his dark eyes scanned down the street. He took a long draw on his cigarette, then exhaled audibly.
Torresdale was lined with small businesses, most of which were involved in some fashion with the automotive trade. On one side of Mariano’s was a three-dollar drive-through car wash, now closed due to the snow, and on the other side was Worldwide Quality Imports.
The larger of two used-car lots on the block, Worldwide had an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with coils of razor wire. Strung from light poles above that were ribbons of faded multicolored plastic banners imprinted with SALE. The painted wooden sign on the fence read WE FINANCE. EVERYONE IS APPROVED. GOOD CREDIT. BAD CREDIT. BANKRUPTCY. REPOS. NO PROBLEM! YOUR JOB IS YOUR CREDIT! 215-555-2020. The lot itself was packed with about thirty late-model vehicles. Another half-dozen older models, with neon stickers on their windshields announcing LOW MILES! CLEAN! LIKE NEW! were parked on the sidewalk and in public parking spaces at the curb. Two of them-a Nissan Ultima sedan and a compact Toyota SUV-the driver recognized as ones he had delivered a couple of weeks earlier.
The driver saw the steel man door crack open about six inches, then immediately swing shut. A moment later he could hear the sound of the overhead door clunking as it began opening.
Then the driver, remembering what he had meant to do minutes earlier, quickly glanced around the dashboard area. He reached for the glove box, yanked it open, and began rifling through it. He pulled out a handful of paper napkins and drinking straws wrapped in plastic sleeves from a fast-food chain, tossed them on the floorboard, then found a black vinyl folder that contained the owner’s manual for the vehicle. He threw that back in, slammed the glove box shut, then opened the ashtray.
Here we go! he thought, glancing up to check on the opening door.
The ashtray held a mix of papers-gas pump and other store receipts crammed in with a wad of one- and five-dollar bills-and a small pile of coins. He stuck his fingers in, clawed at the mass, then managed to grab all but a few coins and stuff it in his pants pocket.
He looked again at the opening door. It was now about a third of the way up, and the snow was beginning to blow inside the garage. A brown hand then poked out and began motioning in a rapid fashion for the Volkswagen to pull inside.
The driver eased the car forward, stopped as the top of the VW’s windshield neared the bottom lip of the steel door, then when clear pulled completely inside. The overhead steel door then began to close.
The interior was harshly lit in a gray-white of industrial mercury vapor lamps. There were seven or eight wrecked cars on either side of the workshop, all in various states of repair. At the back of the garage was a nearly new white Volkswagen Passat that had been badly rear-ended and, next to it, a red Honda Accord with no wheels sitting up on blocks, its damaged front end cut free from the rest of the vehicle.
The driver of the Jetta could now see the rest of the hand that had waved him inside-a Hispanic male who looked to be in his twenties, of average height but very thin, his faded blue overalls hanging loosely on him. It clearly was cold inside the shop; the driver could see moisture when the Hispanic male exhaled. His hand now motioned for the driver to stop.