“What about the burns?” Andrea Benjamin said. “Will she require… oh, what’s the word?”
“Grafts?” Payne offered.
That earned him the glare of Dr. Law.
“Mrs. Benjamin,” she then said calmly, “I do not think skin grafts will be necessary. We have come a long way with specialized treatments. There are, for example, enzymatic agents. These dissolve the burn’s dead tissue on the surface. The process then lets the tissue underneath heal. Also, we have the option of artificial skin, with which we have had significant positive results.”
“Oh, that is all such wonderful information,” Andrea Benjamin said, her tone somewhat hopeful. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Dr. Law nodded and said, “But please remember: We’re very early in this process. There’s much work”-there was a perceptible pause as her eyes looked down the corridor-“to do.”
Payne looked to where she’d glanced. Joseph Olde was walking toward them.
“Good morning,” Olde called as he saw them looking at him.
“What the hell is good about it?” James Benjamin blurted.
“James…” Andrea said reprovingly. She looked at Olde. “Any news on Skipper, Joseph?”
“Nothing new yet.” He stared at Payne. “You’re Matt Payne, aren’t you?”
You didn’t have the decency to return the courtesy? Payne thought.
You could’ve at least asked Mrs. Benjamin about Becca.
Even if apparently you don’t give a damn.
Matt looked at James Benjamin.
And that’s not lost on her father…
No wonder Skipper can be such a prick.
Clearly, the nut didn’t fall far from the fucking tree.
“That’s right, Mr. Olde,” Payne replied.
“You still playing cop?” Olde said, but didn’t wait for a response before looking at James Benjamin. “Listen, Jim, I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones, but this time, this meth-”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Benjamin snapped.
Payne could see the veins in Benjamin’s temples pulsing.
Olde arrogantly went on: “Well, clearly this girl of yours has an established long pattern of substance abuse-”
“Why, you son… of… a… bitch!” James Benjamin shouted, furiously drawing out his declaration of sonofabitch.
What happened next transpired so quickly that Payne did not have time to even try to stop it.
Benjamin balled his right fist and swung. His punch hit Olde square in the left cheek, causing Olde to stagger back two steps. But remarkably Olde quickly recovered, and practically launched his lanky body at Benjamin, knocking them both to the floor.
“Stop it, you two!” Andrea Benjamin demanded.
The blue shirt sitting by the swinging doors dropped his paperback book. He reached up to his right epaulet, where the microphone of his radio was pinned.
He keyed the mic, and barked, “Kowenski! Get your ass down here!”
Then he jumped out of the chair and moved toward the brawl to break it up.
As Payne also moved that way, he saw a gurney come around the corner and into the corridor. It was being pushed by an orderly in blue scrubs.
[TWO] 1344 W. Susquehanna Avenue, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 10:40 A.M.
Chad Nesbitt weaved his cobalt-blue BMW M3 coupe through the slower traffic headed down Broad Street. He idly wondered if he was about to walk into some kind of setup, but the anguished voice on the phone sounded painfully genuine.
It had been that of a man. He spoke reasonably good English, but it was clearly with a Spanish accent. And when he said he was trying to find “Meester Skeeper,” Nesbitt knew that that was just too coincidental. He had to grant the man’s request for a meeting.
“How did you get my number?” Nesbitt had asked.
“From Meester Skeeper.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He give me his old cell phone. One day, I make mistake when I push a button. I thought the phone call Meester Skeeper. But it had all Meester Skeeper’s numbers, and it call you, your voice mail. I hang up. When I tell Meester Skeeper this, he say it is no problem. That you are his best friend. That you are partner in his business.”
“But why are you calling me now?”
“Because there is a problem with the business. Very bad. And I cannot reach him. He does not answer his cell phone.”
“What sort of bad problem?”
There had been a long silence before the man spoke. “I cannot say.”
“You cannot tell me? Or cannot tell me on the phone.”
“On the phone. Is better that I tell Meester Skeeper in person.”
And there had been a long silence before Nesbitt spoke. “That won’t be possible for some time. He’s badly hurt, and in the hospital.”
Nesbitt heard the man mutter, “Madre de Dios!” Then he said, “Is Meester Skeeper going to be okay?”
Nesbitt did not know how to answer at first, then said, “We don’t know. I can tell you that it will be some time before he’s able to speak with you.”
The man then said, “Then, please, I must speak with you. His best amigo and partner in business.”
Six blocks after crossing Lehigh Avenue-which almost didn’t happen because he nearly got sideswiped by a damn rusty white Plymouth minivan that ran the red and then flew down Lehigh-Nesbitt approached the intersection of Dauphin and Broad. This was the outer edge of the neighborhood where Temple University served as somewhat of an anchor.
The light at Dauphin turned red. As he waited for it, he looked down the street. On the left he saw a series of retail chains-a McDonald’s fast-food restaurant, a Rite-Price pharmacy-and some mom-and-pop shops.
The man on the phone had said the laundromat was there, but he could not make it out.
And that’s another coincidence.
A laundromat. And Skipper.
Who is this guy?
He absolutely would not tell me what he wanted.
Except that it was “mucho important.”
The traffic light cycled. He crossed Dauphin and started scanning for the laundromat. At the next corner, which was Susquehanna, he saw a convenience store’s signage-TEMPLE GAS amp; GO. Next door to that, sharing a wall, was a brick-faced building that looked as if it recently had been renovated.
The brick was clean and bright, as if freshly sandblasted. There was a glistening glass door set in shiny aluminum framing. On either side of the new door were six large plate-glass windows, also similarly framed in aluminum, that were covered from the inside with what looked like brown wrapping paper.
As Nesbitt slowed the car, he read the announcement that was painted on the paper in bright festive colors:
COMING SOON! ANOTHER NEW SUDSIE’S!
Under that, with lots of cartoonish foam overflowing from an oversize beer mug and a washing machine, was Sudsie’s’ marketing slogan:
Nesbitt groaned audibly.
What were you thinking, Skipper?
About that and everything else?
He then pulled the M3 coupe into an empty parking spot at the curb around the corner.
When Chad Nesbitt got to the new front door of Sudsie’s, he saw that someone had posted a sign that read CLOSED-PLEASE COME AGAIN and an emergency contact telephone number. He didn’t recognize the number.
He hammered the door with a balled fist, but there was no answer.
He then pulled out his phone from the left front pocket of his pants. He thumbed keys to reach the RECENT CALLS menu, then highlighted the first call on the list. He hit the CALL key.
When the man answered, he said, “This is Chad Nesbitt. You asked to see me? I’m at the door.”
There was silence on the phone for a moment. Then Nesbitt saw the brown paper on the glass of the door pull back just enough for someone to peer out. There then came the sound of the front door being unlocked.
Nesbitt hit the END key, put the phone back in his pocket, and scanned the area. About all he saw were students coming from the Southeast Philadelphia Transportation Authority’s Susquehanna-Dauphin Metro stop. Some of them crossed the street, headed for McDonald’s before class.