And then he went to nursing homes, where he found the residents were more or less unconscious-almost every one on medication that kept them in a mental fog, or worse-so all he had to do was forge their signatures on the forms. Even easier to sign up were those who in the last year or two had fallen into their own category: deceased.
Slipping the kid or old man in the mailroom a little stash of cocaine or cash, with the promise of more, guaranteed that there’d be a telephone call alerting him when the absentee-voter ballots arrived in the mail.
Over time, Kenny Jones did one hell of a job collecting names and helping the forgotten voters of Philadelphia support Badde for city councilman-and soon, for the office of mayor.
And Rapp Badde had been impressed. Ignoring the unfortunate fact that Kenny was a fugitive charged with a felony, he’d thought that Kenny was still pretty much the good, if dim, kid he’d been when they were growing up. And in two years since his arrest-What the hell’s wrong with a little coke now and then? That probably was a bullshit bust, anyway-he’d never gotten into any other trouble.
Until now.
“What the hell do you mean something’s gone bad with you and Reggie?” he said into his Go To Hell cell as he looked out over the city to the right, toward West Philly and the rented campaign-office row house.
Reggie was the baby Jones brother, but at age twenty and two hundred thirty pounds, not much of a baby anymore.
Rapp knew that Reggie had never been really normal-his mother had had him late in life, in her forties, and there’d been complications at birth-and when Reggie got mixed up with drugs, he really went off the deep end.
Worse, while Kenny had just sold dope, Reggie both sold and used the stuff. Unfortunately, a lot more of the latter than the former, and he was forever trying to pay off his dealer.
Kenny said, “I got a call from Reggie. He was crazy. Crazy scared. Crying, man. Said, ‘If I don’t come up with thirty large to pay the man, I’m dead.’ He didn’t, and next day they grabbed him.”
Thirty thousand dollars! Badde thought. Jesus!
“How’d he get that deep in debt?” Badde asked.
“Hell if I know. Snorting more than selling? A lot of IOUs over time? And some crazy interest on top of what he owed? Adds up fast.”
“Who grabbed Reggie?” Badde asked.
“The dude he bought his coke from. The man. His dealer.”
Badde sighed audibly.
“So, what would you have me do about it?”
Kenny was quiet a moment, then with a tone that was incredulous said, “What else, man? You know.”
“What?”
“The money. I need the money bad to get him back.”
Can I quickly put my hands on that much even if I wanted? Badde thought as he looked out at the city and mentally went over his cash reserves.
There’s only ten, eleven grand in my office safe.
He was silent for at least a minute.
“You still there?” asked Kenny.
Badde didn’t reply.
Kenny said, “We go way back. My family’s done a lot for you, man.”
And I’ve not helped you?
And what the hell have you done that’s worth thirty grand?
Kenny added, “It’d just be a loan. You name the interest, whatever.”
Right. Where the hell will you get that to repay me?
“Rapp? You there?”
“Yeah, Kenny. I’m here. Isn’t there any way you can work out an arrangement with this dealer, just-”
Kenny Jones interrupted him: “Are you listening, man? We passed that point. These people kill for less!”
Rapp stared off into the night, silent.
Kenny went on: “Listen, man, it, uh, it wouldn’t be good for folks to find out about those ballots, you know what I’m saying?”
What? “Those ballots”?
He’s threatening me!
Sonofabitch! He thinks he can finger me for the voter fraud!
He blurted: “Are you fucking threatening me? You fucking ingrate!”
“I’m just saying…”
Jesus! Him getting diarrhea of the mouth would start the whole house of cards crumbling, starting with the campaign for mayor. And I can kiss the housing project goodbye.
Well, that is fucking worth thirty grand.
But if I cough up the money, I can forget getting paid back, with or without interest.
And what’s going to stop him from squeezing me for more?
Shit!
“Kenny, where am I going to put my hands on thirty grand?”
“Important folks like you, you got connections.”
Badde kicked the concrete four-foot-tall wall that served as the balcony’s railing.
Goddamn it!
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“At the house in West Philly.”
“How soon do you need the money?”
“Like yesterday?”
Shit.
“Kenny, I hate to ask this, but do you know if he’s still alive? Have you talked to Reggie?”
“Yeah, this morning. But he won’t be if I don’t do something.”
Bullshit. Then they really wouldn’t get their money.
Kenny, as if reading Badde’s mind, added, his voice cracking: “And if they kill him, they’re coming after me for it.”
Well, then not paying would remove one problem immediately.
But Kenny would still be mine, especially if he went into hiding and started blowing the damn whistle on the absentee ballots.
The goddamn media would love that story. It’d become a bigger circus than the Bermuda photographs.
And even if I gave him the money, I can’t keep having to wonder when dimwit Kenny or Reggie will fuck up again, or if Kenny will open his mouth about the ballots.
“Okay, look, Kenny, it’s going to take a little time. Especially at this hour. But I’ll send someone first thing-”
Kenny interrupted, “No, man. You need to bring it.”
He waited a moment, then replied, “Why me? Personally?”
“It’d be better. That’s all.”
Badde lost his temper: “Well, you can fucking forget it, Kenny! Goddamn you! You want the money or not?”
There was a long pause while Kenny thought about that.
“Fine, then. I’ll be here waiting.”
As Badde broke the connection, looking out at West Philly and shaking his head, he heard the glass door slide open, then Jan’s voice: “Everything okay, honey? I saw you kick the wall.”
When he turned and looked at her, he saw that she glistened from having just taken a shower. Now she wore a tan silk robe. It hung open, and he could see that she was completely naked beneath it.
Badde took a deep breath and composed himself.
“Yeah, just give me one more second. I’ve got to make a quick call. You do look incredible, honey.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she said softly, and slid the glass door shut.
H. Rapp Badde, Jr., felt a stirring in his groin.
Is that from seeing her gorgeous naked body-or because I’m about to have someone whacked?
[THREE]
The Roundhouse Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 7:30 A.M.
Lieutenant Jason Washington looked up from reading the front page of the morning’s Philadelphia Bulletin in time to see his boss walking purposefully around a corner, making a beeline for Washington’s glass-walled office. Captain Henry C. Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Unit, was a stocky balding man in his late forties. Like Washington he wore khaki slacks, but instead of the white button-down-collar shirt Washington had on, Henry wore a red knit polo under a navy blazer.
Jason glanced at the wall clock and saw that Quaire was fifteen minutes earlier than he had said he would arrive. They’d spoken on the telephone an hour earlier. Quaire had called Washington at home and announced that Frank Hollaran had just called him at home, asking if they could be at the Roundhouse as soon as possible.
Quaire said that Captain Francis Xavier Hollaran, the forty-nine-year-old assistant to First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. “Denny” Coughlin, had told him: “Denny wants us to be prepared before we meet with Mariana and before Mariana’s meeting with Carlucci. Mariana said Carlucci wants damage control, and he needs to know what we know about the pop-and-drops.”