The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor) - By W.E.B. Griffin Page 0,101
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 rough 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.