The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor) - By W.E.B. Griffin Page 0,23

indeed, Payne thought with a grin.

Then, as he walked down Second Street toward Liberties, Payne had also gotten a chuckle when he saw two guys more or less staggering out of a bar wearing T-shirts that, while not technically Halloween costumes, were appropriately dark-humored.

One T-shirt had a representation of the Liberty Bell with the words COME TO PHILADELPHIA FOR THE CRACK.

The other showed a white chalk outline of a human and the words:A FRIEND WILL HELP YOU MOVE

BUT A GOOD FRIEND WILL HELP YOU MOVE THE BODY.

Either of which, Payne thought, would be appropriate to wear into Liberties for tonight’s discussion on pop-and-drops with Tony Harris and Mickey O’Hara.

It certainly would not be the first time such topics had been broached in Liberties. The bar was the unofficial preferred watering hole of the Homicide Division, as well as cops from other divisions who’d discovered the comfortable old neighborhood bar that served stiff drinks and great food and—some would argue—occasionally more than a little gruff attitude.

The place has real character.

Payne then idly wondered how much longer such older establishments would survive. Because there was no doubt that this section of the city, thanks to the new Hops Haus complex and its fancy new neighbor, the Schmidt’s Brewery development, was seeing its real estate prices pushed up. And that, in turn, was forcing out the longtime residents who couldn’t afford to live there anymore, everybody from older retirees to young bohemian artists.

The more expensive properties that attracted young professionals were replacing the low-rent row houses and abandoned industrial areas, and the newcomers generated new jobs for others. And money spent meant money taxed, which translated to more revenue to fill the city’s coffers.

Such is the rejuvenation of Philadelphia.

And Lord knows so much of it needs renovation.

Too many parts are a living hell.

That gave some hope to a lot of people—including Matt—who feared that Philly, with all its crime, corruption, and broken infrastructure, was circling the goddamned drain.

Payne knew that supporting the gentrification was one of the reasons Amanda Law bought a place in Hops Haus Tower rather than one in Center City, where Payne had his small apartment. She liked the idea of renewal and rebuilding. The location wasn’t any closer to her work—the difference would have been only minutes—but she believed that it was a vibrant place where for too long there had been little more than misery.

And the fact that Philadelphia—the city Matt loved but knew so many others loved to hate—had been allowed to reach such depressing depths was something that frustrated him.

How in hell does the city that’s the birthplace of the most important law of our land—the United States Constitution—become one of our nation’s most lawless?

And one of our nation’s most fucked up?

How does that get fixed?

How do we get back that honor and pride?

He shook his head.

Could the answer be found here?

Two major speculators, one who built Hops, the other who developed Schmidt’s, had both denied for nearly a decade that they were at all interested in a lost cause like Northern Liberties.

But once one of the speculators had quietly pieced together enough property to begin a development, the renovation had begun on the Schmidt’s Brewery building. Then, like a Phoenix rising above the ashes of Philly’s Northern Liberties, additional two-story buildings went up, filled with expensive apartments, stores, restaurants, and, of course, office space.

Then, when that development had proved a success, the owner of the Hops Brewery site began his renovation project. And soon the twenty-one-floor Hops Haus Tower also had risen, well above Schmidt’s.

People want to save this city, want to preserve its history.

And there’s damn sure plenty of it. All over Philly.

But throwing all kinds of money at a problem is no guarantee of success—just look at Center City, Philly’s shining star, of all places. It has parts that still look like ghetto.

Maybe this place is past the point of saving?

[TWO]

5550 Ridgewood Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:50 P.M.

At the kitchen sink, Joelle Bazelon struggled to regain the strength in her knees, then moved as quickly as her legs and weight allowed. She came out of the kitchen and headed toward the sounds of scuffling at the front of the house. When she entered the living room, she came almost face-to-face with Xavier “Xpress” Smith. His left hand gripped Sasha’s right arm. He had a snub-nosed chrome-plated .32-caliber revolver in his right hand.

This was not Joelle’s first encounter with Smith. He’d grown up one block over, on Pentridge Street. A twenty-four-year-old black male