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