The worst of the worst had gone straight to the temptations of the street, and there drawn the real-world version of a Monopoly game card: GO STRAIGHT TO JAIL, DO NOT PASS GO.
Punks such as Xavier “Xpress” Smith, who got his nickname selling crystal methamphetamine, and delivering it fast.
Except they didn’t always stay in jail.
III
[ONE]
Loft Number 2180 Hops Haus Tower 1100 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:48 P.M.
The irony was not lost on Matt Payne. Here, at almost the stroke of midnight on All Hallows’ Eve, he was headed for Liberties Bar to spend time talking about some goddamn bad guys who were stupid enough to get themselves murdered.
What a shitty way to spend a holiday.
Even more to the point: especially when my other option was staying in that wonderful bed with the goddess.
Who, all things considered, would really rather have me there than here.
He felt his phone vibrate twice, and when he looked at the screen, there were two text messages, the first from Amanda—“Be safe out there, baby”—and the second from Mickey O’Hara—“Where the hell are you?”
He had a mental image of Amanda walking Luna on the leash out to the grassy area that the Hops Haus Tower called “the Pet Run.” Matt had started calling it “Piss Park,” which was the nicer of the two nicknames that had come to mind. He was convinced that the tower’s four-legged residents outnumbered the two-legged ones—the vast majority of the latter, it appeared, by both sight and smell, choosing to ignore the Pet Run’s garbage can, roll of disposable plastic bags, and sign reading PLEASE PICK UP AFTER YOUR PET.
As he texted “See you soon, sweetie” back to Amanda, he was reminded again of the “obituary.”
She’s always going to be concerned.
It’s sweet. And it’s somewhat worrisome—because what happens if she doesn’t get over that?
Then again, what the hell happens if she’s right?
He texted a reply to O’Hara: “5 mins out . . . order me a Macallan 18.”
If nothing else right now, Payne did find himself enjoying the energy of those celebrating Halloween. The infectious laughter and vibrant music coming out of the bars along Second Street could be heard damn near all the way back to Amanda’s place.
Most everyone he’d seen up and down the sidewalks, pub crawling, was having one helluva Halloween. In the elevator and the lobby of the Hops Haus Tower, Payne had come across quite a few twenty- and thirtysomethings in Halloween costumes, some of which were quite interesting—if not totally wild. Such as the one worn by the cute, well-built blonde in her early thirties who was having difficulty opening one of the big glass doors at the lobby’s main entrance. She was dressed as Little Bo Peep. But her scant, frilly, white-and-baby-blue outfit, the ruffled skirt cut high and the push-up top cut low, was anything but G-rated. The costume gave the character a whole new meaning, especially when she kept bending over to pick up her sheepherder’s staff and the outfit revealed far more than an eyeful of lovely flesh.
Bo Peep, 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.