The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor 10)

They had taken their checks—most of the owners grumbling that PEGI paid them only pennies on the dollar for their properties, never mind that many of the houses had been genuine hazards and public nuisances, or damn close to it—and moved on.

They understood that they were powerless to fight the inevitable. And change was inevitable. They’d spent at least the last year looking at the looming twenty-one-story Hops Haus complex just three blocks to the south and right next to the fancy new Schmidt’s Brewery development.

The five holdouts, however, were not easily persuaded. They had protested every day, marching with signs and chanting, even as Turco’s crews and their heavy equipment created an intimidating environment while tearing down the rest of the block right up to their doorsteps.

The holdouts had even plastered home-printed handbills all over the neighborhood, including on the brand-new bright white signs at the four corners of the block. The handbills displayed a crude image of a black politician wearing a tiny black bow tie above the words: COUNCILMAN RAPP BADDE

WANTED!

FOR CRIMES AGAINST THE POOR & DISADVANTAGED OF PHILLY!

LAST SEEN STEALING HOMES & TEARING DOWN NEIGHBORHOODS!

HELP STOP HIM, OR YOURS IS NEXT!

But then Little Tommie had gotten the call that the holdouts had finally been dealt with, and that Turco Demolition and Excavation had the green light to reduce the remaining properties to rubble.

That call had come in two days earlier, after office hours on Friday afternoon, and it had been from some fellow who announced to Little Tommie that he’d been “tasked at HUD as the new expediter for PEGI projects.”

“He said we’re all good to go,” Little Tommie had told Bobby the Ballbuster after he’d hung up the phone. They were sitting in Turco’s office cutting the dust of the day with a couple glasses of Scotch whisky. “But I just turned that damn crane back in to the rental shop!”

Turco had then had to call and reserve another crane, a slightly smaller one that at least was cheaper than the one he’d just turned in. But he wasn’t overjoyed with the news that the earliest it could be available was Sunday noon.

“I hate working Sundays,” he’d said when he’d slammed down the receiver.

Now, from his seat in the cab of the rental crane, Bobby the Ballbuster could see a few of the protest signs the holdouts had carried. One that he could clearly see read: “Eminent Domain = Theft by Gov’t!” Another said “5th Amendment Yes!” and had the international symbol for “no”—a red circle with a red backslash—across the words “Philly HUD” and “PEGI.”

The signs were in the dirt beside the first two-story row house he was about to tear down using a four-thousand-pound forged-steel wrecking ball.

The pear-shaped ball was on a rusty hook at the end of the thick, heavy steel cable that hung from the tip of the crane’s sixty-foot-high boom. A secondary steel line attached to the top of the wrecking ball ran laterally to a drum right beneath the cab. The drum had a clutch that, when released, would allow the drum to turn freely—and the two-ton ball to swing like a pendulum. After the ball struck the building, the drum would reel it back so it could be released again to knock another hole in the structure.

And so on, until nothing remained but rubble.

Now aimed at the brick siding of the faded-red row house, the ball was positioned ten feet above the ground and directly in front of the cab’s windshield. Bucco could almost reach out and touch it.

Instead, he put his hand on the lever that worked the clutch on the lateral drum.

“What’re you waiting for?” Little Tommie said as he removed the cigar from his mouth and spat out a piece of tobacco leaf.

Bobby the Ballbuster threw the lever, and there came an ear-piercing metallic screech as the drum spun and the wire cable unspooled. The two tons of forged-steel wrecking ball swung toward the row house. The ball struck more or less on target—and sailed right on through the brick siding. The impact caused the ground to shake.

Bucco then threw the lever to engage the lateral line drum’s clutch. The crane’s huge diesel engine roared. There came another screech as the wire cable wound back on the drum. The pear-shaped ba

ll appeared in the pear-shaped hole it had made, then slowly returned to its position in front of Bucco.

“Go again!” Turco said impatiently.

Bucco threw the lever. The drum screeched and the ball swung, and the row house shook on impact.

This time, though, the kinetic energy punched a hole in the wall that was three times the size of the ball itself. Wood splinters flew. Turco dodged one of the small pieces that managed to fly all the way to the crane.

The crane’s diesel engine roared again as Bucco retracted the ball.

As it came out, they suddenly saw a small tan mongrel dog peering out of the big hole on the second floor. It had no collar. It looked around nervously, then jumped down to the ground, tumbling when it hit. The dog got to its feet, shook its head, and ran off as if it were on fire.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Bucco said. “I thought these houses were finally cleared!”

“Looked like a damn stray,” Turco said reasonably. “And now the mutt’s gone.”