"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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 h.e.l.l am not going to jail. I may never win another election. But I sure as h.e.l.l am not going to jail. He dumped the Range Rover in gear and sped away. 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. n.o.body 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.

He stared back at the pimpled face of a lanky kid who looked to be Asian and was maybe thirteen. The kid wore black slacks and a white shirt, and he held a trash bag and a four-foot-long trash-collecting device that he spun on his arm like some kind of nunchuck.

"Manager finds out," the kid said, "you're gonna have to pay twice."

Will Curtis nodded. He put his hands on the armrests and, when he leaned forward to push himself up to stand, suddenly felt a stickiness in the seat of his pants.

What?

Did I spill my drink when I fell asleep?

No, it's in the cupholder.

He stood. And then he smelled it.

Dammit!

That dream's warm fuzzy feeling was me s.h.i.tting myself!

G.o.dd.a.m.n greasy cheesesteak . . .

The kid now looked at him with a wrinkled, soured expression.

He went to the far side of the theater and, occasionally looking over his shoulder, began sticking the pole between the theater seats and pulling out discarded candy wrappers and paper cups.

As carefully as he could, Will Curtis made his way down the carpeted steps of the theater, then out into the corridor. He stopped, looked to the right, then to the left, and saw a pair of restrooms two screening rooms away.

He found the men's room empty. After grabbing some paper towels, he entered a stall, closing and locking the door.

He unb.u.t.toned his denim jacket, then reached under his shirttail to pull out the Glock. He looked around the stall but could not find a flat surface to put it on. And he could not simply set it on the floor as he had done at the church earlier in the day. Here the stall walls were a foot off the tiled floor, and anyone walking into the restroom would immediately see the gun in plain view.

And no doubt go screaming like a banshee into the corridor.

He looked from the floor to the back side of the door. There was a standard metal hook there, and he turned the gun upside down and slipped its trigger guard over the hook.

That works good.

He then undid his pants to inspect the damage.

He saw red.

That's a lot of blood.

Not good . . .

He kicked off his black athletic shoes, then slipped off the slacks and hung them by a belt loop on the hook. Then he peeled off his fouled underwear and wrapped it in paper towels.

He was now naked from the waist down, and he suddenly felt very cold, chilled to the core.

And then there was a rumble in his abdomen.

A half hour later, feeling clammy and completely spent, Will managed to dress himself and exit the stall.

Washing his hands, he looked in the mirror and truly didn't recognize himself. He was saddened by the ashen-faced, sickly old man staring back at him. He thought he looked worse than ever.

I know I d.a.m.n sure feel worse than ever.

And I keep pa.s.sing blood.

He dried his hands, then started for the door. Feeling dizzy, he took his steps carefully. At the door, he pulled it inward, then stopped.

d.a.m.n! The gun!

He retrieved the pistol from the toilet stall's coat hook, stuck it behind his belt buckle, then made his way out of the cinema and across the complex to the car park.

The white Ford minivan was where he'd left it, but the full-size SUVs that had been on either side were gone, as were half the vehicles in the lot.

He got behind the wheel and started the engine. Looking at the dashboard, he saw the small stack of the four remaining FedEx envelopes. He picked them up and flipped through them.

The first had a Last Known Address that was in far South Philly, almost to Philadelphia International Airport. The second was on Richmond, the other side of Kensington. The third was on Ontario, near Eighteenth Street. And the fourth was the Last Known Address that had been a dead end-the house that had burned to the ground.

The Richmond one is too close to here for tonight.

He flipped back and looked at the Ontario address.

That's Allegheny West, on the way home.

What the h.e.l.l . . .

He put the minivan in gear, flicked on the headlights, and drove out into the night.

He took Girard Avenue west to Broad Street-giving a wide berth to Jefferson and Hanc.o.c.k, where he'd shot LeRoi Cheatham earlier in the day-then drove north on Broad all the way to Ontario. There, he made a left.

Just before crossing over Germantown Avenue, Will considered pulling to a stop to reapply the FedEx signs to the doors of the vehicle. But he decided that the signage really didn't matter at night.

The guy is going to see the new white minivan and my uniform. That's enough.

And I really don't want them on the doors if the cops are still out looking for a white FedEx minivan.

Who knows what that r.e.t.a.r.d Michael told them?

Then, after this, I'll take Germantown home and finish the rest tomorrow.

Then he did pull over, but only to hit the overhead light and reread the waybill on the FedEx envelope. It had: JOSSIAH MIFFIN.

1822 W. ONTARIO STREET.

In his research at CrimeFreePhilly.com, Will Curtis had learned that originally it had been Miffin's girlfriend who'd turned in the thirty-year-old to the police. Miffin had been babysitting her eleven-year-old daughter at her house when she had left work early to surprise him.

And surprise him she had.

She walked into the living room carrying a store-bought angel food cake in a plastic to-go bag and a long slicing knife.

She found the two of them on the sofa.

He was teaching the girl how to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e.

The daughter, after quickly pulling on her pants, had loudly defended Miffin, declaring it all a simple misunderstanding. Using the vernacular of the street, she explained that Miffin had been teaching her self-stimulation only because he'd told her that it was very wrong for him to continue orally stimulating her with his tongue.

Her mother had responded to that information by also drawing from the street: She lunged for Miffin and tried cutting out his tongue with the angel food knife.

She failed, but did manage to slash a nasty gash on his left cheek in the shape of, oddly, a J.

After his arrest, Jossiah Miffin had been found guilty of indecent a.s.sault and corruption of a minor. (The mother claimed it had been self-defense that had led to the cheek cut.) Miffin was sentenced to probation, which included his getting and keeping a job, obtaining intense s.e.x-offender treatments, and maintaining absolutely no unsupervised contact with minors.

Having made no effort whatsoever to meet even one of the requirements of his probation, Miffin's Wanted sheet hit the Megan's Law list.

And it hit Will Curtis's Law of Talion pervert list.

On Ontario Street, just shy of Nineteenth Street and the SEPTA train tracks, Will Curtis slowed and started looking for 1822. It was d.a.m.n difficult on the dark street. Here, too, there were huge gaps where row houses had once stood. And he had to start with a known address and try to count from there to 1822, guessing how many ghost addresses there were between existing houses.

And this easily could turn out like that other address-nonexistent.

He was amazed that his decent middle-cla.s.s house was only a couple miles from this run-down ruin of a neighborhood. The houses were literally falling apart. And all the cars here were older models, some very much older, including the carca.s.ses of two that clearly had been wrecked and abandoned long before.

As the minivan rolled down the street, its headlights picked up an occasional address-and, twice, a group of young boys walking down the broken sidewalk, trying to stay in the shadows.

They look like they're up to no good.

He finally saw 1818 in the headlight beam, counted the gap next to that house as 1820, and decided the next ratty row house had to be 1822.

He stopped the minivan at what he presumed was 1824, parked, grabbed the envelope, peeled off his denim jacket, and got out.

As he looked at the darkened house-he could not see one light on inside-he now worried that this address may be deserted.

One step away from falling down and becoming a gap, too.