Deadly Assets (10 page)

He pointed at his writing on the legal pad.

“Dial.”

Stein grunted as he picked up the telephone receiver and began punching in the number.

“This damn well better work,” he said.

[ FOUR ]

East Somerset and Jasper Streets, Philadelphia

Saturday, December 15, 2:15
P.M.

“We really shouldn't do this, man,” Dan Moss said, staring out the car window as they drove through the area known as Kensington. “You know how many people get shot around here? I saw it on the news.”

The pudgy seventeen-year-old Moss had shaggy dark hair and a round face with an angry red pimple on the bridge of his nose that looked as if it could burst at any moment. He turned in the front passenger seat of the five-year-old silver Volkswagen Jetta and looked at the driver.

Billy Chester, a wiry eighteen-year-old, had a bony face with birdlike eyes and a narrow nose, and kept his short strawberry blond hair spiked. He had met Dan Moss in a computer code writing class when they were high school freshmen.

Both now were wearing faded blue jeans and sneakers. Billy had on a gray fleece winter jacket while Dan wore his Upper Marion Area High School sweatshirt, a navy blue hoodie with gold stenciled lettering on the chest:
PROPERTY OF UMA VIKINGS ATHLETIC DEPT
.

“Aw, c'mon and chill out,” Billy said, his tone frustrated. “The girls said they wanted some weed. You going to tell them we couldn't score any?”

Dan couldn't believe how calm Billy was acting. The Kensington neighborhood looked like a war zone. They were a long way from the clean streets and tidy lawns of their homes in the suburb of King of Prussia. Too far from Dan's comfort zone. He thought the fifteen miles might as well have been fifteen thousand.

They had driven down expressways, the Schuylkill to Vine Street to the Delaware, along the way passing the impressive glass-skinned skyscrapers and other expensive real estate that made up Center City. Ten minutes later, just north of Center City, Billy had exited the Delaware Expressway at Westmoreland, then taken that to Frankford Avenue and made a left. Then, at Somerset, he'd hung a right and announced in a confident voice that it was only a few more blocks.

“Man, we just keep getting into worse and worse streets,” Dan said.

The overcast sky, a dark blanket of thick clouds, added to the gloom.

He yanked the navy blue hood over his head while sliding lower in his seat and staring out the bottom edge of the window at a pair of burned-out row houses.

“I've never seen so many boarded-up places,” Dan went on, almost in a whisper. “I heard on the news they're called zombie houses, 'cause they look like only zombies could live in 'em.” Then he turned and looked at Billy, and in a louder voice said, “Why don't we just go get some beer, maybe even a bottle of Jack. We can hang out near the state store, and when one of those illegal migrants comes out, we'll pay him to go back in and get us a bottle.”

Billy looked over and saw that Dan was highly anxious, his legs moving rapidly up and down as he looked out the window.

Billy laughed. “Dude, we can always do that. Don't worry. This is an adventure . . .”

An adventure?
Dan thought.

“. . . I've done this same thing four, five times. Seriously. It looks worse than it is. These guys just want to make a buck.”

After a long moment, Dan said, “So, how's it work?”

“Just like the drive-through window at a fast-food place.”

“What? You shitting me?”

Billy shook his head.

“You pull up to the corner,” he explained, “and crack a window. Dude is working the corner. He comes up and you give him your order. Then he takes the money and signals a guy who's sitting on the stoop at the end of the block. Then you drive down to the other guy, who then is coming back from wherever they stash the weed. He comes up to the window, passes you the stuff, then you drive off. Fast food, fast weed. And I'm gonna super-size our order, so we can sell one zip to pay for ours.”

“It's that easy?”

Billy nodded.

“Yep. That easy. We'll be out of here and back home in no time. Hell, we can even swing by the state store if you want.”

—

They made a right turn, onto Jasper Street. There were two black men standing on the corner, each looking in different directions, scanning the street, then turning and talking with the other. Dan couldn't tell for sure but the skinnier of the two did not look much older than he and Billy. They wore dark jeans, high-top boots, and heavy winter coats over cotton hoodie sweatshirts, one black and one gray. The skinny one had the gray hood covering his head. The big guy had his shaved head exposed. Both had their hands in the belly pockets, stretching them.

As Billy drove toward the corner, the skinny one nudged the big guy with his elbow, gestured with his head toward the approaching car, then started down the sidewalk.

Billy rolled to a stop at the curb, then let down his window halfway.

The big guy leaned toward the window, then brought out his left hand, his fingers gripping the top of the open window.

Bet that other hand's got a gun,
Billy thought.

The big guy's scalp and forehead glistened. His face was coarse, the skin pitted. His eyes were bloodshot, cloudy, dull. They darted from Billy to Dan then to the backseat then back to them.

“What up, bro?” Billy said.

The big guy glared at him. “I ain't your homey. What you want?”

“I was here last month. You remember?”

“No,” the big guy said, shaking his head. Then he let out a big laugh. “All you white boys from the 'burbs look the same!”

When he laughed, Dan saw that the guy's teeth looked like they were rotting. In his mind, photographs from a school textbook popped up.

Meth mouth,
he thought, remembering that the caustic chemicals used in the making of methamphetamine literally disintegrated enamel, reducing teeth to black stubs.

The guy suddenly jerked his head to look over his shoulder. Then he looked back, first staring at Billy then at Dan.

“Who's this guy?”

Dan's stomach knotted.

He's looking at me really weird. I don't like it.

“My buddy,” Billy said. “He's all right.”

The guy turned back to Billy.

“How I know he ain't Five-Oh?” He narrowed his eyes. “Hell, how I know
you
ain't working for the man? Or trying to rip me off.”

“Look. I just want some more weed.”

The big guy looked at Billy a long moment. Then he jerked his head to look over his shoulder again as he said, “You want wet? I got wet.” He looked back at Billy. “Good shit. Fuck your head right up.”

“What's wet?” Dan said.

Billy quickly motioned at Dan with his right hand as a signal for him to shut up.

“No wet,” Billy said. “Just plain weed.”

The big shaved glistening head nodded. “Okay. How much?”

“Two zips. You got that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What're you getting for it? Same as before?”

“A zip be a buck-fifty.” He said it
buck-fitty
.

“One-fifty for an ounce. Right?”

“What the fuck I just say?” He made a loud grunt, as if he were disgusted or impatient or both. He suddenly grinned. “Yeah. Unless you wanna pay more.”

A regular comedian, this guy,
Billy thought as he reached down for his worn fabric wallet in his lap. He tugged at the Velcro closure, making a ripping sound as it opened, then pulled out four fifties and five twenties. He folded the stack of bills twice and slid it to the top edge of the window.

“That's three hundred.”

“Better be.”

Billy knew it'd be counted before he reached the delivery point. He'd be damn stupid if he tried shorting the big guy. He'd just keep Billy's money. That, and maybe worse.

The wad of cash disappeared in the big guy's left fist, which he then stuffed in the belly pocket of his sweatshirt as he straightened up and stepped back from the car. His left hand then came out of the pocket with a tiny walkie-talkie.

He looked down at the far end of the street. Billy and Dan looked there, too, as they heard the guy say into the walkie-talkie, “Two green Zs.”

They saw the skinny guy down on the corner lowering his left hand from his ear, then motioning to a young kid who was sitting on the crooked dirty concrete stoop of a row house. The kid, who looked maybe ten, then got up and disappeared behind a chain-link fence gate.

“All right, Little Man down there will fix you up,” the big guy said, then turned and went back to his corner.

Billy put the car in gear. It slowly began to move.

After a moment, Dan shook his head.

“Damn! You see how much he was sweating?” he said, nervously glancing back at him. “Like it was the middle of summer!”

“And paranoid. That's why I shut you up. That's the wet.”

“The sweat?”

“The
wet
—it's weed, or sometimes just a cigarette, that's been laced with PCP. That angel dust makes them sweat, yeah, but it really makes them crazy.”

“Huh,” Dan said, then in a mocking tone added, “‘Good shit. Fuck your head right up.' Yeah, right. That's why they call that crap hallucinogens.”

The car, its tires crunching on the snow, pulled to a stop at the end of the block. Billy put the gear shift in park.

The man on the corner stood staring at them.

“Is he going to get the dope or what?”

“No. He's the lookout. Watching for cops. And he makes sure no one messes with the kid and the stash.”

How does he know all this?
Dan thought.

He really must come here a lot.

The kid then reappeared from behind the fence. He carried something wrapped in a white plastic grocery bag.

“So, the kid hands over the dope? What's up with that?”

Billy shrugged. “I guess they think the cops won't bust a kid.”

The boy reached the car and went to slip the bag through the open window.

“Thanks, man,” Billy said, taking the bag and stuffing it in his coat pocket.

He then noticed the skinny guy on the corner was fast approaching.

“Oh, shit!” Billy blurted.

“What?” Dan said, looking. Then, “Oh, shit!”

Dan was staring at the muzzle of the black revolver pointing through the gap of the open window.

“Don't you fucking make a move!” the skinny guy said. “Get outta the car!
Now!
”

Billy turned off the engine. He started to pull out the key from the ignition.

“Leave the key!”

Billy yanked back his hand. Then he and Dan slowly opened their doors and got out, taking careful steps on the snow.

The guy gestured with the pistol at them and nodded toward the boy.

“Get on the sidewalk. Give him your phones and wallets.”

When Dan came around the car, the little kid laughed and pointed at Billy. Dan looked. The crotch of Billy's jeans was wet.

Damn! He pissed himself.

The kid took their wallets and phones.

The skinny guy said, “Somerset El's two blocks that way. You be in Center City in fifteen minutes.”

“What?” Billy said, incredulous. “Take the train?”

“Get the hell outta here! And listen. You call the cops? I come and find your ass. I got your address on your IDs. You don't want me in your hood.”

“Snitches get stitches! End up in ditches!” the kid blurted, almost as if rehearsed, then disappeared with their phones and wallets back behind the chain-link fencing.

Dan started to back away slowly.

Billy, looking terrified, stood frozen. He stared at the guy.

“Billy,” Dan said, and when there was no reply, he shouted: “Come on, Billy! Let's go!”

The skinny guy waved the gun at Billy and said, “What you looking at? You hear what I said?”

Then Dan couldn't believe his eyes.

It all happened at once, and in slow motion—the loud
Bang-Bang-Bang!
, the bright flashes of fire from the muzzle of the weapon, and then Billy grabbing at his chest and staggering back and finally falling and then not moving.

And then the blood flowing, running from his neck and open mouth, and saturating his shirt and fleece jacket.

Dan took one step toward Billy—then saw the guy swing the gun, its muzzle still smoking, and aim it in his direction.

Dan rapidly shuffled his feet to back away, slipped and hit the sidewalk, then finally got traction just as the guy fired a round at him. Dan crawled around the corner, onto Hart Lane, then got to his feet. He took off down the sidewalk as he heard two more shots going off behind him—the bullets ricocheting off the street not fifty feet away.

—

After running two blocks down Hart Lane, Dan stopped. He breathed heavily, the cold air making his lungs burn. He looked back. No one followed.

He put his hands on his knees, leaned forward, and shook his head, trying to clear it.

Damn it! He killed Billy! What the hell?

He crossed his arms over his stomach and dipped his head. He then lunged forward, trying to reach a patch of dirt off the sidewalk. He didn't make it. There then came a deep guttural sound as he threw up, the vomitus splattering against the base of a flight of concrete steps, some of it splashing back on his shoes and jeans.

When the spasms stopped, he spit on the sidewalk and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Now what? I can't go back.

I can't call for help. He's got my phone.

And if I did, he's got our wallets. My license has my damn address.

He knows where I live . . .

The foul acidic odor floated up to him, burning his nostrils and triggering his gag reflex. He fought it back, turning his head and quickly breathing in fresh air. His brain felt as if it were spinning.