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Except for what he’d just witnessed, there were no other visible signs of activity. No motion. And no lights. It took some effort, but he finally saw numbers on the wall beside the front door: 2505.
Hancock Street. 2505.
Keep driving! 2505 Hancock…
A few blocks north, he again pulled to the curb. He was just shy of Lehigh Avenue. His heart was pounding against his chest. He had to force himself to inhale, then to exhale.
He crossed himself.
Dear God!
To be so close to such evil!
El Nariz reached for the ink pen that was wedged into the vent on the dashboard. He found a scrap of paper.
He started to write “2505 Hancock Street” but found that his hands shook so badly he could barely read his own handwriting.
Does not matter.
I will always remember where that house is.
He reached for his cellular telephone and pushed the key that speed-dialed his wife’s phone.
When Se?ora Salma Esteban answered, he said with a shaky voice: “My love, please do not ask me any questions right now. Just listen-”
He paused at the interruption.
“Salma, please! Listen to me! Tell Rosario that I will be there in about twenty minutes. Tell her I will pick her up-”
He paused again.
“Yes, it is good. Now, please see that she is ready when I get there.”
FOUR
705 North Second Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:55 P.M.
As the bird flew, the distance from the Roundhouse to Liberties was about four thousand feet. During the very short drive in Matt Payne’s rental Ford sedan, Jim Byrth had said: “Two questions, Matt.”
“Shoot.”
“One, this is a rental, right?”
“Yeah. The insurance company is paying for it. Because my car got shot up?”
Earlier, Payne had related to Byrth the story of his shoot-out in the Italian restaurant parking lot. The one that had left his Porsche blasted by shotgun fire and sent into some sort of insurance adjustor hell. Which at more than one point had caused him to wonder:
It’s been a month. How damn long does it take to determine if it’s fixable or if they’re going to write me a check for a total wreck?
A check that no doubt will be as small as they can possibly make it.
Maybe that’s it. The older the car, the less it’s worth. So the longer they wait… But that’s absurd. I put no miles on it. And Porsches, particularly Carreras and Turbos, hold their value.
So then they probably don’t know what to do with it. Or with me.
Jesus, do I hate insurance companies.
“Right,” Byrth said. “But why are you using your personal vehicle on the job? None of my business; just idle curiosity how it’s done here.”
