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“Reggie’s dead!” he’d repeated.
“You made that perfectly clear the first time. How?”
“Jack called and said that the police came by the house. He had to go down to wherever they take killed people—”
“The Medical Examiner’s Office,” Badde had provided.
“—yeah, that was it. He had to go down, say if it was Reggie or not. It was. And Jack said he’d been beat up really bad. And choked to death.”
“I’m sorry, Kenny,” Badde said, trying to sound like he meant it.
“And now they gonna come after me, man!”
“Listen to me, Kenny—”
“Rapp, they gonna do the same to me!”
“Kenny—”
“I need that money bad, man! And now it’s thirty-five.”
Thirty-five thousand dollars? Badde had thought. Damn!
“I thought you said it was thirty large!”
“It was. Now they added more interest. And a penalty for having to deal with Reggie.”
“Where are you now?”
“Uh, in West Philly.”
“How soon do you need the money?”
“Like yesterday?”
Badde had taken a long time to consider all that, then he’d said, “Listen to me carefully, Kenny. I’ll start working on the money. You stay there out of sight.”
And that’s when Badde had tried to call Roger Wynne. He planned to tell Wynne to make sure Kenny stayed in the row house basement. But he’d been routed to Wynne’s voice mail, and instead left a terse message: “Call me immediately. Extremely important.”
And then Badde had called an old acquaintance, saying he knew the whereabouts of a fugitive who could easily be grabbed and asking if maybe the acquaintance had a friend who might be interested in making ten grand for turning in the bastard.
The Vine traffic finally cleared at the Schuylkill Expressway, which Badde followed to Walnut Street. He took Walnut through the heart of the University of Pennsylvania campus—honking when delayed by strolling students—and all the way out to South Sixtieth. There he turned down Sixtieth and followed it the fourteen blocks to where it intersected with Catharine Street.
His West Philly campaign headquarters was on the northeast corner of the intersection, directly facing the funeral home across the street.
The row houses in this neighborhood were fairly large—four- and five-bedroom, with three levels totaling up to three thousand square feet. They were set far back from the wide two-way street and tree-lined sidewalk, each with a concrete walk that had two tiers of steps leading up to a wooden front porch. The homes were fairly nicely maintained, their yards mostly kept trimmed.
When Badde shut off the engine and looked to the campaign house, he saw that Roger Wynne was already coming down the first tier of steps of the long walkway. Nailed to the porch railing behind him was a campaign poster: MOVING PHILLY FORWARD—VOTE RAPP BADDE FOR CITY COUNCIL.
Wynne—a short, pudgy, mostly bald thirty-year-old who wore blue jeans, a tan cardigan sweater over a black T-shirt, and tan open-toe sandals with black socks—had a look of concern as he puffed heavily on the pipe he held in his left fist.
Badde thought that he could easily see Wynne teaching a political science course at the University of Pennsylvania—which Wynne had done until tiring of the struggle for tenure and going to work for Rapp Badde as a “political advisor” while continuing to teach part-time at U of P. Badde was not nearly as impressed with Wynne as Wynne was with himself, but felt that he served some purpose in helping Rapp get legitimate votes—and keeping any questionable ones quiet.
Wynne pulled the pipe from his teeth as he offered Badde his hand.
“Good to see you, Rapp,” he said. “Sorry to make you come all the way out here.”
Badde shook the hand and said, “Miserable damn day to be out driving. But you said it was important.”
