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Six blocks after crossing Lehigh Avenue-which almost didn’t happen because he nearly got sideswiped by a damn rusty white Plymouth minivan that ran the red and then flew down Lehigh-Nesbitt approached the intersection of Dauphin and Broad. This was the outer edge of the neighborhood where Temple University served as somewhat of an anchor.

The light at Dauphin turned red. As he waited for it, he looked down the street. On the left he saw a series of retail chains-a McDonald’s fast-food restaurant, a Rite-Price pharmacy-and some mom-and-pop shops.

The man on the phone had said the laundromat was there, but he could not make it out.

And that’s another coincidence.

A laundromat. And Skipper.

Who is this guy?

He absolutely would not tell me what he wanted.

Except that it was “mucho important.”

The traffic light cycled. He crossed Dauphin and started scanning for the laundromat. At the next corner, which was Susquehanna, he saw a convenience store’s signage-TEMPLE GAS and GO. Next door to that, sharing a wall, was a brick-faced building that looked as if it recently had been renovated.

The brick was clean and bright, as if freshly sandblasted. There was a glistening glass door set in shiny aluminum framing. On either side of the new door were six large plate-glass windows, also similarly framed in aluminum, that were covered from the inside with what looked like brown wrapping paper.

As Nesbitt slowed the car, he read the announcement that was painted on the paper in bright festive colors: COMING SOON! ANOTHER NEW SUDSIE’S!

Under that, with lots of cartoonish foam overflowing from an oversize beer mug and a washing machine, was Sudsie’s’ marketing slogan: GET SLOSHED WITH US!

Nesbitt groaned audibly.

What were you thinking, Skipper?

About that and everything else?

He then pulled the M3 coupe into an empty parking spot at the curb around the corner.

When Chad Nesbitt got to the new front door of Sudsie’s, he saw that someone had posted a sign that read CLOSED-PLEASE COME AGAIN and an emergency contact telephone number. He didn’t recognize the number.

He hammered the door with a balled fist, but there was no answer.

He then pulled out his phone from the left front pocket of his pants. He thumbed keys to reach the RECENT CALLS menu, then highlighted the first call on the list. He hit the CALL key.

When the man answered, he said, “This is Chad Nesbitt. You asked to see me? I’m at the door.”

There was silence on the phone for a moment. Then Nesbitt saw the brown paper on the glass of the door pull back just enough for someone to peer out. There then came the sound of the front door being unlocked.

Nesbitt hit the END key, put the phone back in his pocket, and scanned the area. About all he saw were students coming from the Southeast Philadelphia Transportation Authority’s Susquehanna-Dauphin Metro stop. Some of them crossed the street, headed for McDonald’s before class.

The door, its hinges squeaking, opened not quite halfway.

Nesbitt saw standing there a five-foot-two Hispanic male. He was heavyset, with an enormously wide, flat nose. He looked to be maybe thirty.

“Come, come!” the man anxiously told Nesbitt, waving him in.

Nesbitt did. The man looked nervously up and down the sidewalk before closing and locking the door.

Chad Nesbitt looked around the brightly lit, newly renovated laundromat. It was obvious to him that this was Skipper Olde’s work, that this was one of the locations they had acquired in the package deal. There were lines of brand-new commercial-quality washers and dryers in the walls, and positioned neatly against the back of the room at a long tan linoleum counter were waist-high thick-wire baskets on heavy-duty casters.

The man walked up to him and held out his hand.

“Senor Nesbitt, mucho gusto. I am Paco Esteban.”

“Paco,” Nesbitt said shaking his hand, “you want to tell me now what the hell’s going on here?”