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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 bastard 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 hell am not going to jail. 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. Nobody likes Stan Colt flicks that much.”

The movie star Stan Colt—real name: Stanley Coleman—promoted himself as being as roug

h 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.