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And Lord knows so much of it needs renovation.

Too many parts are a living hell.

That gave some hope to a lot of people—including Matt—who feared that Philly, with all its crime, corruption, and broken infrastructure, was circling the goddamned drain.

Payne knew that supporting the gentrification was one of the reasons Amanda Law bought a place in Hops Haus Tower rather than one in Center City, where Payne had his small apartment. She liked the idea of renewal and rebuilding. The location wasn’t any closer to her work—the difference would have been only minutes—but she believed that it was a vibrant place where for too long there had been little more than misery.

And the fact that Philadelphia—the city Matt loved but knew so many others loved to hate—had been allowed to reach such depressing depths was something that frustrated him.

How in hell does the city that’s the birthplace of the most important law of our land—the United States Constitution—become one of our nation’s most lawless?

And one of our nation’s most fucked up?

How does that get fixed?

How do we get back that honor and pride?

He shook his head.

Could the answer be found here?

Two major speculators, one who built Hops, the other who developed Schmidt’s, had both denied for nearly a decade that they were at all interested in a lost cause like Northern Liberties.

But once one of the speculators had quietly pieced together enough property to begin a development, the renovation had begun on the Schmidt’s Brewery building. Then, like a Phoenix rising above the ashes of Philly’s Northern Liberties, additional two-story buildings went up, filled with expensive apartments, stores, restaurants, and, of course, office space.

Then, when that development had proved a success, the owner of the Hops Brewery site began his renovation project. And soon the twenty-one-floor Hops Haus Tower also had risen, well above Schmidt’s.

People want to save this city, want to preserve its history.

And there’s damn sure plenty of it. All over Philly.

But throwing all kinds of money at a problem is no guarantee of success—just look at Center City, Philly’s shining star, of all places. It has parts that still look like ghetto.

Maybe this place is past the point of saving?

[TWO]

5550 Ridgewood Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:50 P.M.

At the kitchen sink, Joelle Bazelon struggled to regain the strength in her knees, then moved as quickly as her legs and weight allowed. She came out of the kitchen and headed toward the sounds of scuffling at the front of the house. When she entered the living room, she came almost face-to-face with Xavier “Xpress” Smith. His left hand gripped Sasha’s right arm. He had a snub-nosed chrome-plated .32-caliber revolver in his right hand.

This was not Joelle’s first encounter with Smith. He’d grown up one block over, on Pentridge Street. A twenty-four-year-old black male with a short temper, he had a hard, mean face and wore baggy denim pants that hung so low that half of his brown boxer shorts were visible, a T-shirt, a zipper-front hoodie, and a New York Mets ballcap, the brim worn sideways over his right ear, in which a diamond stud twinkled.

Sasha

cried, “I didn’t see him hiding in the dark by the porch, Grammy!”

“Shut up, bitch!” Smith shouted at her.

As she’d done with so many students over so many years, Joelle carefully studied the punk. Though he had a pistol and was waving it, he wasn’t directly aiming it at anyone.

She saw that his eyes were bloodshot, his movements jerky and hyperactive.

He’s on something, she thought.

“You will not speak to my granddaughter in that manner,” Joelle said in her crisp English accent, as calmly and authoritatively as she could. She felt as if her rapidly beating heart was about to burst through her chest.

Smith tried to stare her down.