"Dude's name is Cicero," Kenny then said.

"Cicero?" Badde repeated. "A drug dealer named Cicero?"

"Uh-huh. I think it's Marcus Cicero. We just call him Cicero."

Badde looked at Williams, who shook his head, not recognizing the name.

"Okay, Kenny, here's the deal. I'll do even better than the thirty-five thousand."

"What's that?"

"I've got a forty-five-thousand-dollar payday for you."

"How much?"

"Ten Gs more than the thirty-five owed."

He was quiet another long moment.

"Okay, Rapp, you got my attention. Talk."

"You know the place where they found Reggie in Old City, Lex Talionis?"

"Uh-huh."

"You're aware that whoever took him there is eligible for a ten-thousand-dollar reward because Reggie had a long rap sheet?"

"Say what?"

Rapp Badde explained that, then said, "And it can be paid anonymously. So you could pop this Cicero guy, turn him in, and clear your debt, then get the reward."

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 rough 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.

Dammit!

That dream's warm fuzzy feeling was me shitting myself!

Goddamn greasy cheesesteak…

The kid now looked at him with a wrinkled, soured expression.

He went to the far side of the theater and, occasionally looking over his shoulder, began sticking the pole between the theater seats and pulling out discarded candy wrappers and paper cups.

As carefully as he could, Will Curtis made his way down the carpeted steps of the theater, then out into the corridor. He stopped, looked to the right, then to the left, and saw a pair of restrooms two screening rooms away.

He found the men's room empty. After grabbing some paper towels, he entered a stall, closing and locking the door.

He unbuttoned his denim jacket, then reached under his shirttail to pull out the Glock. He looked around the stall but could not find a flat surface to put it on. And he could not simply set it on the floor as he had done at the church earlier in the day. Here the stall walls were a foot off the tiled floor, and anyone walking into the restroom would immediately see the gun in plain view.

And no doubt go screaming like a banshee into the corridor.

He looked from the floor to the back side of the door. There was a standard metal hook there, and he turned the gun upside down and slipped its trigger guard over the hook.

That works good.

He then undid his pants to inspect the damage.

He saw red.

That's a lot of blood.

Not good…

He kicked off his black athletic shoes, then slipped off the slacks and hung them by a belt loop on the hook. Then he peeled off his fouled underwear and wrapped it in paper towels.

He was now naked from the waist down, and he suddenly felt very cold, chilled to the core.

And then there was a rumble in his abdomen. A half hour later, feeling clammy and completely spent, Will managed to dress himself and exit the stall.

Washing his hands, he looked in the mirror and truly didn't recognize himself. He was saddened by the ashen-faced, sickly old man staring back at him. He thought he looked worse than ever.

I know I damn sure feel worse than ever.

And I keep passing blood.

He dried his hands, then started for the door. Feeling dizzy, he took his steps carefully. At the door, he pulled it inward, then stopped.

Damn! The gun!

He retrieved the pistol from the toilet stall's coat hook, stuck it behind his belt buckle, then made his way out of the cinema and across the complex to the car park. The white Ford minivan was where he'd left it, but the full-size SUVs that had been on either side were gone, as were half the vehicles in the lot.

He got behind the wheel and started the engine. Looking at the dashboard, he saw the small stack of the four remaining FedEx envelopes. He picked them up and flipped through them.

The first had a Last Known Address that was in far South Philly, almost to Philadelphia International Airport. The second was on Richmond, the other side of Kensington. The third was on Ontario, near Eighteenth Street. And the fourth was the Last Known Address that had been a dead end-the house that had burned to the ground.

The Richmond one is too close to here for tonight.

He flipped back and looked at the Ontario address.

That's Allegheny West, on the way home.

What the hell…

He put the minivan in gear, flicked on the headlights, and drove out into the night. He took Girard Avenue west to Broad Street-giving a wide berth to Jefferson and Hancock, where he'd shot LeRoi Cheatham earlier in the day-then drove north on Broad all the way to Ontario. There, he made a left.

Just before crossing over Germantown Avenue, Will considered pulling to a stop to reapply the FedEx signs to the doors of the vehicle. But he decided that the signage really didn't matter at night.

The guy is going to see the new white minivan and my uniform. That's enough.