THIRTY-SEVEN

An hour later, Vicki and Reheema had successfully followed the black van from Devil's Corner through the city to a seamy section of Southwest Philly, on Getson Street, not ten blocks from Aspinall, where Browning lived. Dilapidated row houses lined the street, but lights shone from within some. Vicki could see that people lived here, but not as many or as middle class as the solid families of Devil's Corner. Fewer cars stood parked outside and many of the houses were dark shells, tall black rectangles that stood out like missing teeth against the lighted homes.

Vicki pulled into an empty space near the end of the street, about six houses down from the row house that Eagles Coat had gone into with his gym bag. As far as she could tell in the dark, the row house was number 8372 Getson; it was two stories of brick facade with a tumbledown front porch and snowy AstroTurf on its front steps. Lights were lit inside but curtains covered the windows. Getson Street stood silent except for the occasional car driving down it, and nobody walked dogs or set out trash; it was too cold or dangerous for anybody to be outside tonight. On one corner was a seedy bar, and at the corner opposite a lighted yellow sign read THE RITE SPOT; it hung over a mom-and-pop grocery store, with black bars covering the door and a smudgy plastic window, a bulletproof square of fluorescent light.

Vicki cut the ignition. "Maybe this is his work home, or whatever they call it."

"Yeah." Reheema looked around, sliding off her sunglasses. "This neighborhood isn't nice enough to be where he lives."

"Good, and it's only eight, he has to be still doing business tonight." Vicki double-checked the clock. "Maybe he'll even pay a visit to his connect."

"It's possible. You got the gun?"

"We won't need it."

"Probably not, it's not like they're violent or anything." Reheema smiled. "Is it still in your purse?"

"Not telling."

"Backpack?"

"No comment." Actually, Vicki had moved the gun to her left coat pocket, where it could shoot out an ovary.

"Have it your way."

"The plan is we wait and we watch. Then if we see Toner, we call the cops. Otherwise, we follow where they go and give that info to the cops."

"You sure you don't want to gimme my gun?"

"Absolutely not." Vicki eased back in the driver's seat, her adrenaline buzzing. It had been more exciting to follow the van than she wanted to admit and she became acutely aware of her body; the residual ache of the teenager's blows still hurt her sides, and she could almost recall the tenderness of last night, in bed with Dan. So much had happened in such a short time, since Morty had been killed. Vicki felt oddly as if she'd lived her entire life in one week and realized that perhaps she hadn't been living it well enough before.

"You should call your boyfriend. We don't want him calling later."

"Yeah, thanks. I'll make sure of it." Vicki retrieved her phone from her purse, covered the blue light so it didn't give them away, and pressed speed dial for Dan. His phone rang, then his voicemail picked up, and Vicki faked a light tone. "Hey, babe, I'm out shopping and ran into an old friend from law school, so I'll be home late. This new phone keeps cutting out, so if you can't get through, don't worry. See you way later or I'll call. Love you." She hit the Power button, turned off the phone, and slipped it back into her pocket. "Okay, we won't be interrupted."

"Good."

"Maybe I'll take some pictures." Vicki dug in the backpack, retrieved the camera, disabled the flash, and snapped away. She didn't know how much she could get in this low light level, but she was committed to the picture taking since it had actually paid off with Toner. Fifteen photos later, she had shot every scene she could conceivably take from the car. She set the camera down and watched the house with Reheema. No one left it or went inside. Eight o'clock became nine o'clock, and Reheema touched her arm.

"You awake?"

"Yep."

"I have to go to the bathroom. Do you?"

"Of course, we're girls. And I'm hungry." Vicki twisted around and eyeballed the grocery store and the bar. "I vote for the store. I'll bet they'll have a bathroom they'll let us use."

"If we go quick, we won't miss anything." Reheema tugged down her knit cap and got out of the car, as did Vicki, who grabbed her purse and joined her.

They crossed the street with a wary eye on 8372 and hustled together toward the grocery, like an urban version of Mutt and Jeff. Vicki felt the gun inside her coat pocket, which was when she realized that you couldn't shoot a gun in mittens anyway. They reached the store, and close up, Vicki could see it had once been glass storefront, now boarded up with plywood panels that were littered with old keystone-shaped stickers for the Pennsylvania Lottery, a faded picture of the cartoon camel smoking a cigarette, and a sticker that read WE ACCEPT FOOD STAMPS.

Reheema opened the door. "Make this fast. Stay with me."

"You my passport?"

"No, your bodyguard."

They entered the store, and the older salesclerk looked up. He was about sixty, with deep wrinkles, small dark eyes behind crooked bifocals, and a dour down tilt to his mouth. He wore a quilted vest in army green and a black sweatshirt, and he'd been reading the sports page of the Daily News, spread open on a grimy white counter that was almost engulfed by stacked cartons of cigarettes on the top, and on the sides by multicolored bags of Cheetos, Doritos, Snyder's Hard Pretzels, Rold Gold pretzels, Beef Jerky, and Fritos. The store was small, dusty, and smelled of the Newport he'd been smoking, resting in a filthy metallic astray with a beanbag bottom in incongruous tartan.

"Help you?" the salesclerk asked warily, eyeing them.

"We need to buy some food and use the bathroom, too."

"It's only for employees."

"Great, I need a job." Reheema slid off her knit cap like a hip-hop Joan of Arc and flashed him a beautiful smile. "When do I start?"

The salesclerk laughed, which ended in a single cough. "Oh, okay, young lady, it's in the back, past the cleaning supplies. Hurry up now, almost closin' time."

"Thanks," Reheema said, and the salesclerk waved her down the single aisle between a wall of Friskies and Tide detergent.

"Turn off the light when you're done," the salesclerk called after her, too late. "Don't nobody ever turn off the light."

"I bet," Vicki said, just to make conversation, feeling like she did at home, when her mother left her alone with her father. She pulled two crinkly bags of Lay's chips from the rack and set them on the counter. "You got any sandwiches?"

"No."

"Okay."

"If it's okay with you or not don't matter, 'cause we got no sandwiches. It's not like a 7-Eleven here, we don't got everything. It's just me here, I don't even own the place. Koreans own it."

"I see," Vicki said pleasantly, and continued buying stuff in hopes that the salesclerk would like her and, by extension, white people in general. She stacked Doritos, Fritos, and Cheetos on the counter in a pile of saturated fats, then went into the aisle for Chips Ahoy and Pecan Sandies, stalling until Reheema finally returned and the salesclerk brightened.

"You live around here?" he asked Reheema, as Vicki traded places with her and went down the cramped aisle to the employee bathroom. It turned out that the bathroom was just as lovely as she'd expected, and she got out of there quickly, hurrying back into the store, where she froze on the spot.

Buying a carton of Winstons, pushing two twenties across the counter next to Reheema, stood the teenager who'd almost shot her the night Morty was killed. He wore his Iversons and a black jacket instead of the satin Sixers jacket, but she would never forget that face.