Dead End Street (15 page)

I finished my sandwich, then reached for my phone. I should strike while the iron was hot, which translated to, find out now whether this idea has any chance of working, sooner rather than later, before I and other people devoted a lot of time to it. Speaking with Tyrone was a good place to start, if he was up to it—after all, he'd been shot just this week and couldn't possibly be fully recovered. I had never wanted to find out how many times or where he'd been hit, but at least I knew he had been alert and talking to me earlier in the week. If he was home recuperating, I could see him there, if he didn't object. If he didn't feel he could handle it, I'd just have to wait. As I had told my staff, there was no deadline for my idea. The city wasn't going to change quickly, and its problems were not going to go away.

Before I could change my mind, I called the number
that the detective had scribbled on the card. On the third ring, a man answered. “Tyrone? Is that you?” I asked.

“Yeah. Who's this?”

“It's Nell Pratt. From Monday?” Wow, that sounded dumb.

“Oh, Nell, I didn't recognize your voice. How you doing?”

“I'm fine. I'm more worried about you. You got out of the hospital yesterday?”

“Yeah, they let me out. I'm okay, but they gave me a list of stuff I'm not supposed to do, and most everything I want to do is on it.”

“Is anyone there to take care of you?”

“No, but I don't need help to just sit and stare at the television. I tried reading, but I kept falling asleep and then I had to read the same page over again. Did you need something?”

“It's not urgent, but this whole . . . episode got me thinking that maybe the Society hasn't done enough to, well, represent the whole of the city, including the run-down parts.”

“You've seen it,” he said bitterly. “What's to represent?”

Maybe he had a right to be bitter. He'd been trying to do something good, and he'd gotten shot for his efforts. “What the neighborhoods used to be, not what they are now.”

A moment of silence. “Go on,” Tyrone finally said.

“I was thinking about whether the Society could put together some neighborhood profiles that groups like yours could use to promote your vision of redevelopment. Using old pictures and stories, advertising, things like that, from our collections.”

When Tyrone spoke again, his tone was warmer. “I like it. You thinking of starting with North Philly?”

“Well, since we've got the public's attention”—for about a minute, at least—“it seems like a good place to start. When you're feeling up to it, can we get together and talk about it?”

“You free now? Because I'm going crazy sitting here staring at the walls.”

“Only if you're feeling strong enough.”

“Don't worry about me—I've survived worse. You know where I live?”

“The detective told me. You really want me to come over now?”

“Yes. My last painkillers have just kicked in, and they'll last maybe four hours tops, and then I'll fall asleep. Now's good.”

“Then I'll be there.”

It occurred to me that it might be a good idea to call James, since I assumed he expected to give me a ride home, and I wasn't sure where I'd be at quitting time. As near as I could tell, Tyrone lived in a neighborhood not far from the Art Museum, but I didn't know the streets there well. I called James's office number.

“Morrison,” he said absently.

“Pratt,” I shot back.

“Oh, hi, Nell—I wasn't expecting you to call. Problem?”

“No. I wanted to let you know that I'm going to go over to Tyrone Blakeney's home to talk to him about this neighborhood project.”

My statement resulted in a long silence from him. “You sure that's a good idea? Where's he live?”

I told him the address. “That's safe enough, don't you think?”

“I suppose. You want me to pick you up there?”

“I'm not sure how long I'll be there. I wanted to get things started, but he's just out of the hospital and on medication, so he may fade quickly. Why don't I call you when I know my plans?”

“All right. Later, then. Take care.” He hung up, all business.

I felt vaguely dissatisfied. In effect I had dutifully asked James's permission to go to this place, and he had grudgingly said yes. I resented having had to ask, although given that there was a crime involved and no one was sure whether Tyrone had been the target, there might be some risk attached. But how could I go on with my life looking over my shoulder all the time? I thought it would pass, but how long would that take?

I gathered up my things and told Eric, “I'm going to go talk to Tyrone Blakeney now.”

“Isn't he the man . . . ?” Eric asked anxiously.

“Yes, he's the one. He's out of the hospital and home now, and I wanted to discuss what the Society might be able to do to help him and his organization. I don't know how long I'll be gone, because I don't know how much he can take, so I may or may not be back before the end of the day. Oh, and I've alerted the FBI of my whereabouts, so they shouldn't be calling.”

Eric suppressed a smile. “Got it, ma'am. Be safe.”

I went downstairs, then walked over to Broad Street to catch a cab at the hotel there. Tyrone's address was too far to walk and too short a distance to take the subway, so a cab it was. It took only fifteen minutes to arrive at his home. It was, as Latoya had suggested, a pleasant neighborhood, shabby but not grubby—the houses looked well cared for, and the streets were clean and free of trash. Tyrone's door had a shiny brass knocker, which I used, and then I heard him call out, “Door's open.” It said something about a neighborhood when you could leave your door unlocked. I let myself in.

“Tyrone? It's Nell Pratt,” I called out once I was inside.

“Here,” he answered. I followed his voice to the living room on the right.

“You're looking better than the last time I saw you,” I told him, “and I'm not just saying that to be polite. How're you feeling?”

“Grateful, I guess. None of the bullets hit anything that mattered. It looked a lot worse than it was.”

There had been a
lot
of blood. I quashed that memory quickly. “It did look bad, not that I have a lot of experience in that area. I'm sorry about Cherisse. She seemed really invested in what she was doing.”

“She was. She was making a difference. So, I'd offer you something to drink, but that would mean I'd have to get up.”

I waved off his offer. “Don't worry about it—I didn't come all the way over here for a cup of tea. You want me to jump right in?”

“Please. Have a seat.”

I sat. “After seeing that neighborhood with you and realizing we—by that I mean the Society—have a stake in the place, I started wondering if there was something proactive we could do to help local efforts to clean up the neighborhoods and maybe make them viable again.” I went on to tell him the thoughts I'd had so far, explain what we had in our collections that might be useful, and mentioned that I'd asked my staff to look for materials that were relevant. Tyrone listened without comment until I was finished. “Well?”

“I think it's great. You know, neighborhood organizations get kind of caught up in what they're doing in the moment, without ever seeing a bigger picture. Mostly they're struggling to survive, so you can't blame them, but what you're suggesting could broaden our reach and put things in perspective for the public. Especially since, like you said, nobody remembers the way it was. People need to be reminded.”

“I'm glad you feel that way. I don't know what I can promise, because I'm not the person in charge of managing projects like this, and we don't do exhibits anymore. But I think I can sell it to the board and the staff, as long as none of our other programs suffer. Listen, one thing I was wondering—do you have any journalists, in print or online, on your side? We could use some public outreach, and the Society has kind of a limited appeal. I don't think our newsletter would reach the people you need.”

“Let me think on it—I might have some ideas. I should be back at work by next week, and I can ask around. But I like the way you're thinking.”

“Well, being shot at was a wake-up call, and I want to make it matter. I don't think I've met your wife—I understand she's in banking?”

“Investment banking—you know, bonds and stuff.”

“Do you think her company would have any information in their files? Demographics and that sort of thing? I understand that she was involved in the mayor's initiative a few years back.”

“Yeah, she was. That bond issue raised a lot of money. Most of it's been spent, but it hasn't been wasted, which is more than you can say for a lot of City funds. That's how we met, across the table.”

“So you've been doing this for a while? How would you grade your efforts?”

“A solid B, maybe. There's a lot that needs to be done, and it won't happen quickly, but we need people who can stay the course. Like me.”

He hadn't complained, but I thought Tyrone looked tired. “Well, that's all I had to say. Nothing works fast at our place, either, but I wanted to know that you thought it was a good idea before I took it any further. I'm still thinking it through and getting a handle on what resources we have.”

“Nell, I truly appreciate what you're trying to do, after what happened. Most people would want to put it behind them.”

“Well, maybe this is my way of working through it.” I stood up. “Look, I'll let you get some rest now. We can talk next week, all right?”

“Great, and thanks again. You can see yourself out, right?”

“Sure, no problem.”

Outside on the pavement I checked my watch: close to four o'clock. What was I supposed to do with an empty hour?

I decided to walk. I did need the exercise, and the fresh air, and the time to sort out my thoughts. I might as well head over to FBI headquarters and meet James there. If he was still busy, I could find myself a cup of coffee and sit and contemplate Independence Hall or the Liberty Bell. I could even shop at the stores of the Gallery along the way—I seemed to recall that it had been the result of an earlier city redevelopment project, and it had changed the face of Market Street in Center City. Or I could stop at the Reading Terminal Market, one of my all-time favorite places in Philadelphia, and pick up some stuff for dinner, since I knew I had a ride home. I tended to overshop when I was in that place, which made it hard to haul everything back on the train. Come to think of it, the whole Convention Center complex had been another public project, although the City had created a separate authority to manage the financing—Mitchell Wakeman, whose largesse was supporting the renovations at the Society, after I'd cleared the way for his favorite construction project in Chester County, had played a major part in that project. All in all, the buildings along Market Street demonstrated that a mix of public and private financing could make a real difference in a city. Now I needed to convince the citizens that the neighborhoods were worth investing in as well.

It was a fairly long walk, but I found myself pleasantly
tired by the time I arrived at the market. I allowed myself some time to ramble through the crowded aisles, admiring the rich variety of vegetables and fruits and fish and meat and so much more, trying to decide what I was in the mood for. I smiled at the young Amish women in traditional caps behind the counters. I ogled the absurd chocolate figures—really, noses?—before I looped back to the vegetable corner and stocked up on glorious clusters of fresh mushrooms, and herbs, and staples.

Halfway through I called James. “Hey, there,” I greeted him.

“You ready to go home?”

“Not yet. I'm at the Reading Terminal and I wondered if there was anything in particular you wanted to eat. Meat? Fish?”

“Get some of everything,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“My exact idea. I should be over at your place in about fifteen minutes, if you want to meet out front.”

“See you then.”

When we had hung up, I went back in search of dinner. And dessert. Life was looking up.

I found myself a seat on a bench in front of the building that housed FBI headquarters, overlooking Independence Mall, and arrayed my bags around me. I was definitely an upscale bag lady. Most people were busy catching trains and buses and eager to make their way home this Friday evening, and I amused myself with watching them.

Independence Mall had a checkered history. Independence Hall had obviously been there for a long time, but the empty green space in front of it had once been filled with other buildings—it had never been intended as a grand vista. That idea came later.

The park had been created in the 1950s—a venture supported by both the City and the state—and sadly, some of the early buildings, like what little had been left of George Washington's “White House,” for a decade or more the temporary national capital—had fallen to the
wrecking ball, razed in favor of green grass. Maybe that should make me feel better: even high-end history could be overlooked by those with later, different agendas. Besides, people would rather look at pretty vistas and tidy monuments than rubble foundations and what was left of outhouses. And where George Washington had kept a full staff of slaves. Funny how the history of history changed over time.

“Is there room for me?” I looked up to see James. “This looks like you're stocking up for a siege.”

“Not exactly. But there's stuff at the Terminal Market that I really like, that I can't get anywhere else. I splurged. Are we ready to go?”

“We are. You want me to carry some of this stuff?”

“Please.” I followed James to where he parked his car, and we loaded up the trunk. At this time of year it was easy to get out of the city, unlike summer, when it seemed that half the population of the eastern end of the state decided to head for the Shore, all at the same time. They never learned.

Once we had arrived on the highway, James asked, “How is Blakeney?”

“Better than I expected, I have to say, for someone who was shot multiple times only a few days ago.”

“What's that part of town like?”

“You should know better than I do—you lived over there for years, didn't you?”

“Yes, but I didn't walk around much, and I didn't know the individual streets.”

“Walking is the best way to get to know an area,” I
told him. “Anyway, his street, and the others I saw, were kind of genteel shabby. I'm inferring that his wife makes the money, since she works for one of those big-name investment banks, but that he would only compromise his principles so far. He'd have trouble being effective at what he does if he'd gone for a big house in a snobby neighborhood, no matter where the money's coming from. That kind of address alone would undermine his credibility.”

“Good point. What did he think of your idea?”

“I think he liked it. I didn't push hard, but I do want to keep moving forward on it. I did ask him if he had any friendly journalists in his back pocket—we would need some publicity.”

“You're excited by this whole thing.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, I am. Not just because of what happened this week, but because it feels like the right thing to do. Don't get me wrong—I love the work I do, and I love spending time with all our documents and artifacts. Sometimes it seems that there's this whole separate culture that doesn't leave the same kind of trail, but still deserves to be seen. And we can make it visible. It would be a good thing.”

“I can't argue with that,” James said.

I appreciated his support. I only hoped the board would be as willing. “Good. Tomorrow I want to dig into the mishmash of City agencies and see who does what, just so I understand it. I don't want to waste time and energy talking to the wrong people or reinventing the wheel. And then I should check the boards of those against our
membership list, although our people tend not to be political. Oh, I'm sorry—was there something you wanted to do this weekend?” I still wasn't used to having to incorporate another person into my weekend planning.

James didn't look particularly perturbed. “Nothing specific. How about this: You spend tomorrow researching and laying out your battle strategy, and then on Sunday we do something completely unrelated to either of our jobs?”

“I would like that, if we can figure out something that fits. Maybe a movie? As long as it doesn't involve anything historical or guns.”

“That could work.”

We had a lovely dinner that involved a lot of chopping of fresh vegetables and opening a new bottle of wine, and then retreated upstairs for other traditional pastimes.

*   *   *

The next morning I still believed that my neighborhoods idea held water—or maybe I meant held air, if this was my trial balloon. Hey, I was off duty: I could muddle metaphors all I wanted. I clambered out of bed, pulled on some comfortable sweats, and wandered down to the kitchen, where there was coffee waiting, bless James. He was sitting at the kitchen table, his rarely worn reading glasses perched on his nose, reading a section of the paper by the light streaming in from a window. How had I gotten so lucky?

“Morning,” he said, then went back to the paper.

“The same to you. Nice day. Did we ever get leaf rakes? Or a yard service?”

“No and no. Do you like to rake?”

“For about five minutes. I will hazard a guess that it will take more than five minutes to clear our yard.” Which, if I recalled the papers we'd signed, was about half an acre.

“I think that is a fair estimate. We will have to find a service.”

“I'll be online shortly—I can take a quick look. Although I have no idea what the this might cost.”

“I don't, either. We'll ask.”

I poured a cup of coffee for myself and set about making toast. “Do you happen to have met any of our neighbors? I can't say I've even seen them, although when all the leaves are gone they might be more visible. There aren't any retired Mafia dons or bank robbers on the block, are there?”

“Not to my knowledge,” James replied. “I haven't heard any kids around, either, so I'm guessing they're middle-aged and up. I do believe there are Peppers down the street, though.”

“As in Old Philadelphia Peppers? Bankers and lawyers?”

“Yes, those.”

“Good to know.” I buttered my toast. They were probably on the Society's contributors list, although that wasn't always the best way to introduce myself.
Hi, you sent us a nice check recently. Good to meet you.
Maybe, if we crossed paths, I could start with asking them what they knew about the history of our shared neighborhood.

After breakfast I settled myself in front of my laptop at the dining room table with a fresh cup of coffee and prepared to untangle the swamp that made up Philadelphia's
attempt to solve the slum/housing problems. It wasn't easy. There were at least five municipal landholding agencies involved, and I wasn't sure if anybody could sort out where their jurisdictions stopped and started. The City's Redevelopment Authority seemed to be the oldest, dating back to 1945, but it appeared to be on the wane. It had been formed to assemble parcels of lands, but that had become more difficult as laws had changed, and what had been a staff of more than three hundred in the 1980s had shrunk to barely more than sixty now. Sad to see, because they had had a good record in creating affordable housing and working with nonprofits to make it happen.

It was easy to get depressed just reading the history of some of these agencies. The City owned a lot of so-called surplus properties—but most of them were vacant lots, and the rest had long since been abandoned when the owners had found it would cost more to repair the places than they were worth to anyone. The Industrial Development Corporation had been founded in the 1950s, to foster public-private developments to provide financing programs for home buyers. There was a Housing Trust Fund that raised money for affordable housing development, home repairs and homelessness prevention (I wasn't sure what that meant). There was a Community Development Corporation Tax Credit Program that provided money directly to the community development corporations—was that what Tyrone's agency was? There was the Neighborhood Transformation Initiative, created by former Mayor John Street more than a decade ago to issue bonds through the PRA, which had a fair track record but had almost
exhausted its funding. Wasn't that the program that Tyrone had said his wife had helped to create? And then there was Licenses and Inspections's own Vacant Property Strategy, launched only a few years ago. I'd been in their offices, and they looked swamped.

I sat back and shook my head to clear it. So many agencies, so little coordination among them all. So many programs with potential, even with funding, created with such high hopes, now overwhelmed. One study I came across said that all these blighted properties cost the City more than twenty million dollars per year just to maintain, if you figured in police and fire protection, pest control, and waste cleanup. And all those City personnel had to do their jobs while ducking bullets. All that money just to try to prevent things from getting worse, not make improvements.

So what did little old me, with my little nonprofit museum with a minuscule budget, think I could do about it? Should we all just plan to write history to say,
and then Philadelphia went under, sunk beneath the weight of abandoned properties that bred crime and filth and pestilence
? I was doing a great job of depressing myself, but I hadn't come up with any solutions.

Then Marty called. “You busy?”

“Me personally, or both of us?”

“Whichever.”

“Then the answer is, yes and no. I've been looking at half a century of redevelopment efforts in the city of Philadelphia, and I don't like what I see. But I'm just about done with that. Did you want something?”

“So you've been wallowing in the slums. What about the Oliver place?”

“To be honest, I've been thinking about it, but not as much as the neighborhoods project. Has something changed?”

“I didn't give you the whole story before, but Penelope—the younger sister—isn't doing well, health-wise.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. Not that I was surprised; she'd seemed more frail than her older sister when we'd had tea with them.

“So you can understand that they'd like to get this whole thing resolved while they still have some options.”

“I can see that, but I haven't come up with a solution. How about you?” Marty knew everybody in the five-county area, including New Jersey, and their entire family tree, which often intersected with hers. If she couldn't come up with a buyer or manager or whatever, I couldn't begin to hope to. And this one wasn't even about the money.

“I've got some ideas, but nothing I'm ready to talk about. Want to get together for dinner tonight and kick it around?”

“Can James come play, too?”

“If he has to. I'm still not used to you having to check in with someone.”

“Get used to it. Besides, he provides a different perspective, which can't hurt.”

“If you say so. I'll come over around six, okay?”

“I guess.” I couldn't argue that I had other plans.

Marty hung up, and I wandered off to find James. “Marty has invited herself to dinner,” I announced when I located him moving boxes around in one of the unused
rooms on the second floor that would be a bedroom if it had a bed and no boxes.

“Okay,” he said cautiously. “Is that a bad thing?”

“She wants to talk about the Oliver house and what to do with it. And probably all the other stuff, although she didn't admit that.”

“You need me there?”

“I'd like you to be there, but that might be selfish of me. My head is still in the slums, and I have no brilliant ideas about what to do with an elegant mansion in the country.”

“They're two sides of the same coin, aren't they?” James said, leaning against a stack of boxes. “On the one hand, you have an area no one wants to live in, with no houses worth living in, where you risk your life walking down the street. On the other hand, you have a house built and furnished with the finest that money could buy in 1760-something or whatever, in a safe, pretty area, only nobody wants it—or not for the right reasons, from your perspective.”

“Well, I don't want to condemn it to be razed for a mall,” I said. “It might be better to put the mall in the city, from the citizens' point of view. Not the developers', though, I fear.”

“You're probably right. Isn't there some quid pro quo?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there nothing that requires a developer who wants to make big bucks off a high-end property like the Oliver house to invest equally in a disadvantaged area?”

“Different jurisdictions, I'd guess. The city is an entity unto itself—it's both a city and a county, as I'm sure you
know—and it may have its own guidelines, written or unwritten. Out in the wilds, it's not as clear-cut.”

“Are you worrying about funding? Permitting? Approval from the local municipalities?”

“Sure, all of the above. Even if a city or town can't or won't ante up any money—which, to its credit, Philadelphia has done—they still have the right to approve or reject projects.”

“What about coming at it from the developers' side?” James asked.

“They're in business to make money.”

“But your buddy Wakeman has principles—you saw that in Chester County,” James pointed out. “His project wasn't just about the bottom line.”

“But he's a special case,” I protested. “And I think we're square, since he funded our current renovation, so I can't exactly call in a favor.”

“All right. So Marty just wants to kick this around?”

“I don't think she has a plan, if that's what you're asking. Maybe we should include Eliot?”