Dead End Street (16 page)

“If she'd wanted him here, she would have invited him,” James said. “Or invited us to her place. Or something.”

“Trouble in paradise, do you think?”

“No, I do not, and don't go looking for trouble.”

“Yes, dear,” I said demurely. “What are we having for dinner?”

Marty arrived on time. James opened the front door to her. “It's a pleasure to see you, Martha,” he said solemnly. I could barely hear them from the kitchen, where I was still chopping things.

Marty snorted. “Yeah, right. I invited myself. You didn't say no, so here I am.”

“Well, come in anyway,” James told her, smiling. “We're going to eat in the kitchen.”

“Suits me.” Marty walked past him and headed for the kitchen. “I brought peace offerings,” she said to me, handing me a bottle of wine and what was unmistakably a pastry box. She knew me well.

“Thank you. You weren't disrupting any plans, you know. I spent most of the day trying to figure out who runs what in Philadelphia housing and neighborhood
development, and then I tried to explain it all to James. How'd I do, James?”

“As well as can be expected, given that you're dealing with Philadelphia,” he said. “I'll open the wine.”

“Smart man,” I told him as I sautéed onions. “So, Marty, did you merely want to see our smiling faces, or did you have something you wanted to talk about?”

“Both, of course. But mainly the Oliver house.”

I swallowed a sigh. “I haven't really had time to think about it. As I told you, I've been digging into what I'm calling the neighborhoods project. And I guess that means that I think it's the more important problem.”

“That's what I figured. Don't worry, I get it. I know you talked with Eliot about it, and he's a great resource. By the way, he approves of what you're trying to do. I'm probably in a better position to work on the Oliver situation. I've been going over our donor lists, and I've come up with a few ideas. I hope. I told you on the phone, Penelope Oliver is not well, and she'd really like to see a solution in place before she passes.”

“I can't blame her, and I hate to disappoint a dying woman. What've you got?”

“Edward Perkins.”

“Edward . . . oh, you mean Alice's uncle. Why him, out of all our members?”

Marty started ticking off points on her fingers. “Because he's been a good supporter of the Society for years. Because he's got lots of money, although that's not enough by itself—and no, he doesn't want to buy the Oliver place himself. Because he knows a lot of people, and he can be
persuasive—you hired Alice, didn't you? Because he loves history of all kinds—he's not prejudiced about the big, bad city. Heck, he still has a gorgeous town house off Rittenhouse Square, although he doesn't spend as much time there as he used to. You want more?”

“Uh, no, I get the picture. But what are you suggesting?”

“I don't know yet. But he's the best person I can think of to start with. And he knows how to get things done, quietly.”

Edward Perkins was, in fact, the ideal member/donor/supporter. He didn't throw his weight around, but he was often a steadying presence at meetings. While he was not on the board—not for lack of invitations!—he knew those who were and how to sway them. Hiring his niece Alice, which he had suggested, had not been a hardship. She was a bright, capable young woman. I had no expectations that she would remain at the Society for long, but she was more than pulling her weight while she was with us. If he counted our hiring her as an intern as a favor, all the better—but we probably would have hired her anyway.

I was turning over possibilities in my mind when Marty interrupted. “You going to talk to your pal Wakeman?”

“I don't know. James kind of hinted at the same thing. I hadn't planned to because he's already done us a huge favor. But I'm not going to approach him before I come up with a concrete plan—one that will make financial sense to him. He's a practical man, and he's going to want specifics.”

“Fair enough. You talk with Tyrone?”

“I did.” I added tomatoes to the sizzling pan on the
stove and turned down the heat, then started opening jars and sniffing spices to see what appealed to me.

“What's your take on him?”

“As a person? As a community planner?” I wondered if I should share Latoya's comments with Marty, and decided to stick to generalities.

“Whatever you think is important. You're the one proposing to work with him.”

“I think he's smart, and he's committed to what he's doing. He's not in it for the money—but his wife makes plenty of that—or for the personal glory. He came from North Philly, and he wants to give back. I think we can work together.”

“Wow, that's quite a summary after spending, what, an hour or two with him,” Marty said.

For some reason that annoyed me. “You don't think I'm a good judge of character? Or do you know something about him that I don't?”

Marty sensed my annoyance and raised both hands. “Hey, I didn't mean anything. I guess I'm used to you being more cautious.”

“Well, maybe I had some of that knocked out of me this week. Life is short—why wait? Either he's a good guy or he isn't. As far as involving the Society, I'm doing my homework first, before committing our resources. Is that all right with you?” I had to wonder why I sounded so testy.

“Peace. Jimmy, help me out here.”

Jimmy had managed to stay out of the discussion so far, but he couldn't ignore Marty's direct appeal. “Who, me?” he said in mock innocence. “I trust Nell's judgment.
Although I will state for the record that I'm not happy with her putting herself at risk.”

I put the lid on the skillet before turning to face them both. “Where the heck is the risk? And are you saying that I should wrap myself up in cotton wool and stay in my office forever? Calling my minions to do my bidding when I want to see a particular document? I'm not that fragile, you know, so I get to decide what I want to do. I can't imagine anyone would want to hurt me.” Still, the image of bullets smashing through car windows and blood spattering was hard to erase. But that wasn't about me—was it? I took a deep breath. “I apologize. I guess I'm still on edge. But I do think this is important, and I think Tyrone and I are on the same page. Can we talk about something else now? Read any good books lately, Marty?”

Marty and James exchanged a glance, but the talk turned to safer topics. We frittered away the rest of the evening enjoying each other's company, carefully avoiding any sensitive issues. Marty left about ten, and James went through the front of the house, locking up, turning off lights. When he came back, he poured what was left of Marty's bottle of wine into our glasses. “Martha is not going to let go of this Oliver house thing, you know.”

“Yes, I know. She is tenacious, and I think she feels an obligation to the family. But if she wants to take the lead in sorting that out and let me handle the other thing, that works out just fine. Damn, the board meeting is next week, and I doubt that we'll have either plan ready to present to them.”

“I think
plan
might be an exaggeration at this point,” James noted.

“I know, I know. There is pressure of a sort for the Oliver house that we can't control—Penelope's health. I liked both the sisters, and I'd love to be able to come up with a solution for them, but I don't know if I can, and certainly not quickly. As for the other, it's not a new problem, so nobody is expecting a quick fix. Where the Society could fit still isn't completely clear to me. Tyrone did say he'd be back at work next week. He claims he's up to it.”

“They raise tough kids in the Badlands.”

“So it seems.”

James drained his glass. “I'll do the dishes in the morning. You ready to go upstairs?”

“I do believe I am.”

Sunday I had really hoped that we could do normal, ordinary couple-ish things, pretend we weren't a gun-toting FBI agent and a museum president who had recently been the possible target of a murder attempt. It didn't take me long to realize that I was too wired (even before coffee) to spend a day lolling around the house and relaxing. Recuperating. Whatever. I could set my body down in a chair, but I couldn't stop my brain from spinning. Maybe it was a normal response to the past week's near disaster, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with.

“Nell, you have now gotten up and sat down again six times since we came into this room,” James said in a neutral voice. “Is something wrong?”

“Of course something's wrong. I can't stop replaying what happened in my head, and all the what-ifs that came after that,” I said, sounding petty even to myself. I held
up a hand before he could protest. “No, it's nothing you have done. You have been my rock, my tower of strength, my knight in shining armor—pick whatever term you like. The problem is me—I'm just not handling this well. I need some distraction.”

“Like what?” James asked.

“I have no idea! What is the FBI's prescribed antidote to near-death experiences?”

“Apart from filling out all the paperwork?” he replied with a smile. “Counseling? It's always recommended, but few people take advantage of it. You want to do something physical?”

“It's cold outside,” I muttered, completely unreasonably.

“Go to a gym?”

“I hate gyms. They're boring. And before you suggest it, I can't think of a current movie that would distract me.”

“A shooting range?”

I cocked my head at him. He had never suggested that before, and it was kind of a touchy question, based on my personal history with weapons, which he knew well. “Interesting idea, but not quite right.”

“I'm running out of ideas. An art museum? Historical site? Drive across New Jersey and look at the ocean? Drive to Baltimore and look at some other city's slums?”

“You really are scraping the barrel,” I commented. “And before you mention it, we don't need any more furniture at the moment, so that's out. We could look at curtains for this place, now that the leaves are gone, but I think that would drive me nuts with or without these other problems. We might end up having to live with expensive valances with
green frogs, just because I wasn't thinking straight. I can't sit still to read a book, or even a magazine.”

“We did once raise the question of bowling,” James said.

I stared at him, then burst out laughing. “You're right, we did. Actually that's not a bad idea. It involves throwing heavy things to knock down other things, which is probably a metaphor for something. It's loud. And nobody pays attention to you. Do you know of any bowling alleys?”

“You could Google them. How far do you want to go?”

“Let's not cross any state lines.”

James went to the computer on the dining room table and booted it up. After a few minutes I came over and looked over his shoulder. “Who knew there was a ranking for Philadelphia-area bowling alleys?” I said. “At least it looks like the sport is thriving.”

“It does.”

After a few minutes of comparing pros and cons, we settled on one that looked midsized and not too far. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” James asked.

“Yes,” I said with conviction. Anything to get out of the house—and out of my head.

I discovered after we'd bowled a couple of games that we had somehow arrived at the right choice. It was a pleasant, mindless diversion that involved a modest level of physical exertion, and it was loud and bright and distracting on multiple levels. James beat me in the first game, but I rallied and beat him in the second. “One more?” I asked.

“Can you handle losing again?”

“Bring it on!” I told him.

By the end of the afternoon, I'd beaten James again (although I suspected that he'd let me win), and I was pleasantly tired. As we drove home, I said, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For understanding. For being patient with me. For figuring out exactly what I needed. You know, you're pretty good at this relationship thing.” After the words came out of my mouth, I realized that we might be treading on dangerous ground: we had never really talked about prior relationships, beyond the bare outlines. Nor had I wanted to dig into our pasts. I'd been married, it hadn't worked out, we'd parted friends, end of story. James had never been married (which always mystified me), but it was clear that he must have had one or more serious relationships in his past, which showed in how he was treating me. It couldn't be spontaneous. If it was, how on earth had he remained single so long? But I wasn't going to ask. I wouldn't even ask Marty. Whatever our individual histories, it was up to us to decide what and how much to share. What we had right now was working—why rock the boat? Now, if we could only manage to avoid crimes, solo or shared . . .

“You're quiet,” James said as he pulled into our driveway. For once there was no one waiting for us to sandbag us with demands.

“Just thinking how wonderful you are,” I replied.

“Thank you. I try. How does pizza sound?”

“Heavenly. Will you do the ordering?”

“I'm not sure my fingers are all functioning after that
workout, but I'll do my best. You bowl a mean game, lady.”

“Fruit of my misspent youth—I was on my high school bowling team. Mostly for the cupcakes from the bakery next door to the alley. I'll open the wine while you call.”

*   *   *

Monday I felt almost normal, and enthusiastic about my new neighborhoods project. I knew full well that a lot of good ideas never panned out, but I was eager to give this one a try. I accepted James's offer of a ride to the city only because I wanted to be at my office bright and early so I could set down my thoughts and see if anyone else had come up with any. Oddly enough, there was someone waiting in the shadow of the stone pillars—a woman I didn't recognize. While she didn't look threatening, I stopped for a moment to look her over. She was tall, slender, well dressed, and black.

I was not going to let myself be intimidated by strangers on my own ground. “Can I help you?” I called out, as I started up the steps.

“You can if you're Nell Pratt,” she said, without smiling.

“I am. And you are?”

“Vee Blakeney. I'm Tyrone's wife. Vee is short for Veronica. I wanted to speak with you about what you talked about with him on Friday.”

Was this good or bad? Should I trust her? What the heck—she didn't look exactly menacing, and I was pretty sure that she wouldn't spoil the sleek lines of her expensive
handbag with anything as clunky as a gun. “Sure. Let me unlock the door and we can talk.”

I did, relieved to see Bob behind the desk. Vee followed me in.

“Mornin', Nell,” Bob said. “This lady with you?”

“She wants to talk with me, yes. We'll be in the old boardroom. Unless you're desperate for a coffee fix?” I asked the woman.

“Thanks for offering, but I haven't much time. I'm on my way to work, but I hoped I'd catch you here first. I'm sorry I didn't call, but I decided only this morning, and I didn't want to disturb you at home.”

“It's not a problem. Follow me,” I said, walking past the grand staircase to the room behind it. Inside I gestured her toward a chair, then sat catty-corner to her. “What can I do for you?”

I was hoping she wasn't about to read me the riot act about bothering her poor wounded husband, but instead she surprised me. “Tyrone described the project you suggested, and I think it's a smart idea. I believe he mentioned I was part of the team that put together the bond issue for the Neighborhood Transformation Initiative that John Street pushed for when he was mayor?”

“He did, and I've read about it as well. I was thinking of contacting you, although I don't know if you have any current involvement. I thought it would be a good benchmark to get your take on the situation then, what it took to persuade the City that issuing municipal bonds to provide the money was a good idea, and what results you've seen.”

“I was thinking along the same lines.” She reached into
her sleek messenger bag—the days of briefcases were long past, but I'd guessed her leather bag would sport a discreet designer label—and pulled out a thick portfolio. “I had some copies made of the parts that I thought would interest you—you know, the summaries, the appeals, the testimony before city council, that sort of thing.” She handed it to me.

It was a hefty package. “Thank you! This is amazing, and I'll look forward to reading it. Can I ask you for some personal feedback? You don't have to answer if you don't want to—I have no idea what your involvement was.”

“It was a while ago, and I was a very junior associate. As I recall it, I spent most of my time making stacks of photocopies and carrying them to meetings. I assume you want the parts that didn't get written down?”

“If you can share them. You know, the off-the-record deals that people cut, the horse-trading, the behind-the-scenes stuff. How much time can you spare?”

She studied me, and I wondered if she was trying to judge my sincerity. “I can give you the outlines. You know John Street?”

“I know
of
him. I've only been in Philadelphia a decade, so I don't know his early history with the city. I have done some reading about the Neighborhood Transformation Initiative, though. It sounds as though it really mattered to him. Did he have a personal stake in it?”

“He wasn't raised in Philadelphia, but he spent quite a few years on city council. He was no angel, but I think he saw the program as a way to put his stamp on things. Of course, there was some controversy about his plan to tear down deteriorated properties without regard to their
historic significance—I'm sure you can appreciate that—but the bond issue went through. He might have had a few issues outside of his role as mayor, but he was elected for a second term. And he was never charged with a crime.”

I almost smiled at what Vee was
not
saying about the man and his tenure. But after a decade, I was used to Philadelphia politics and how things worked. “Has the program been a success, in your opinion?”

“I think so, by most standards. At least the money didn't go straight into the pockets of fat-cat developers. Property values in the city went up, and some new housing was created.”

“Could it happen again?” I asked.

“Not likely, or not at the moment. You've seen the state of some parts of the city—there's still a lot to be done, but those areas are so dangerous now that no one wants to touch them. It's a shame.”

“Someone told me that you grew up in North Philadelphia.”

I could swear her eyes grew colder. “I did. I got out.” She didn't elaborate.

Apparently that subject was off-limits. Was Tyrone also off-limits? “But your husband is still involved in the neighborhood.”

“He is.” She glanced at her watch. “I should be going. I'll leave the documents with you—maybe you can pull some language from them that would be useful.”

“Thank you for bringing them by. I can't tell you where the Society may take this, but I want to explore all the angles before I give up. Do you think a collaboration
between the City or another agency and the Society could work?”

“It couldn't hurt, and if it doesn't, all you've invested in this place is time. And I get where you're coming from: if you want your Society to survive, you'll need to look relevant in the present, not just the past.”

“I agree,” I said, then stood up. “Thank you for your time. I'll see you out. And give my regards to Tyrone—it was very kind of him to talk to me, under the circumstances. Did he really go back to work today?”

“He did. He's a hard man to keep down.” We'd reached the front door. “It was nice meeting you, Nell. Let me know if you need any other information.”

I carried the thick portfolio up to my office, wondering what had been included. Whenever the City did anything involving money, a lot of paperwork was generated, both official and unofficial. Had this bond issue gone through because enough people believed it was a good idea and the right thing to do? Had the force of the mayor's personality been enough to push it through, in his first term? Had there been developers lurking in the wings with their hands out? And did any of that mean that saving the city's neighborhoods was a hopeless idea now, more than a decade later?

At least I knew one person who could answer one of the questions: I put in a call to Mitchell Wakeman, Philadelphia regional developer extraordinaire.