Play Dead (19 page)

He also knew that the door he needed to get in was just on the other side of the tower, opposite the elevator. He had taken this tour once before, posing as a much older gentleman, a man with a thick German accent, and knew that the lock on the door was a standard Yale deadbolt. With his skills, it would take him less than ten seconds to open the door. Probably much less.

Swann knew that if anyone noticed he was missing and called security, he would quick- change his clothing and return to the ground level via the south stairwell.

Most important, he knew about the clock’s lighting. He had detailed drawings of the schematics, had pored over them for years. Originally, the clock’s faces were lit by 552 individual lightbulbs. Now gold- colored fluorescents illuminated them.

Yes, he knew everything Antoinette was going to say about the legendary timepiece that graced architect John McArthur’s garish, breathtaking building.

And yet he only cared about one of the clock’s
faces.
The one facing north.
The one facing the Badlands.

“...was a story that began in 1906. It seems that so many people relied on these clocks for time, because they could be seen from great distances, that each evening, at 8:57, the lights in the clock tower were turned off,” Antoinette prattled. “Do you know why they did that?”

Everyone on the tour exchanged a bemused glance.

“Because three minutes later, when they turned the lights back on, the entire city knew it was exactly nine o’clock!”
Antoinette Ruolo glanced at her watch. “Speaking of time, I’m afraid we have to wrap up this tour in a few minutes.” This was her favorite segue. “I’ll meet you all back at the elevator in ten minutes.”
Antoinette walked over toward the elevator, a low grumbling in her stomach. She sat down on the bench, thought about taking her shoes off and giving herself a quick foot massage, but decided against it. It wouldn’t be right for a former City Hall Bunny to be seen with holes in the toes of her support stockings, would it?

Ten minutes later Antoinette found herself in the lobby, waving good- bye to her last tour of the day.

She looked around the reception area. Had the nice man who had asked about the clock come down with them? Of course he had. Where else would he be?

Antoinette Ruolo signed out, then headed for the exit at the south portal. As she pushed open the door, and stepped into the steaming afternoon, she felt a little better. For at least a dozen reasons, Antoinette was glad it was Friday, one reason eclipsing all others.

No more tuna for a week.
THIRTY-TWO
L

illy scanned the food court at the train station, more with her nose than her eyes. She thought back to her last full meal, a $1.99 breakfast special at a roadside diner on Route 61, a tacky plastic place with a water- stained ceiling and prehistoric gum under the stools. But now, forty- eight hours later, sitting in the food court of the Thirtieth Street station, her stomach rumbled like one of the trains passing beneath her.

This was the life of a runaway. She knew what she had to do. Desperate times and all . . .
The man was watching her.

Lilly had always had the ability to sense when someone was observing her, even if that person was behind her back, even if they were on the other side of the room or the other side of the street. She registered the feeling as a slight warming of her skin, a minute tingling of the hair at the nape of her neck.

She turned, glanced at the man, then looked away. He could have been thirty, he could have been fifty. He sat two tables away. He moved closer.

“Hi,” he said.
Lilly took a moment, playing it out.
Here we go.
“Hi,” Lilly replied.

The man’s face lit up. He clearly wasn’t expecting a response. He cleared his throat. “Have you just come in by train?”
Lilly nodded.
“Just now?”
She nodded again, a little too animatedly. She felt like a bobblehead doll. She backed off on the act. “Well, just a few minutes ago.”
“How exciting,” he said. “I
love
train travel.”
Oh, yes, how exciting,
she thought. Train travel. Let’s see: burnt coffee, stale sandwiches, smelly passengers, grimy windows, crappy houses passing by that were so low- rent they were built right on the train tracks. Yeah. This is my dream vacation. This and Cozumel. “It’s okay,” she said.
“Is this your first time in Philadelphia?”
“Yes, sir.”
He arched his eyebrows.
“Sir?”
He laughed, but it sounded phony. “I’m not
that
much older than you are. Am I?”
He clearly was, and it was
so
gross. “No,” she said, trying her best to sound sincere. “Not really.”
He smiled again. His teeth were the color of old mushrooms.
“Well, seeing as this is your first time in the City of Brotherly Love, I’d be happy to show you around,” he said. “If you have the time, of course. It’s a great city. Lots of history.”
Lilly glanced toward the doors that led to Twenty- ninth Street. It was almost dark. The lights on the street shone in the near distance, a grainy canvas of green and red and turquoise. She looked back at the man, assessing him. He wasn’t that much taller than she was, did not look all that strong. She, on the other hand, had played soccer and lacrosse since she was seven. She had strong legs and deceptively strong arms. And she was fast. Lightning fast.
“That would be totally
great,
” she said, infusing the word with just enough enthusiasm.
The man looked at his watch, then at the huge area of the food court. The evening commuter rush had long since faded. There were just a few stragglers.
“Tell you what,” he began. “I have to make a few calls. I’ll meet you at the corner of Twenty- third and Walnut. We can take a stroll.”
He didn’t want to be seen leaving with her. She understood the play. This told her just about everything she needed to know. “Okay.”
“Do you know where that is?”
“I’ll find it,” Lilly said.
“Are you sure you can?”
Lilly laughed. It sounded creepy, almost sinister, but she was certain this man would not notice. “I found my way to Philadelphia, didn’t I?”
The man laughed with her. Those teeth.
Ugh.
A few moments later the man got up, looked at his watch again, and crossed the huge room toward the Thirtieth Street entrance. She saw him adjust the front of his trousers. She wanted to hurl.
Lilly closed her eyes for a moment—not having any idea how she was going to handle this. She thought about her house, her bedroom, her TV and cell phone, her dog, Rip. Rip was a thirteen- year- old cairn terrier, almost blind. Lilly started to tear up at the thought of Rip and his scuffed white bowl, Rip bumping into door jambs, then retreating, embarrassed. She stopped herself. This was no time for weakness, for sentimentality or dependency on the past. She had something to do.

He tried to make small talk. He succeeded. It couldn’t possibly have been any smaller. “You know, Philadelphia was once the capital of the United States.”

She knew this. Every school kid in America knew this. “I didn’t know that.”
“Do you know who discovered the place?”
Gee,
she thought.
Penn and Teller?
“William Penn, of course.” He pointed down Market Street, toward city hall. The statue of William Penn glowed in the dusk.
“Wow.”
She felt his hand reach out, try to hold hers. Gross. She reached around to her backpack, covering. She unzipped it, pulled out some gum. She didn’t offer him any. He didn’t notice. Every time she caught him looking at her he was staring at her chest.
“There’s something down here I think you should see,” he said. “There’s history everywhere.”
They walked down the alley, around a corner. They stopped. There was nothing to see.
“You know what?” he asked.
“What?”
“You’re very beautiful.”
And there it was. On top of it, she knew it was a lie. She looked like crap. She probably smelled, too. She was a runaway. Runaways were skanks. “Thank you,” she said.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Lilly almost laughed. “Sure.”
“Do you like me? Even, you know, a
little
bit?”
Oh, about as much as a blister or a cold sore, Lilly thought. “Of course,” she said. “I’m here, aren’t I? Why would you ask me that?”
“Because boys are insecure,” he said with gnarled smile.
Boys.
She
was
just about ready to puke. Time to get this party started. “You know, you don’t strike me as all that insecure.”
“I don’t?”
“Absolutely not. You strike me more as the Matt Damon type. Older—like my father’s age—but still pretty cool.”
He smiled again. It was the last thing she wanted.
“You know, I was thinking,” he said. “If you’re a little short of cash, I could help you out. You being from out of town and all. I did the Jack Kerouac thing myself when I was a little younger. I know how it can be.”
“Well, I’ve never been to Philadelphia before,” she said. “I have no idea how much things cost.”
“It can be expensive. Not quite like New York, but pricier than, say, Baltimore.”
Lilly smiled, winked. “How much do you have, big spender?”
Another laugh, as phony as the others. He reached into his back pocket, extracted a camouflage nylon wallet—pure class. He opened it. It bulged with plastic cards, business cards, ID cards. He pulled them all out, and she got a glimpse: Visa, Macy’s, American Express, a Borders gift card. She also saw what looked like a lot of cash. About an inch or so. It might have been all singles, but still.
“Wow,” she said. Girls her age were supposed to say “wow” a lot. Like they were all Hannah Montana. “How much is in there?” “I don’t really know,” he said. “But I’d be willing to—”
At this moment Lilly turned away, pivoted, and slammed her knee into the man’s crotch. Hard, and fast as lightning. He didn’t have a chance. The man blew a lungful of sour breath into her face, then folded instantly to the ground.
Lilly looked behind her, to the mouth of the alley, then at the windows of the buildings on either side. All dark. All good. They were completely alone.
“
Why?
” the man managed on a ragged breath. He was curled in a fetal position on the ground, knees to his chest
“
Why?
Are you kidding me? What planet are you from?”
“I don’t—”
“You’re like a million years old,” Lilly said. “And I’m not even legal, dickhead.” She picked up his wallet, took his driver’s license and the money. “What did you think was going to happen?”
“I thought we might—”
“You thought what?” Lilly asked. “That we were going to fall in love? That we were going to have a romance?”
“No,” he said. “It was just . . .”
Lilly got down on the ground next to the man. She lay back, then pulled up her T-shirt, baring her breasts. She worked her right arm around the man’s neck, as if they were two drunken people at a wild frat party, or at some tequila- blast on spring break in Panama City. In her left hand she held up her digital camera, the lens facing them. She snapped a picture of the two of them together, then another for good measure: Mr. Mushroom Teeth and his topless teen cohort. Film at eleven.
The flash was bright blue in the darkened alley. It blinded her for a second.
“Now we have a record of our lovely time together,” Lilly said, pulling her top back down. She stood up, brushed herself off. “And keep in mind, if you tell anyone about this, if anyone comes looking for me, they’ll find this camera, okay?”
The man remained silent. As expected. He was in pain.
“Then later tonight I’m going to take some naked pictures of myself,” Lilly continued. “
Full
naked. And all of these pictures will be right in a row.” She slipped the camera into her bag, took out a brush, ran it through her hair. When she was done she put away her brush, pulled off the rubber band she always kept on her wrist, snapped her hair into a ponytail. “And your wife, your kids, your boss—the
cops—
they’ll see the pictures, too. Think about it. How many of them are going to think you
didn’t
take these pictures?” She put her bag over her shoulder, struck a pose. “I’m fourteen, dude. Think about
that.
”
It wasn’t true. She was older. But she looked fourteen, and she was an unrivalled drama queen to boot.
Lilly stepped back a few feet, waited. She reached into her bag, took out the printed photo she’d carried for two months, turned it toward the man. “This is your house, isn’t it?”
The man tried to focus his eyes on the photograph of the big house with the woman standing in front of it. A few seconds later he did. “My...my
house
?”
“Yeah. You live here, right?”
“Are you crazy? That’s not my house. Who is that woman? Who the hell are
you
?”
Lilly already knew the answer to her own question, but none of this would have made any sense if she didn’t ask.
Seconds later, she put the photograph away, took a deep breath, composed herself—after all, she was not used to things like this, even if she had lived it all in her mind for a long time, over and over again— then stepped out of the alley, onto Market Street. No cops. Cool beans. After a block or so she slipped into the shadows, took out the wad of cash, counted it. She had 166 dollars.
Oh,
yes.
For a street kid—which was what she was now, officially—it was a fortune. Not Donald Trump big, but big enough.
For tonight.