down the street. But if there was another way of finding Steve’s killer, I didn’t know about it.
“Eddie, the reason I wanted to talk to you. We had another vigilante attack in Westmount.”
“Today?”
“Yeah, this morning. Black guy robbed an Italian grocery on Cedar, ran out and jumped in his car, car wouldn’t start.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Instead of running, he kept trying to get the car started.”
Kirk looked at me in surprise. “You already heard about this?”
“Just a lucky guess.”
Kirk smiled. “Anyway, the owner came out and started yelling, and pretty soon there was a crowd around the car. They dragged the guy out and almost killed him. He’s at St. Michael’s now.”
“Any of Bravelli’s people involved this time?”
“You kidding? Nobody saw nothin'. Street full of shoppers, they all happened to be looking the other way.”
“You want me to drop by?”
“If you would. The detectives are all tied up on this thing with Steve.”
“I understand.”
“Talk to the store owner, he’s not a bad guy. He didn’t want to say anything this afternoon, but things have quieted down, maybe he’ll open up a little.”
I never did talk to the store owner. I didn’t even make it to the store.
The closest I got was a few blocks away, at the corner of 80th and Locust, where a cluster of Italian bakeries filled the air with warm, sweet smells.
I was stopped at the light, gazing to my left at the pastries in the window at Carlino’s on the other side of the street. I noticed that the image of my patrol car—with me in it—was reflected in the bakery’s glass door. You don’t get to see yourself like that too often, and I was actually looking at the door when it opened and Canaletto and then Bravelli stepped out onto the sidewalk. A black Cadillac Seville had been sitting at the curb just around the corner on 80th, and the moment Bravelli emerged from the bakery, Goop hopped out of the driver’s seat and quickly pulled open the back door.
As Canaletto got in the other side, Bravelli spotted me, and paused. We just looked at each other for a few seconds, stone-faced, neither of us giving away anything. Then he abruptly turned and walked over to the Cadillac and got in. Goop—resplendent in a highway-worker-orange jogging suit—closed the door and got back behind the wheel. A few moments later, the car eased away from the curb.
Maybe I should have just let it go. I didn’t really want to be in Westmount—I wanted to be back in West Philly, trying to find the guy who shot Steve. But when I saw Bravelli, somehow all my anger got transferred right onto him. He was the reason this job was fucked up, he was the reason that everything went wrong, and that good people like Steve got killed. I knew it didn’t fit together like that, but I didn’t try to make sense of it. Whoever shot Steve was nowhere around; Bravelli was right here. And right now, he would do.
I took a sharp left onto 80th, pulling behind the Cadillac, and flipped on my overhead red and blue lights. Somewhere inside of my head a voice was saying, wait, you have to have a plan, you can’t do this without a plan. But I just pushed that aside. And as the Cadillac’s brake lights came on and both our cars slowed to a stop, I could feel the adrenaline starting to kick in.
It was a typical Westmount street, narrow row houses one after the other on both sides. I got out of my car and walked toward the Seville. When I reached the driver’s window, I almost yelled into Goop’s face. “Everybody out of the car.”
“What’s your friggin’ problem?” Goop asked.
“Everybody out.”
“Yeah? You’re supposed to say sir.” “No, I’m supposed to say asshole. Now, get out of the fuckin’ car,
asshole.”
“And if I don’t?”
“It’s OK, Goop,” a voice from the back said, and the rear doors opened. I had to be careful—I was going to have three guys out, with no backup. My goal was to get
“Eddie, the reason I wanted to talk to you. We had another vigilante attack in Westmount.”
“Today?”
“Yeah, this morning. Black guy robbed an Italian grocery on Cedar, ran out and jumped in his car, car wouldn’t start.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Instead of running, he kept trying to get the car started.”
Kirk looked at me in surprise. “You already heard about this?”
“Just a lucky guess.”
Kirk smiled. “Anyway, the owner came out and started yelling, and pretty soon there was a crowd around the car. They dragged the guy out and almost killed him. He’s at St. Michael’s now.”
“Any of Bravelli’s people involved this time?”
“You kidding? Nobody saw nothin'. Street full of shoppers, they all happened to be looking the other way.”
“You want me to drop by?”
“If you would. The detectives are all tied up on this thing with Steve.”
“I understand.”
“Talk to the store owner, he’s not a bad guy. He didn’t want to say anything this afternoon, but things have quieted down, maybe he’ll open up a little.”
I never did talk to the store owner. I didn’t even make it to the store.
The closest I got was a few blocks away, at the corner of 80th and Locust, where a cluster of Italian bakeries filled the air with warm, sweet smells.
I was stopped at the light, gazing to my left at the pastries in the window at Carlino’s on the other side of the street. I noticed that the image of my patrol car—with me in it—was reflected in the bakery’s glass door. You don’t get to see yourself like that too often, and I was actually looking at the door when it opened and Canaletto and then Bravelli stepped out onto the sidewalk. A black Cadillac Seville had been sitting at the curb just around the corner on 80th, and the moment Bravelli emerged from the bakery, Goop hopped out of the driver’s seat and quickly pulled open the back door.
As Canaletto got in the other side, Bravelli spotted me, and paused. We just looked at each other for a few seconds, stone-faced, neither of us giving away anything. Then he abruptly turned and walked over to the Cadillac and got in. Goop—resplendent in a highway-worker-orange jogging suit—closed the door and got back behind the wheel. A few moments later, the car eased away from the curb.
Maybe I should have just let it go. I didn’t really want to be in Westmount—I wanted to be back in West Philly, trying to find the guy who shot Steve. But when I saw Bravelli, somehow all my anger got transferred right onto him. He was the reason this job was fucked up, he was the reason that everything went wrong, and that good people like Steve got killed. I knew it didn’t fit together like that, but I didn’t try to make sense of it. Whoever shot Steve was nowhere around; Bravelli was right here. And right now, he would do.
I took a sharp left onto 80th, pulling behind the Cadillac, and flipped on my overhead red and blue lights. Somewhere inside of my head a voice was saying, wait, you have to have a plan, you can’t do this without a plan. But I just pushed that aside. And as the Cadillac’s brake lights came on and both our cars slowed to a stop, I could feel the adrenaline starting to kick in.
It was a typical Westmount street, narrow row houses one after the other on both sides. I got out of my car and walked toward the Seville. When I reached the driver’s window, I almost yelled into Goop’s face. “Everybody out of the car.”
“What’s your friggin’ problem?” Goop asked.
“Everybody out.”
“Yeah? You’re supposed to say sir.” “No, I’m supposed to say asshole. Now, get out of the fuckin’ car,
asshole.”
“And if I don’t?”
“It’s OK, Goop,” a voice from the back said, and the rear doors opened. I had to be careful—I was going to have three guys out, with no backup. My goal was to get
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