Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [74]
When the cops arrived at the park, they literally just looked down at the sidewalk and followed the bloody trail on foot, back to the murderer’s house, right up the marble steps to his front door, where they rang the bell and the homicidal imbecile answered. Case closed.
But it wasn’t the shocking murder that disgusted my neighbors—since the victim was dealing cocaine, he got what he deserved. It was the thought of that unholy mess the murderer left all over the sidewalk, and who the hell was going to clean it up? And what about the killer’s own stoop around the corner? Did he have a wife who would get out there and put a scrub brush with Clorox and Lysol to those blood-stained steps?
The sound of my neighbor ladies’ collective outrage rebounded off the houses.
Fortunately, their cleaning concerns were washed down the storm drains thanks to a deluge that lasted for days. I refrained from saying I told you so.
But it was only because I got out there with a broom that I heard the illicit history of our own house, which had been a front for a still during Prohibition. This explained why the center of our basement was walled in with concrete. For some inexplicable reason, previous owners had decided to brick in the whole contraption instead of removing it. The walls were so excessively reinforced you would have thought they contained a radioactive core. I couldn’t help but think that maybe it also served as the final resting place of a bootlegger or two, who got what they deserved in a booze deal gone bad.
During the fifteen years we lived in that house, I was always looking for “the body”—or some hidden treasure. Upstairs, I found a secret hiding place in the floorboards, and used it to stash a small metal lockbox of valuables. While installing the air-conditioning ducts, our contractor discovered an amber beer bottle still sealed with an old-fashioned wire and rubber stopper, sunk into disintegrating cheesecloth, the beer having evaporated down to dust. Holding that bottle up to the light, I had to wonder at the idiots who made alcoholic beverages illegal. Imagine being compelled to hide a bottle of beer in your wall because it could get you arrested.
When spring came one year, I was anxious to let in some fresh air, and during that first week of mild days, working by my window, I became aware of a creeping uneasiness. And then I realized, bolting upright from my desk and going to the window—listening.
Nothing. I heard nothing.
Not even a snarl from Grendel’s lair. I looked down at their house, taken aback to see that their kitchen blinds were shut tight.
Sometime later, I heard a noisy old diesel truck with squeaky brakes parking over on their street, followed by the sound of yo-dudes hollering to each other as they jumped out. Hmm. Seemed like a furniture delivery to me. When it went on longer than a typical delivery, I grabbed my trusty broom and stepped outside to do some investigative sweeping.
I swept beyond our section of sidewalk—affecting the aspect of an exceptionally good neighbor—all the way to the corner, about forty feet, where I could see the front of the Grendel house.
A medium-size truck belonging to a junk-hauling business was parked there, and two beefy yo-dudes were hoisting a beat-up old washing machine from the basement through the bulkhead doors opening up onto the sidewalk. No sooner did