Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [79]
She wasn’t looking at Lonergan. She was looking at the whip in his big hands. If Lonergan peeled off her shirt and saw her bare naked, what would he see? You ride that train or I’ll hide you again, you bitch.
“What are you going to do?” she asked softly.
It was a good question. What should he do? He wasn’t wearing the bluecoat. He didn’t have his gun. He wasn’t in his district. He still had his two bucks in his front pocket. He didn’t have to do a thing.
After a while the operator, a florid-faced man, came rushing into the car, asking what had happened. The green-eyed girl made a small cry as she rushed out of the car and ran across the platform. Lonergan said nothing. He listened to the rapid clicking of her shoes on concrete as they faded away.
But he wanted to tell her, Stay with me.
He wanted to tell her: You don’t understand. I’m your guardian angel.
REALITY
BY CORDELIA FRANCES BIDDLE
Old City
I should explain that I write historical dramas, so as I wander the streets of Philadelphia I ponder how they looked before the curse of the internal combustion machine, and what vile secrets lurked behind the brick façades that now appear so H&G perfect. My theory (unproven) is that stone, being porous, is capable of retaining energy from the souls of the damned and despairing in the same manner that sponges hold water. Concentrate hard enough, and long-buried crimes will leach out.
I take my dog on these exploratory jaunts. I figure she adds an air of respectability to what otherwise might be mistaken for a stalker’s prowl—my beady glance measuring eyebrow windows hidden under the eaves, or mismatched brick work where once were doors.
Our route is simple: 6th Street (6th and Lombard was a red-light district a century and a half ago, the “fancy houses” now converted to upscale residences—or so local realtors insist), through Washington Square (frisbees zooming over the unmarked graves of Revolutionary War soldiers—Americans planted feet-first, Brits buried head-down in retribution), past the rear entrance of Independence Hall (oft-promulgated tales of Colonial derring-do). After that I cross 5th Street toward the Second Bank of the United States where I customarily pause to parlay with Nicholas Biddle, ancestor and financial wizard, before continuing my journey into the alleys and courtyards the tourists avoid. Nick died in 1844, so it’s a one-sided conversation, but I envision him standing there lordly and a trifle vain (Byron would have admired the long, wavy locks) amidst the marble columns that mark his particular temple to Mammon.
Now isn’t the moment for a diatribe against that snake-in-the-grass Andrew Jackson and the fiscal ruin he visited upon the nation, but let’s just say I bear the ex-pres a colossal grudge. The root of my wrath is lucre, not the noblest of motives for revenge, but there you have it. At any rate, as I stop, I ask old Nick (or old Nick’s spectral self) to find a miraculous means to shower me with money—which would permanently cure my writer’s block. I figure an ex-banker should have ready access to the celestial till. I do this while the dog noses around looking for the perfect place to pee. At least her prayers are answered.
I’ve digressed.
It was during a late afternoon at the end of September, a day that had been unremittingly dreary and depressing, and while I was nearing the Second Bank I heard them—the reenactors, that is. If you’ve ever strolled the city’s landmarks, you’ve encountered these ubiquitous street performers. They dress exclusively in period garb and bombard passersby with tales of eighteenth-century moxie. Don’t misunderstand; I have nothing against idealism, or spunk either, but I become suspicious when the Founding Fathers are portrayed as action heroes. It makes me want to canvass the Founding Mothers for their opinions.
These particular actors weren’t the predictable for-God-and-country types, however. For one thing, despite the advanced hour and waning