The Traffickers

TWO

1344 W. Susquehanna Avenue, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 10:40 A.M.

Chad Nesbitt weaved his cobalt-blue BMW M3 coupe through the slower traffic headed down Broad Street. He idly wondered if he was about to walk into some kind of setup, but the anguished voice on the phone sounded painfully genuine.

It had been that of a man. He spoke reasonably good English, but it was clearly with a Spanish accent. And when he said he was trying to find “Meester Skeeper,” Nesbitt knew that that was just too coincidental. He had to grant the man’s request for a meeting.

“How did you get my number?” Nesbitt had asked.

“From Meester Skeeper.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He give me his old cell phone. One day, I make mistake when I push a button. I thought the phone call Meester Skeeper. But it had all Meester Skeeper’s numbers, and it call you, your voice mail. I hang up. When I tell Meester Skeeper this, he say it is no problem. That you are his best friend. That you are partner in his business.”

“But why are you calling me now?”

“Because there is a problem with the business. Very bad. And I cannot reach him. He does not answer his cell phone.”

“What sort of bad problem?”

There had been a long silence before the man spoke. “I cannot say.”

“You cannot tell me? Or cannot tell me on the phone.”

“On the phone. Is better that I tell Meester Skeeper in person.”

And there had been a long silence before Nesbitt spoke. “That won’t be possible for some time. He’s badly hurt, and in the hospital.”

Nesbitt heard the man mutter, “Madre de Dios!” Then he said, “Is Meester Skeeper going to be okay?”

Nesbitt did not know how to answer at first, then said, “We don’t know. I can tell you that it will be some time before he’s able to speak with you.”

The man then said, “Then, please, I must speak with you. His best amigo and partner in business.”

Six blocks after crossing Lehigh Avenue-which almost didn’t happen because he nearly got sideswiped by a damn rusty white Plymouth minivan that ran the red and then flew down Lehigh-Nesbitt approached the intersection of Dauphin and Broad. This was the outer edge of the neighborhood where Temple University served as somewhat of an anchor.

The light at Dauphin turned red. As he waited for it, he looked down the street. On the left he saw a series of retail chains-a McDonald’s fast-food restaurant, a Rite-Price pharmacy-and some mom-and-pop shops.

The man on the phone had said the laundromat was there, but he could not make it out.

And that’s another coincidence.

A laundromat. And Skipper.

Who is this guy?

He absolutely would not tell me what he wanted.

Except that it was “mucho important.”

The traffic light cycled. He crossed Dauphin and started scanning for the laundromat. At the next corner, which was Susquehanna, he saw a convenience store’s signage-TEMPLE GAS and GO. Next door to that, sharing a wall, was a brick-faced building that looked as if it recently had been renovated.

The brick was clean and bright, as if freshly sandblasted. There was a glistening glass door set in shiny aluminum framing. On either side of the new door were six large plate-glass windows, also similarly framed in aluminum, that were covered from the inside with what looked like brown wrapping paper.

As Nesbitt slowed the car, he read the announcement that was painted on the paper in bright festive colors: COMING SOON! ANOTHER NEW SUDSIE’S!

Under that, with lots of cartoonish foam overflowing from an oversize beer mug and a washing machine, was Sudsie’s’ marketing slogan: GET SLOSHED WITH US!

Nesbitt groaned audibly.

What were you thinking, Skipper?

About that and everything else?

He then pulled the M3 coupe into an empty parking spot at the curb around the corner.

When Chad Nesbitt got to the new front door of Sudsie’s, he saw that someone had posted a sign that read CLOSED-PLEASE COME AGAIN and an emergency contact telephone number. He didn’t recognize the number.

He hammered the door with a balled fist, but there was no answer.

He then pulled out his phone from the left front pocket of his pants. He thumbed keys to reach the RECENT CALLS menu, then highlighted the first call on the list. He hit the CALL key.

When the man answered, he said, “This is Chad Nesbitt. You asked to see me? I’m at the door.”

There was silence on the phone for a moment. Then Nesbitt saw the brown paper on the glass of the door pull back just enough for someone to peer out. There then came the sound of the front door being unlocked.

Nesbitt hit the END key, put the phone back in his pocket, and scanned the area. About all he saw were students coming from the Southeast Philadelphia Transportation Authority’s Susquehanna-Dauphin Metro stop. Some of them crossed the street, headed for McDonald’s before class.

The door, its hinges squeaking, opened not quite halfway.

Nesbitt saw standing there a five-foot-two Hispanic male. He was heavyset, with an enormously wide, flat nose. He looked to be maybe thirty.

“Come, come!” the man anxiously told Nesbitt, waving him in.

Nesbitt did. The man looked nervously up and down the sidewalk before closing and locking the door.

Chad Nesbitt looked around the brightly lit, newly renovated laundromat. It was obvious to him that this was Skipper Olde’s work, that this was one of the locations they had acquired in the package deal. There were lines of brand-new commercial-quality washers and dryers in the walls, and positioned neatly against the back of the room at a long tan linoleum counter were waist-high thick-wire baskets on heavy-duty casters.

The man walked up to him and held out his hand.

“Senor Nesbitt, mucho gusto. I am Paco Esteban.”

“Paco,” Nesbitt said shaking his hand, “you want to tell me now what the hell’s going on here?”

“Here?”

Nesbitt looked around the room. “Okay. Start with that. Why are we here?”

El Nariz looked him in the eyes, then nodded.

“Si. I have agreement with Meester Skeeper,” he began, “to use his machines for my laundry service…”

“… And as the evil man was leaving, he shot holes,” Paco Esteban said, as he finished his five-minute explanation. “And so everyone, all of my crew, they run for their lives. I come back here to clean up the place. I could not leave it the way it was.”

“This evil man shot holes?” Nesbitt repeated.

“Si. Come. I show you.”

El Nariz led Nesbitt to the rear room. He pointed to the arch that was the bullet-riddled masonry wall.

“My God!” Nesbitt exclaimed.

“Si.”

“Why did he do that? I mean, to scare you?”

El Nariz nodded. “ Muy scary.”

“And you have a head in your freezer?”

“Si.”

Chad Nesbitt could not believe what he was seeing and hearing.

The gunfire was bad enough-gunfire in a business he partly owned.

But the barbarism?

Jesus!

That’s the kind of thing you hear about those animals committing in faraway backward countries!

He pulled out his cellular phone and hit the speed-dial number of Matt Payne. The phone beeped in his ear, and when he looked at the screen, he saw: NO SERVICE

Then he saw that the signal bars were low.

“Shit!”

Nesbitt typed out a text message to Matt and sent it: CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THIS… MORE TROUBLE

“Paco,” Chad Nesbitt said anxiously, “you must not tell anyone about this! Understand? Not until I figure out what to do.”

He nodded, and said, “S?. Muchas gracias.”