wearing your hair different," Sloan
said. "What does your father think of it?"
"I'm in art school now. He digs artists have to
be free to express themselves?
"I'd heard you were in some school. How's it
going?"
"Good, except Dad wants me to get to where I can
paint church ceilings. You know, a lot of fat nudes."
"You don't like to do nudes?"
"Boring. Fabric design is my thing."
"A good field. If memory serves your family has
some interests in the garment industry."
She stiffened at his remark. "That's history,
Sloan. You should know that."
He smiled, blew his nose. The mob didn't much like to
use women, but since her brothers were killed he'd heard Delores had
been filling in. A capable lady.
"Look," she said, getting to business, "we
know about you finding this Terri DiFranco's body. We want to know
what you're going to do about it. People from the neighborhood have
been around to see Dad. He's very interested in clearing up this
missing girls business, plus nailing the DiFranco killer."
Typical, Sloan thought. Like most of his brethen, he
still lived in South Philly, in the blue-collar neighborhood he
was raised in. They liked a low profile.
"TeIl your father we're on the job. As he knows,
until we had a body there was nothing we could do."
"He's glad you're on the case," she said.
"Tell him thanks."
"He wants to know what you're going to do about
this Lagniappe connection."
Sloan was surprised, quickly realized he shouldn't
be. The mob had more informants than he did. For the record he said
he didn't know what she was talking about.
She took a sip of her drink. "Dad said you'd say
that. He also told me to tell you he did some checking. He said
there's a man . . . he'd rather not mention the name . . . who
approached a man Dad knows about getting him some young girls.
Twelve-thirteen-year-olds. You know the deal."
"And this man hangs out at Lagniappe?"
"I can't say any more. We don't want to be
connected to this on any of your records——"
"Wait a minute. Cut the damn tease. You dangle
some unnamed creep who buys teenagers and then you clam up. Tell your
daddy for me that thanks for nothing and you can pay for your own
drink."
"Simmer down, we do what we can and I know what
you're trying to do and it won't work. I won't be baited. You get all
I can give you. We want this cleaned up, and we want it fast. People
like to blame people like my dad for all kinds of lousy things and it
hurts business. So good luck, Sloan, and we'll be watching to see how
you do. If you don't make the play your way we'll make it ours and
you can read about it in the papers. And for God's sake, take care of
that cold. We need our police . . ."
She even pecked him on the cheek as she tossed a
tenner on the table and ambled out.
CHAPTER 9
' T WAS just after eight when Laura Ramsey finished
the story on Terri DiFranco. What had seemed so easy earlier in the
day had turned out more difficult than expected. Eventually the
writing came down to a series of judgment calls—what to tell to
sell papers, what to hold back to allow the family some privacy and
dignity.
The rain was still coming down as she walked to the
parking lot for her car, and once she'd begun the drive down Spring
Garden Street toward Delaware Avenue she told herself that she should
go home, open a can of soup, take a hot bath and go to bed. But what
she really craved was some junk food. She might pay for it later, but
right now it was definitely the ticket: something wonderfully
unhealthy washed down with a cold beer. If she'd been home in Texas,
Mexican food would be perfect, but not here in Philly.
Passing the Pier 30 tennis courts on the Delaware
River, she considered driving down to Oregon Avenue for a hot sausage
sandwich and a bag of chips from the Doggie Diner but decided against
it because it was too early. She liked to save the Doggie Diner for
those uncontrollable cravings that come in the small hours of the
morning. Instead she turned off at
said. "What does your father think of it?"
"I'm in art school now. He digs artists have to
be free to express themselves?
"I'd heard you were in some school. How's it
going?"
"Good, except Dad wants me to get to where I can
paint church ceilings. You know, a lot of fat nudes."
"You don't like to do nudes?"
"Boring. Fabric design is my thing."
"A good field. If memory serves your family has
some interests in the garment industry."
She stiffened at his remark. "That's history,
Sloan. You should know that."
He smiled, blew his nose. The mob didn't much like to
use women, but since her brothers were killed he'd heard Delores had
been filling in. A capable lady.
"Look," she said, getting to business, "we
know about you finding this Terri DiFranco's body. We want to know
what you're going to do about it. People from the neighborhood have
been around to see Dad. He's very interested in clearing up this
missing girls business, plus nailing the DiFranco killer."
Typical, Sloan thought. Like most of his brethen, he
still lived in South Philly, in the blue-collar neighborhood he
was raised in. They liked a low profile.
"TeIl your father we're on the job. As he knows,
until we had a body there was nothing we could do."
"He's glad you're on the case," she said.
"Tell him thanks."
"He wants to know what you're going to do about
this Lagniappe connection."
Sloan was surprised, quickly realized he shouldn't
be. The mob had more informants than he did. For the record he said
he didn't know what she was talking about.
She took a sip of her drink. "Dad said you'd say
that. He also told me to tell you he did some checking. He said
there's a man . . . he'd rather not mention the name . . . who
approached a man Dad knows about getting him some young girls.
Twelve-thirteen-year-olds. You know the deal."
"And this man hangs out at Lagniappe?"
"I can't say any more. We don't want to be
connected to this on any of your records——"
"Wait a minute. Cut the damn tease. You dangle
some unnamed creep who buys teenagers and then you clam up. Tell your
daddy for me that thanks for nothing and you can pay for your own
drink."
"Simmer down, we do what we can and I know what
you're trying to do and it won't work. I won't be baited. You get all
I can give you. We want this cleaned up, and we want it fast. People
like to blame people like my dad for all kinds of lousy things and it
hurts business. So good luck, Sloan, and we'll be watching to see how
you do. If you don't make the play your way we'll make it ours and
you can read about it in the papers. And for God's sake, take care of
that cold. We need our police . . ."
She even pecked him on the cheek as she tossed a
tenner on the table and ambled out.
CHAPTER 9
' T WAS just after eight when Laura Ramsey finished
the story on Terri DiFranco. What had seemed so easy earlier in the
day had turned out more difficult than expected. Eventually the
writing came down to a series of judgment calls—what to tell to
sell papers, what to hold back to allow the family some privacy and
dignity.
The rain was still coming down as she walked to the
parking lot for her car, and once she'd begun the drive down Spring
Garden Street toward Delaware Avenue she told herself that she should
go home, open a can of soup, take a hot bath and go to bed. But what
she really craved was some junk food. She might pay for it later, but
right now it was definitely the ticket: something wonderfully
unhealthy washed down with a cold beer. If she'd been home in Texas,
Mexican food would be perfect, but not here in Philly.
Passing the Pier 30 tennis courts on the Delaware
River, she considered driving down to Oregon Avenue for a hot sausage
sandwich and a bag of chips from the Doggie Diner but decided against
it because it was too early. She liked to save the Doggie Diner for
those uncontrollable cravings that come in the small hours of the
morning. Instead she turned off at
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