Free Severance Package by Duane Swierczynski Page A

interesting was that this neighborhood—if you could call this corporate canyon of towers a “neighborhood”—had any crackheads at all. Center City West was heavily policed, scrubbed, swept, and kept nice and clean for the business set. It was a far cry from the area forty years ago, when it was full of broken-down storefronts and porno theaters on one side, and ahuge monstrosity called the Chinese Wall on the other. Actor Kevin Bacon’s dad was the city planner back then, and he decided to rip out the Chinese Wall—rail lines leading out of the city—and replace it with a corporate playground. By the 1980s, Bacon’s dream had been fully realized. Concrete, glass, steel, and sheer height were the order of the day. If you wanted to see what West Market Street looked like in the 1960s, you had to venture up past Twenty-second Street. But even that was going fast. Condos were moving in, even though nobody was buying them.
    Crackheads like Terrill Joe would have loved it back in the 1960s, had there been crack to purchase. Of course, back then, they would have just been hippies.
    Vincent had no idea where Terrill Joe holed up at night. Couldn’t be neighboring Rittenhouse Square—too fancy, even though Terrill Joe was the right shade of white. Probably some corner of Spring Garden, which lay to the north.
    He thought about asking Terrill Joe where he holed up, but decided it wasn’t worth it. It was tough enough getting him out of the building.
    “Mr. Marella,” he said. “You’ve got serious trouble.”
    “Every day,” Vincent mumbled.
    “Huh?”
    “What can I do for you, Terrill Joe?”
    “You gotta take a look around back.”
    “Do I.”
    “You’d better. Otherwise it’s your job.”
    Terrill Joe’s skin was a spiderweb network of broken veins. His teeth were like tombstones in a graveyard that had been bombarded with short-range missiles. And the stench rolled from him like a tsunami, engulfing countless innocent nostrils. In short, Terrill Joe was an absolute wreck.
    Usually, Vincent’s MO with Terrill Joe was to get him out ofthe building as soon as humanly possible, lest he disturb the taxpayers. He saw no reason to change his MO now, even though it was a humid, swampy mess outside.
    “Show me,” he said.
    There were two entrances to 1919 Market. The main entrance faced Market, and across the street was the symbol of Philly financial strength: the stock exchange. The place took itself so seriously, it was pretty much licking its lips after 9/11, thinking Wall Street would migrate southeast by a hundred miles or so. Yeah. Like that had happened.
    The other entrance faced Twentieth Street, which faced another corporate tower. Terrill Joe led him out the Twentieth Street side.
    “What’s the deal?”
    “You see, you see.”
    Yeah, I’ll see, I’ll see.
    The crackhead led the security guard around the back to the small alley between the corporate tower and the apartment building behind it. It was too small to have a name—it was only ten feet wide. Maybe a real street had run through this spot at some point. Not forty years ago, certainly. Then, the Chinese Wall dominated. Whatever street had existed before then had been obliterated by years of paving and repaving and demolition and construction. The object lesson: If you’re not careful, they can take away your name.
    “Lookit that.”
    Vincent saw what the crackhead was worried about. Shattered glass, on the dark asphalt of the nameless alley.
    Where had that come from?
    Vincent craned his neck up, even though he knew it was a silly gesture. Like he’d be able to see if there was a single pane of glass missing from one of the thirty-seven stories.
    “You see this happen?”
    “See it?” Terrill Joe asked. “Thing nearly cut my head off comin’
down.”
    “How far up, about?” He squinted. The sun was blazing this morning.
    “Real
high up.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.”
    He squinted for a little while longer—the sun was bright,