The Philadelphia Quarry Read Online Free PDF

but he’s almost as old as Clara, and I think they put you in jail for dough-popping people that age, even if they do deserve it.
    “And how is our resident felon?”
    He must spend half his waking hours down here in the lobby, watching and waiting for chances to piss people off.
    He’s really pushing it. If McGrumpy had his way, Custalow would be back out on the street. Other than one rather unfortunate and semi-deserved killing, Abe Custalow is as gentle as a lamb; but I think McGrumpy’s afraid our maintenance man and my co-tenant might pinch his head off and shit down his neck, and I like the idea of the old bastard being a little jumpy.
    “Abe was looking for you,” I tell him as I leave.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Saturday
    T he forecast is for snow. Sitting in the den and looking out, I think the TV moron with the bad hair might have gotten it right. Even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then.
    One of the disadvantages of living ten blocks from the paper is that you can’t exactly claim the roads are too icy. I tried it once, told Jackson I might fall on those slick brick sidewalks and hurt myself. He reminded me that the bus stops right in front of my building.
    When the phone rings, I let the answering machine pick it up. That’s only fair. I wouldn’t even be up now if I could have gone back to sleep after I got my acid reflux wakeup call at five.
    Then I hear Sally Velez’s voice, and it doesn’t sound like a casual call. What call is casual at seven thirty on a Saturday morning?
    “Alicia Simpson has been shot. They don’t think she’s going to make it.”
    I pick up and ask her where.
    “Somewhere on West Cary. She’s at MCV.”
    “When?”
    “It must’ve just happened. Maybe an hour or two ago. Some friend of Ray Long’s, an ER nurse, called him and he called me. I don’t know much else.”
    “We’re sure it’s her?”
    “Pretty sure. Sure enough that I’m calling you.”
    Point taken. Unlike some editors, Sally doesn’t get her kicks by playing newspaper. When she pulls the alarm, there’s probably a fire.
    I put down my coffee and head for the bedroom. There on the floor, where I left them, are my pants and shirt. I can always take a shower later and get presentable before I start my real workday, the part I get paid for.
    I see Custalow in the lobby, talking to Marcia the manager. I tell him what’s going on.
    He shakes his head.
    “You didn’t get in until one thirty.”
    I tell him I’ll get the hours back sometime.
    “After you’re dead,” he says, and turns back to Marcia, to whom he is trying to explain the latest plumbing issue.
    I light a Camel while I’m on the front steps. I’m not dressed for bad weather, and I debate for a few seconds whether I should go back up. But then I’d have to waste a cigarette. Screw it.
    The air is cold and still, and it seems like I can already feel the snow. But when I get to the car, there’s no evidence of ice on my windshield, just an empty Bud on the hood, which some young scholar must have mistaken for a recycling bin sometime after I got in. I think briefly of the Black family’s current contribution to higher education. I need to give Andi a call.
    The VCU hospital is a long walk or a short drive from the Prestwould. Everyone beyond a certain age still calls it MCV, as in Medical College of Virginia.
    With HIPAA and all, it’s very difficult to get information out of hospitals these days, or at least it is supposed to be. I recognize one of the receptionists, though. As luck would have it, she’s Goat Johnson’s niece. I’ve known her since she was a baby.
    “Willie,” she says, brightening when she sees me. “You look like you’ve been run over by a bus. Sure you don’t need the emergency room entrance?”
    I tell her what’s happened. She looks around and then gives me what I need.
    Alicia Parker Simpson is in intensive care. I can’t get in there without a pass, and even Goat Johnson’s niece can’t do that for