City, Chapter Two

The City is alive. And all I want to do is fucking die in it.











Men die sometimes in the most miserable of places.

         For the longest time in my life I’ve been afraid of death. Still am. The hard part to think of nowadays is dying like those men who die in the most miserable places alone.  Either physically or mentally helpless. Wishing the one person you needed the most to take the pain all away, or at least to stop you or the thing that’s going to kill you from actually killing you, was with you.

         I imagine my terrible death as being something of a nightmare. Not like the beautiful, free release from the world I think of, floating into sweet nothingness, light-years from the world below, in absolute silence and peace, then splash, painless and over. No, it would be more like the most nightmarish, terrifying dream ever had. For me, that’s dying alone, under circumstances not my own making. Not alone like my passionate death from above, but completely alone. Helpless at the hands of something or someone else. With only your own thoughts and fears to speak with, until that inevitable, terrible thing that’s going to cause your death causes it, and there’s nothing you can do. And it’s in a place so out of touch with reality, so far removed from anything or anyone you’ve ever known, that all you can do everyday until it happens or doesn’t happen is accept the fact that you’re going to go crazy if it’s all you think of, so it has to be only part of what you think of, and only then sometimes, with still knowing that by thinking of it only slightly and repressing it mostly, you have, in effect, still gone completely fucking insane.

         That’s not how I want to live. And none of that is how I want to die. And yet, for some unknown reason to me, it’s sometimes all I think of lately. The Beautiful Jump that fills me with peace is only sometimes there. Mostly it isn’t. There’s just something darker, and fiercer at work inside of me. An intimate understanding that something terrible is going to happen to me and that there is nothing me or anyone can do about it. And I have no way of knowing how or when it will happen. But it will happen.

         Fuck. Listen to me, whining like a little stupid kid. This is bullshit. This isn’t the show I paid to see. I want my fucking money back.

         But the ticket booth is closed.

         Damn.



         My city, my beautiful home of electro-kinetic life and shockwave-proof living compels me to at least enjoy the long walk up to City Hall. By the time I make it to Independence Mall, Jamal’s got the fresh pretzels in from the bakery at his cart outside of the building of the old talk/rock radio station WYSP.

         A sad story of love and loss, WYSP was once an original syndicate of the Howard Stern morning show, followed by greats like Opie and Anthony, some other guy Chris Something, who I once had embarrass my ex-wife on the air, Danny Bonnaducci, and David Lee Roth. Yes, David Lee Roth.  YSP, as it was known, was awesome. I thought, anyways. Not a lotta folks did against its other rival stations in the city. And by 2008 it had switched formats so many times, it was hard for it to really keep up any surety for listeners, and it was soon bought out by the city’s first sports FM station. Not a bad idea for the city to add an FM sports station to the bill – the exact same station as its AM version. The last day of broadcasting for YSP was one of the most memorable days for me in my 30-something years on this rock, though. Music was a huge influence on me growing up – and to be honest, it’s the only way I can even manage to write at all, any little bit. Along the way were YSP, MMR, DRE, and Y100 – each titans of the city at one point in each of their times on the air. Only one though, WMMR, was able to weather the storm of change in the post ‘90s music scene and come out victorious in the early 21st Century Airwave Battles.

         And shit, the music it plays blows. But that’s not its strength. Outstanding DJs, the best personalities in the business, are where MMR was able to outfox the other sly dogs in the coup.

         Hell of a digression, I know. But shit, it’s morning. And I’m tired.

         In place of the old YSP building now is an American Jewish Heritage Museum. I won’t go into that. I’m really not interested. Maybe one day I’ll head there. Try to pick up a date with a post-grad or something.

         Across from the museum is Independence Park and the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall and the new site for George Washington’s old House, discovered under which are Underground Railroad system tunnels where his old home used to be, way back in the day.

         Then there’s Jamal. Jamal’s an old Arab from the Middle East. Been an American longer than I have, and I’m born here. He’s okay people. A regular Chatty Kathy, but okay.

         “My man, how are you today, good friend?” he asks, always with pep in the morning. Not my cup of tea, but from him it’s acceptable. I’m not perfect with my distaste for ‘morning people,’ but I’m okay with that.

         “Brother man, it’s another fucking morning. The city is alive and so am I.” And all I want to do is fucking die in it, I think.

         “Sounds too good, my friend. Pretzel, mustard, no?” He picks up a fresh bow-tie soft pretzel and mustards it up for me. As a kid I never let anyone do that for me, not even my parents or girls I dated. It’s mildly annoying, but he gets the job done.

         “Yip, just the one. Here ya go, cuz. Have a good one. Thanks.” He gets paid, I get my soft pretzel, and off I go.

         “Okay, man, you go do good things. Keep that crazy bitch woman off your backs, eh?”

         Yeah, I can do that. I check my watch and it’s now 7:28. Cutting it a little close with 9 blocks to go. I don’t stop again, and I get cracking up to see The Man.



         Fifteen minutes and another smoke later and I’m at 13th and Market, seeing the crowd gather up by now at the eastern entrance to the City Hall court yard. Knowing I have to make it through that crowd and over to the western side of the building to actually catch the conference, I pick up the pace. 7:50 now. Still plenty of time.

         Crossing Juniper Street over to City Hall Square, I coast in with the other Scribes and Scribettes interested in hearing what the ‘Authorities’ have to say. B-lining my way around the crowd, I manage to get up front pretty fast, in time to come out the western entrance to the courtyard onto West Market, standing directly behind the podium area set up for the Mayor and Chief. Looking to the left and right of the podium area, it’s not too late to take a decent route around front and steal a decent spot from which too engage in decent, tasteful discourse with this fine city’s leadership. And I do it.

         

         Standing as up front as I’m going to get, I wonder if this is where I’m supposed to be, where else would I be right now and what else would I be doing? I have no idea. This will do for now. Watching the Mayor and Chief come out from City Hall, I just wish I was doing something that is more meaningful not just to the City, but to me, too. Fuck, can I never be happy or satisfied? Will I always find ways to cynically and/or seriously hate everything? And what’s with this random thought –

         – I wonder what color thong Tight Pants Typhoid Jamie’s wearing right now? And if she’s figured out how to use a razor? Eh, fuck, not like I’ll ever swim that river again.          

         The Mayor and Chief take the stage and the shots begin to snap all around. Show time.

         “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Mayor began evenly at the podium, starting the show with flares and fireworks and all sorts of magical displays of circusry, “I want to thank you for joining me here this morning, as well as I my esteemed colleagues from the city council, the Homeland Defense Office, the Pennsylvania State Police, and, of course, the Press.

         Cute, I think to myself. He remembered us.

         “We’re going to begin this morning’s address by first discussing where we were six years ago, how we got to where we are today (in Hell, I think again to myself), and where we believe we are going to be tomorrow in regard to the safety and security of our city, the city of Philadelphia.” The man speaks very plainly and today he takes the direct approach. Getting ready for the elections and a new mayor coming in to take over the whip, I have to say, the man still maintains his cool, and briefs well. Even if half the city still can barely stand the guy, myself among them.

         As the mayor goes into the history of the Safe Streets program, from inauguration to what many call its inevitable impeachment by the bad guys in the city, I have to wonder just where Wonder Boy Jordan is. He’d be upfront, here, most likely in my spot, making sure he wasn’t getting duped for the best place to get the best coverage. But he was nowhere in sight, and the speech was already underway.

         “– start of the program yielded much gain for our city. Assaults dropped, controlled substance (drugs, dumbass) distribution had fallen to an all-time low, both of which helped lead to the inevitable break up of dozens of organized crime and thug groups seeded into the cracks of the city’s roughest neighborhoods. Murders have dropped respectably over the years –”

         Out loud I suddenly voiced, “That is until the last two years, isn’t that correct Mr. Mayor? Murders have risen exponentially over the past two years in the city, and the Police Department hasn’t been able to do anything about it.” I couldn’t resist. It was too easy of an opening. What else was I to do, let the opportunity pass me by and wish it back only after it was gone? Nope. Catching himself thrown off-guard, he came back fighting.

         “Thank you, Mr…?”

         “Kingston. Dell Kingston, of the Target.”

         “Yeah, thank you Mr. Kingston for rudely interrupting me. Hold your question until the end, and I’ll have an answer for you when I’m finished,” he said crossly. Oh, the pin pricks begin.

         “As I was saying, common burglaries, breaking and entering, the things that have plagued our city for years, have see significant reductions over the past six years.” He went on. Into how the police department’s initial success of the program has been the shining example of how real police business is conducted and is the example for many other local places to follow. He partied around the notion that because of this “most amazing, diligent, back-breaking” work, he often receives calls from other major metropolitan cities asking the hows and whats and whys and whos of getting their own programs like that off the ground. An original idea? Here, in my city? It is possible. However, in this case, not at all likely.

         “Mr. Mayor, as nice as this all sounds, with colorful words and pretty pictures of the past six years, it’s really a rouse for avoiding talking about what really matters to the people of this city. Like real results, not just convincing artists” This retort came from down the left side of the crowd, from Doug Cramer of the Inquirer. Leave it to Doug to not really ask a question and still manage to make people go driving for answers. Stumbling from this latest assault, the mayor came back swinging again.

         “Okay, we’ll play this straight,” the mayor said. Retorts and remarks from the press were saying ‘It’s about damn time’ and ‘Finally’ and ‘For once’. From somewhere behind the mayor, the PD guys tried to start cooling the crowd, while the mayor’s advisors argued with him to not go any further with straight shooting.

         “No, this is fine. We’ll lay the cards out on the table the way they want them.” Putting his hands firmly on the podium, he began again in earnest.

         “Our city is in terrible shape and there is seemingly nothing I, the police, or anyone else can do about it.” Jaws dropped, becoming all ears. You could hear a fucking pin drop.

         “Murders are higher than ever, like you pointed out Mr. Kingston. And leaders are trying hard at every turn to cover it up with pretty pictures and rosy words for the press to publish, as you’ve pointed out Mr. Cramer. And yet, you don’t publish any of it. You still have a counter-argument and valid point for every speech a leader of this city makes or publishes. The rhetorical rouse we’ve used year after year when conditions in the city did seem to be improving ended up becoming a sore still tasted on our tongues that never went away, constantly bringing us back to it whenever we were brought back to the front lines to answer for the criminal element terrorizing our homes. We thought this program would be enough. We thought it would continue to take us well into the 21st century, giving us the space to focus on more important issues, like improvement of essential services, restructuring the public school system, streamlining state-sponsored medical assistance programs for elderly. But instead it leads the ungrateful ambulance chasers who still – still – never directly address the issue directly at hand – that our fair city is hurting and needs help. And we’ve thrown back at it every fancy phrase of the dictionary we could muster. And ultimately, we have failed.”

         

         Okay, this is the point where I wake up and realize that were the mayor to actually to have the balls to say these things so publicly and indiscriminately, he’d win Person of the Year from Time and probably get elected for a third term. Knowing better, I watch as the Mayor, on stage ready to speak, is pulled aside instead by one of his advisors and eventually off stage into a larger crowd of business like men with god knows what kinds of jobs up in The Hall. Something’s wrong here. Some shit ain’t right. And I’m going to find out what it is.

         Seeing the Chief of Police close behind the Mayor as he’s rushed back into City Hall, a small crowd of my counterparts begins to follow to try getting the story, ultimately denied by an emerging thick line of police. I skip the rest of the crowd and head quickly around to the right of City Hall, at the South Broad Street entrance, hoping they haven’t yet blocked it.

         I get around there just in time to see the Mayor and Chief rushing back into the building through the eastern entrance, the line of police following to keep the rats away. Hearing sirens rushing loudly from all directions and getting closer, I quickly realize that I need to get closer and figure out just what the hell happened, nailing possibly, for once, a real fucking story – but in my fashion, something that legit, not made up, and not for flair. Something that’s got more truth than circus act style as only Jamie knows best how to give it.



         Making sure it’s clear enough to not be seen, I decide to take the indirect route over to what’s going on. If nothing else, I figure, I can at least see what the deal is, and in this business, seeing is sometimes enough to get a front page story. The doors to get into city hall are laid sideways into the walls of the foyers that oversee each entrance to the central courtyard. Using the doors near me at the South Broad entrance, I slip out my press pass and try to at least make it in as far as I can.

         Only to be stopped dead in my tracks at the front entry control desk but the sweetest young lady I’ve seen in a while. Dark skin, fierce eyes, and sexy lips, she’s fights me from the start.

         “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. The building is on lock down right now, all non-essential personnel must remain outside. Police are being moved to each of the entry control points now to ensure a hundred percent cooperation, is there anything else I can help you with?” Straightforward. Sexy.

         “Wow, you have to say all of that often, or am I just a special occasion?”

         “Believe me, you’re not a special occasion. The building is on lock down, Sir, you’re going to have to leave now.” I try to push her a little more, if just for information.

“Yes, I understand. But if I’m not the special occasion, then who is?” I tried the old reporter trick of devilishly great smile and bright, wide eyes.

         “Sir, please, you have to go. I don’t have to threaten to call security, because they’re already on their way here. Please.”

         “Nothing, not a single detail? Not even for a devilishly great smile and bright, blue eyes?”

         She hesitates, but only for a moment.

         “Police are closing down the building,” and she’s right, as I see them coming down the marble hall right now, “and there’s sirens on their way to this location. The mayor has been rushed away and canceled his speech. You’re a reporter, you do the math.” For a moment it seemed like that’s all I would get out of her. Then she went on.

         “A body was found in the mayor’s office. Apparently it’s someone the mayor knows. He’s being taken out of here and the building, as I’ve been saying, is being closed down. Is there anything else before you get booted out of here?”

         A body in the mayor’s office? Someone died in his office. Of course, had someone simply just died in his office, the sudden high alert wouldn’t have warranted such a ‘no one in or out’ response. And there wouldn’t be so many more sirens out there than there are buzzing around now. So someone was murdered in his office? Or elsewhere in the building and dumped in his office? A rush of questions fume into my head as the two from Philly’s Finest finally make it over to me.

         “Sir, you’re going to have to come with us. Now. No questions.” And suddenly more questions come to mind as I go mute and follow the two men away from the lovely young lady I was just starting to warm up to. She gives a limp smile, which I return and follow quietly.



         Looking at my watch, it’s ten after eight now, and aside from an amazing dream, followed by a few minutes of the Morning Nightmare, Typhoid Jamie, and a brief reflection of how the mayor’s speech should have gone, I’d say I’m having a hell of a morning. Both cops take my left and right, as we head to the elevator and take it up to the third floor where the mayor’s office is centered, overlooking East Market Street. There I can see the man’s advisors still lingering around his office doors, accompanied by a huge cacophony of cops and coroners and photos being shot for evidence. It’s a little intimidating at first, knowing none of these guys wants a reporter anywhere around them, anywhere to be seen at all when they work. And recognizing a few from times past, I can tell it’s not a warm welcome.

         “Wait here, please,” one of the PD guys tells me. The other stays with me, probably to make sure I’m not taking off or wandering into places unwanted.

         Looking at the open doors to the mayors office and down at his royal blue carpeting ending just at marble floored hallway, I can see why some of the cops seem so on edge. A large blood stain, splattered from the edges of the main stain, is what you’re first greeted with upon walking into the office. I noticed that it trailed off into the center of the office, until I couldn’t see anymore in past the edges of the door frame.

         I needed to get in there. See what was causing all of this. I ask throughout my morning for something terrible and terrific, and instead it seems fate missed me and nailed some other poor bastard. Always the way it goes. Getting stuck down here taking Jordan’s place, who I still to this point haven’t seen, I’d rather have been fishing, as the saying goes. But here I am, and as luck would have it, it’s turned out to be a better chance at a story than I’ve hate in a while. Not your average, run of the mill expose on what the latest lackies of the state have been fucking up, but a legitimate crime, or at least from what it seemed like, and one that I knew I couldn’t miss the chance to exploit. The time to act was now or never. What was the worst they could do, jail me for being curious? It’s worth the risk. Anything you see can make a story after all, right?

         “Hey man, so do you know what this is about?” I asked the cop with me, trying to stay out of the way of the others buzzing around.

         “You just gotta wait to talk to the people who called you up here, bud. I don’t have the whole picture.” Deep Philly accent and all, this guy didn’t seem the brightest bulb, and that worked to my advantage.

         “Right, so what’s going on in that office down there, then?” I asked, pointing a random doorway open down the hall, city employees hanging out of it, trying to see what’s going on.

         “Jeez,” he reacted, distracted by the small group at the doorway, “you guys can’t be hanging out. You gotta go back inside.”

         His attention momentarily focused elsewhere, the cop never noticed me make my way past the other policemen until I was already through the doorway of the mayor’s office.

         And… staring at the only acquaintance I thought I had. Dead. Jordan Donnelly.

         On his side on the floor, just at the front of the mayor’s desk. Papers were strewn everywhere, presumably from the mayor’s desk the way it looked a mess. He must have hit the desk and fallen straight down to the floor. Dead. Taking another step in. Shocked. Afraid. Alone. My own death out of my control, in the hands of someone else, that one person I need most in the world to make everything okay not around to save me. This must have been how Jordan felt. Terrified. The look on his face, one of surprise and pain. The bloodstain on the floor below his abdomen must have been from where he was killed. Jordan Donnelly was killed. He was dead.

         “Hey, who is this guy, which on e of you guys let him in here? Buddy, hey man, you gotta leave now, press or not,” one medium built man in a suit began towards me. “Hey you here me, man, snap out of it, out of the office, now.” I knew who he was. I heard his words. His name was Stewart, the mayor’s personal aide. Not sure of his first name. Standing there more numb than I was with first hearing from Jamie this morning, I just stared, finally stirring.

         “Yeah. Yeah, no, I got you. I’m, I’m gonna leave now. Sorry.” I turned to leave.

         “Hey, wait, Stewart, bring him back here. Hey, Dell. Dell Kingston. Sorry,” the man said, coming towards me, with a handshake in mind. I didn’t have it in mind to return it, and didn’t.

         “My name’s Detective Garry Kyuski, Mr. Kingston, I’m with the department. I saw you outside before the conference was about to start, I knew you from the TARGET. I know Mr. Donnelly was, too. I wanted some of my guys who recognized you too to bring you up here. I’m sorry; I know this has to be hard.” Words. A mixture of unrecognizable sounds. I got nothing for this guy.

         “Mr. Kingston, can you confirm, for me, that this is in fact Jordan Donnelly, from your magazine?”

         I remember this time Jordan and I, a term which I use very loosely, ran into each other at a bar in Rittenhouse. He was chasing a story and I was chasing tail. Happens in the end I got the story. Only time I ever got the chance to one up Stewart. I think the detective asked me something.

         “Mr. Kingston, I asked you if you could –”

         “Yes,” I said flatly. “It’s Jordan. It’s him.” The detective seemed satisfied I was responding to him now.

         “Okay, thank you. Now could you explain to me why someone would want to kill him? There’s obviously no hiding from you that this is a crime scene, though knowing you don’t work for an actual news paper, I doubt this story would be of any good to you.”

         He drove the fucking nail home. Got my attention, and went right for the kill on me keeping my mouth shut about what I’m seeing. And he was right. Jamie would be torn apart by this. And there would be no chance to report or tell anything of what I’ve seen. And why would I even want to, now?

         “I don’t – I don’t know. He was supposed to be here today, for the brief with the mayor. Supposed to come in early to meet with our editor and then come right here to cover the mayor and chief.” I began with that and gave a little more.

         “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. He’s always been the hardest working, nicest guy. I got nothing, detective. I don’t know.”

         Seeing my obvious state, he let go of me for questioning for now. He could see it still hasn’t quite registered for me.

         “Alright, Mr. Kingston –”

         “Dell,” I corrected him.

         “Right. Alright Dell. I’m gonna let you go. I know you’ve got people to talk to about what you’ve seen. But choose who to talk to carefully. And spare any details. It wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone in his family to find out before we properly notified them.”

         “That’s all? Nothing else.”

         “For now, Dell.” Seeing I no longer needed to be here, I wanted out now. “Officer, can you make sure Mr. Kingston gets out of here okay,” Kyuski asked one of the cops standing around.

         “Yeah, sure. Mr. Kingston, this way please.”

         I followed with the guy, just going where he wanted me to go. Numb again, air outside the building, cold or not, was necessary. It was getting too cramped in here. The flashes from pictures, the random murmur of incite into just what may have or may not have happened, the comments about how bad a death it must have been. I needed to get away from this mess. And probably go right back to Jamie to find out how much she might already know.

         

         Outside, I took out another smoke and started walking to the train station at Broad Street to catch the Market Street Blue line down to 2nd. Paying the three bucks to get onto the platform, I walked down to the end and stood alone waiting. And started going over everything in my head.

         Jordan was supposed to meet Jamie this morning as usual. But he didn’t. Instead he was already up at City Hall, most likely meeting with someone else or looking for something or drug in there by someone and killed for someone reason in the mayor’s office. But no shots were heard. No shell casings were found. The amount of blood from where he was killed near the doorway to where he fell dead at the mayor’s desk probably means he was stabbed. But whoever had done it left quickly enough to leave no traces behind. At least not that I could see. The mayor, meanwhile, was preparing to give a speech to the press and local law enforcement, obviously not preparing for it in his own office. And if he was, that means Jordan was killed right after he left. Or, quite possibly, Jordan Donnelly might have been killed while the mayor was in his office. And the speech was never going to happen at all to begin with.