9:08 p.m.
EARLY IN his career, Mickey Bernstein had spent a few years undercover. He’d told his superior he just wanted more street experience. But his real motivations were more complex.
A lot of it was wanting to be out from under his dad’s thumb. But it was also the secret thrill of letting himself disappear into the rougher sections of the city and enjoying some of the pleasures associated with those places. Being the son of Philly’s most famous cop meant he’d grown up under constant scrutiny, both inside his home and out. It was nice to slip into another man’s skin.
And he could still do that from time to time.
Like now, walking toward a dive bar near the infamous intersection of Kensington and Allegheny. They said this area was slowly gentrifying, just like nearby Fishtown, but Mickey knew better. Woe to the hipster moron who stepped off the El looking for avocado toast and a craft IPA. Mickey didn’t want to look like that. Or, even worse, like a cop. So he’d pulled on workman’s clothes, skipped his evening shave, and got into character.
Bernstein opened the door to Dmitri’s and found an empty barstool. People gave him the usual once-over, but nobody seemed to make him. He ordered a shot of Jack, a Bud back, and a fifty-cent bag of greasy potato chips. In the corner was a long-defunct Donkey Kong console that now doubled as an ashtray and a place to hang Christmas lights, which were apparently up all year.
Mickey’s dad loved places like this. Real salt-of-the-earth joints in the old working-class nabes. For all he knew, his dad had dragged him and his mom here at some point. Young Mickey had probably pumped some quarters into that very Donkey Kong machine.
When Mickey was two rounds in, Crazy Percy walked through the front door. Nobody bothered to look up. According to Mickey’s regular snitches, Crazy Percy was always in here this time of night. Mickey didn’t even have to come up with a tactic for the approach; Crazy Percy slid his large frame into the empty stool to Mickey’s left.
“Hey, Crazy. Want a beer?”
“Oh, shit, man.” Percy’s frame deflated a little. “Gimme a Jack instead. A double.”
Mickey nodded his permission to the bartender, who didn’t exactly measure as he poured the whiskey into a tumbler.
“You look like garbage,” Percy told Mickey, which was quite a statement coming from a man nicknamed “Crazy.” This was not a nickname Percy embraced, but for years he’d been the guy who was willing to do pretty much anything (steal cars, break legs, maybe even murder) for low, low prices, so the moniker was hard to shake. Percy was forever looking for a way to turn a fast buck, but he always undervalued himself. With a little ambition, Mickey thought, he could be a proper criminal.
“I couldn’t be better,” Mickey said. “In fact, I’m getting married.”
“Thought you were married.”
“I’m in the market for a ring, and here’s the thing—my sweetheart is a huge Birds fan. I mean, she, like, lives for it. So I’m looking for something like…a Super Bowl ring.”
Percy groaned, then downed his whiskey as if it might be taken away from him.
“Heard you had a line on one,” Mickey continued. “Something really special that just came on the market.”
“I wouldn’t even know what a Super Bowl ring looks like. What, does it have little footballs or buffalo wings on it or something? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Percy, you’re breaking my heart here.”
“Look, okay, I know where you’re going with this. I didn’t have anything to do with Archie Hughes.”
“But you saw his car.”
Crazy Percy stared at his drink, knowing that this conversation could go one of two ways. He decided on the easy way. “Yeah, I did. There was another fancy car parked nearby too.”
Mickey tried to hide his excitement. “You remember the make and model?”
“A Bentley. Red or maroon, something like that. The thing was gorgeous. Couldn’t believe somebody had left it out there that time of night.” The thought of boosting it had clearly crossed Percy’s mind. But maybe he wasn’t that crazy.
“Did you see anyone behind the wheel? A woman, maybe?”
“Nah, there was nobody in the car. Unless they were hiding in the back seat.”
“You sure?”
“I didn’t see a soul. Not until you cops rolled up, and then I got the hell out of there.”
The car, though. That was enough.
Francine Hughes drove a red Bentley.