Naked Came the Cheesesteak an excerpt
One of these people will die from that most Philadelphian of traditions: A poisoned cheesesteak. Who will it be? Could it be Vincent “Pants “ DeLeon, wannabe journalist? Here’s a little bit about him, from writer Gregory Frost.
false face could disguise the fact there was a true monster out there. The Cheesesteak Killer, the TV reporters and news bloggers were calling him—and that monstrous mo-fo was proving bad for Arshad’s business. Ergo no time, no reason, to stop on Kelly Drive today to sell weed to the rollerbladers, skate rats and college scullers who hung out by the fancy, gingerbread houses along Boat House Row. Nobody was buying much lately, and Arshad knew enough to lay low. Too many of his clients had been tangled up in that mess over the past nine days. First that asshole Hodge, then Joey DeLuca’s idiot roommate and the chick he’d been messing with. A bunch of others, including Hodge’s friend Pants, who’d bought it in some dingy writers’ club in Center City. Spoiled college kids were pushing up daisies all over the goddamn city, and nobody knew what to make of it. He’d followed the story on The Daily Traversty blog, how the cops were hauling in people for questioning left and right, only to let them go when the connections fizzled.
Pants closed his browser. Wow. Where in hell did Travers get all of his information? Pants wanted to meet him, get the inside scoop from him, and more than that, shake him up in return. He would have considered dropping in at the Pen & Pencil Club to see if Travers turned up there. The trouble was, he couldn’t show his face in the journalists’ club right at the moment. When he’d first arrived in the city, Pants had spent a lot of evenings in the Pen & Pencil Club, cadging free drinks and even a few meals from the clientelle by claiming to be the nephew of respected journalist Clark DeLeon, until the night that Clark had turned up there himself. It was inevitable, he supposed, that they would encounter each other sooner or later, but he’d been banking on later. Pants had been right in the middle of telling a couple of cigar smokers at the bar about “Uncle Clark” when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He’d turned around to find himself facing an older guy with glasses and a short beard. Intuitively he knew something was wrong. Tom Purdom, a music critic who wrote for the Broad Street Review, was standing beside the guy and said, “Look, Vincent, your uncle’s here.” In his memory, the entire club had already fallen silent right, waiting. They knew. They all knew. Pants had barely made it out of the place alive.
--------------------------------------------------------Or could it be one of Philadelphia’s Finest, Detective Chelsea Simon, by Victoria Janssen. Their Rittenhouse condo was quiet when she let herself in; the cat, Mozzarella, was curled asleep on the back of the leather couch. Chelsea stripped off her suit jacket and locked her gun and its holster in the gun safe, placing her badge in with them. Only then did she lay her phone, keys, and wallet on the marble kitchen island. Arturo sat in the cozy breakfast nook with his nightly espresso, examining the evening’s receipts from his restaurant empire as they rolled in. Chelsea laid her hands on his shoulders and kissed the top of his bald head. “Sell any deconstructed Wagyu cheesesteaks?” “I’m waiting to find out if Craig LeBan is impressed before I give up on it.” He reached up to caress her hand with his. “I missed the news—any breaks in the case?” Chelsea slid onto the padded banquette next to him, throwing one leg over his lap. She laid her head on his shoulder. It wouldn’t be difficult to fall asleep right here. “More leads, but leads are a dime a dozen, any idiot can drop one. Today an idiot did.” “It’s following the leads that counts,” Arturo said solemnly. “You know my rants too well,” Chelsea said. “Want to hear about some more idiots on Yelp?” Arturo grinned and kissed her. “The case will still be there in the morning.” “It’s already morning.” Chelsea yawned. “I sent Olive and Laurel home at a reasonable hour, so they can follow up on an interview for me, decide whether to bring the lady in to the precinct.”
--------------------------------------------------------Or could it be skateboarder/weed dealer Arshad Mirou? Here’s a little more about him, from Kelly McQuain. A crisp, fall Monday morning, and already Arshad Mirou had missed his psychology class, no thanks to SEPTA and the 61 line, the bus always late if it ever came at all. Arshad pushed through traffic on his skateboard instead, dodging pedestrians and the rush of cars, blasting through red lights and swerving past car bumpers with only inches to spare. Arshad felt free, moments like this. Didn’t matter that he was from the mean streets of Strawberry Mansion, where the cracked sidewalks and squat row houses made the world seem composed of anything but strawberries or mansions. Syringes and squats were more like it. Grit and dirt and plastic bags, all of it blowing now like fall leaves in Arshad’s wake. In the last few weeks, Halloween decorations had sprung up in store fronts and windows. Grinning green witches, cartoony vampires. But no
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