It took an hour and a half to get to Landsdowne and another half-hour to find 31 East Plumstead Avenue. The one-story bungalow sat on a three-foot-high cinder block foundation, with three concrete steps leading to the front door, fronted by a glass-enclosed storm door. A bay window took up most of the right side. The rest of the house was gray vinyl siding and a black shingle roof.
“Let"s go for a ride,” I said to no one.
“Where to?” Larry asked, putting the car in gear.
“I need a public phone.”
“What for?” Augie asked, lighting a cigarette.
“If he’s home, we must find a way into the house. If he’s not, we don’t want him coming home before we are ready.”
We found one inside a gas station about six blocks away. After dialing and taking a drag on my Salem, I was about to hang up when a
