Left for Dead (Eric Steele) by Sean Parnell

Author:Sean Parnell [Parnell, Sean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

Crestwood, Washington, D.C.

Mrs. Jepson was sweeping the front porch of her family’s brownstone on Sixteenth Street NW when her top-floor tenant, Ralphy Persko, showed up in a blue Hyundai with Uber and Lyft stickers in the windows. She stopped sweeping, arched her aching back, adjusted the green bandanna hugging her salt-and-pepper dreads, and watched Ralphy get out of the car with what appeared to be two young friends.

One was a tall skinny blond fellow with a long ponytail, the other a petite young Caucasian girl with a crown of tight black curls that Leah Berkowitz, one of Mrs. Jepson’s best friends, would have called a “JewFro.” It wasn’t a term that Mrs. Jepson would dare use nowadays but had been perfectly all right back in the 1960s, when they’d all been freethinking hippies.

All three of the young people were burdened with oversize laptop cases and grocery bags, from which Mrs. Jepson could see Red Bull six-packs and frozen taco meals bursting. The car pulled away and Ralphy and his crew headed for the wooden front stairs, which were badly in need of a paint job.

“Ralphy, please don’t tell me you’ve been fired by the Smithsonian.”

“Oh, no, not at all, Mrs. Jepson.” Ralphy smiled as he hustled up the stairs. “Just got off early today.”

“That’s good news, then,” Mrs. Jepson said. “Had a little worry there about rent on the first.”

“Have I ever been late?” Ralphy said.

“Nope.” She cocked her head to look past his shoulder. “And who might these fine young people be?”

Ralphy stopped and his Program compatriots nearly smashed into his back.

“Oh, this is Kilo, and Frankie, my friends.”

“Frankie.” Mrs. Jepson nodded at the ponytailed youth, then did the same at the girl and said, “Kilo, that’s an unusual name for a young lady.”

“It’s the other way around, Mrs. Jepson. He’s Kilo, she’s Frankie.”

“Ahhhh.” Mrs. Jepson nodded up and down but was obviously confused. “Are you having a party this evening, Ralphy?”

“No, we’re just working on an after-hours project, writing a video game together.”

“I see.” She was satisfied as long as Ralphy wasn’t turning from a model tenant into a hellion. “Well, have fun.”

“See ya later.”

Mrs. Jepson went back to sweeping, and Ralphy led Kilo and Frankie through the stained glass front door, and they all headed up the long stairwell.

“The Smithsonian?” Kilo whispered.

“Whatever,” Ralphy mumbled.

“What game are we writing?” Frankie scoffed. “Cutlass Heart Attack II?”

“Shhh!” Ralphy hissed.

He was already thumbing a fob on his key ring as the trio panted onto the third-floor landing, and then all four locks on his door fired and they were inside and dumping their gear. Frankie looked around at Ralphy’s expansive apartment, six slanted windows, pop art throw rugs, and extremely nice furniture—for a generally slobby geek—and whistled.

“Wow, epic digs, boss.” She was wearing a Nationals T-shirt, though she’d never been to a game in her life.

Ralphy ignored the compliment and pointed over to his long workbench along the apartment’s far wall.

“All right, people, set us up over there, all three machines.

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