The next thing Sonny heard was that Charley was now a Highway Patrolman. Highway Patrolmen, everybody knew, were the sharp cops. They could find their asses with only one hand. What the hell, Sonny had reasoned, it was a payback. Even if Charley wasn’t too smart, he had done what he did, and Highway would make an exception for the guy who had caught the guy who shot the Highway commander.
The next thing Sonny heard about Charley after that was that he was now a detective. That was surprising. Sonny knew that you had to take a test to be a detective, and unless Charley had changed a whole hell of a lot since Bishop Neuman High School, taking tests was not his strong point.
Then Sonny figured that out, too. Charley hadn’t been able to cut it as a Highway Patrolman. You couldn’t be a dummy and be a Highway Patrolman, and Highway had probably found out about Charley in two or three days.
So what to do with him? Make him a detective. It sounded good, and despite what you saw on the TV and in the movies, all detectives weren’t out solving murders and catching big-money drug dealers. A lot of them did things that didn’t take too much brains, like looking for stolen cars, and checking pawnshops with a list of what had been heisted lately, things like that.
And then Sonny had heard that there were some Police Department big shots, chief inspectors and the like, who got to have a chauffeur for their cars and to answer their phones, and that sometimes these gofers were detectives.
That’s what Charley McFadden was probably doing, Sonny Boyle reasoned. It fit. The Police Department figured they owed him for catching Gallagher, and there was nothing wrong with being a detective, and he could be useful doing something, like driving some big shot around, that other cops would rather not do themselves.
All of this ran through Timothy Francis Boyle’s mind when he saw Charles Thomas McFadden walk into Lou’s Crab House at Eleventh and Moyaminsing.
What surprised him now was how Charley was dressed. He looked nice. Not as classy as the young guy with him-the other guy was not a cop; you don’t buy threads like he’s wearing on what they pay cops but nice. Nice jacket, nice white shirt, nice slacks, even a nice necktie.
And he was also surprised when McFadden headed for the booth where Sonny was waiting for his runners to bring the cash and numbers to him.
Did he just spot me? Or was he looking for me?
“Well, aren’t we in luck?” Charley McFadden said as he slid into the booth beside Sonny. “Timothy Francis Boyle himself, in the flesh!”
“How are you, Charley?” Sonny asked, and smilingly offered his hand. “Nice threads.”
“Thanks,” Charley said. “Sonny, say hello to my friend Matt Payne.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sonny said. He gave the other guy his hand, and was surprised that he wasn’t able to give it a real squeeze the way he wanted to. This Payne guy was stronger than he looked like.
“How do you do, Mr. Boyle?” Matt said.
Main Line, Sonny decided. If he talks like that-like he keeps his teeth together when he talks-and dresses like that, he’s from some place like Merion or Bala Cynwyd. I wonder what the fuck he’s doing with McFadden.
“Long time no see,” Sonny said. “What brings you down this way?”
Charley put two fingers in his mouth, causing a shrill whistle which attracted the waitress’s attention. “Two coffees, darling,” he called out. “Put them on Sonny’s bill.”
“On my bill, my ass,” Sonny said.
“For old times’ sake, Sonny, right? Besides, I’ve told Matt you’re a successful businessman.”
“You did?”
“I told him you are one of the neighborhood’s most successful numbers runners and part-time bookies.”
“Jesus Christ, Charley, that’s not funny.”
“Don’t be bashful,” McFadden said. “He’s always been a little bashful, Matt.”
“Has he really?” Matt said.
“Yeah. What do you expect, with a name like Francis? That’s a girl’s name.”
“When its a girl, they spell it with an e,” Sonny said. “Damn it, you know that.” He looked at Matt Payne. “Charley and me go back a long ways. He’s always pulling my leg.”
Who the fuck is this guy? What the hell is this all about?
One of Sonny’s runners-Pat O’Hallihan, a bright, red-headed eighteen-year-old who worked hard, was honest, and for whom Sonny saw a bright future came into Lou’s Crab House, carrying a small canvas zipper bag with his morning’s receipts. He stopped when he saw that Sonny was not alone in the booth. Sonny made what he hoped was a discreet gesture telling him to cool it.
It was not discreet enough.
“Turn around, Matthew,” McFadden said. “The kid in the red hair? Three to five he’s one of Sonny’s runners.”
Matt turned and looked.
“Is he really?” he asked.
“Charley, you are not funny,” Sonny said.
“Who’s trying to be funny?” McFadden said. “I was just filling Detective Payne in on the local scumbags.”
“ Detective” Payne? Is he telling me this Main Line asshole in the three-hundred-fifty-dollar jacket and the fifty-dollar tie is a cop?
“You’re a cop?” Sonny’s mouth ran away with him.
“Show him your badge, Matthew,” McFadden said. “Sonny-I suppose in his line of work, it’s natural-don’t trust anybody.”
The Main Line asshole reached into the inside breast pocket of his three-hundred-fifty-dollar Harris tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and came out with a small folder. He opened it and extended it to Sonny, which afforded Sonny the opportunity to see a Philadelphia Police Department detective’s badge and accompanying photo identification.
“You don’t look like a cop,” Sonny said.
“Don’t I really?” Matt asked.
“Detective Payne is with Special Operations,” Charley said. “You familiar with Special Operations, Sonny?”
“Sure.”
What the fuck is Special Operations? Oh, yeah. That new hotshot outfit. They’re over Highway Patrol.
“You know what Detective Payne said when I told him what line of work you’re in, Sonny?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Detective Payne said, Bookmaking and numbers running is a violation of the law. I think we should find your friend and throw his ass in jail.’ Isn’t that what you said, Matt?”
“Hmmmm,” Matt said thoughtfully. “Yes, that is essentially what I said.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” Matt said. “I was not speaking in jest.”
“I’m getting out of here,” Sonny said. “And just for the hell of it, wiseass, you can’t search me without a reason, and even if you did, you wouldn’t find a thing on me.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Sonny,” McFadden said, and his voice was no longer pleasant. “Until I tell you you can.”
“I’ll bet, Charles,” Matt said, “that if I was to show that young man with the red hair my badge, and ask if he would be kind enough to open his bag for me…” He interrupted himself, jumped to his feet, and walked quickly to the redhead.
“I want you to put that bag on that table,” he said, showing him his badge. “In sight. And I want you to sit in that booth with your hands flat on the table until I tell you to move. You understand me?”
The redhead followed Matt’s pointing, to the last booth in the line.
“Am I busted?” the redhead asked, very nervously.
“If you mean arrested,’ not yet. And perhaps that can be avoided. It depends on Mr. Boyle.”
He waited until the redhead had done what he had ordered him to do, then walked back to the booth and sat down.
“Excuse me, Detective McFadden,” he said politely. “Please continue.”
“So you bust him, so what?” Sonny said.
“I hope that won’t be necessary,” Matt said. “But in that unhappy happenstance, you would lose the morning’s
receipts. That would provide sufficient justification, I would think, Mr. Boyle, for Special Operations to assign whatever police personnel proved to be necessary to save the innocent citizens of this area from gambling czars such as yourself. And I think there is a good possibility that after we have his mother and his parish priest talk to that young man in Central Lockup, he might be willing, to save his soul from eternal damnation, ninety days in prison, and the first entry on his criminal record, to tell us who had given him his present employment, and precisely where and with whom he plied his trade.”
“Speaking of which,” Charley McFadden said. “The minute the word gets out that the cops have your receipts, you’re going to have a lot of winners, Sonny. They’re not too smart, but they’re smart enough to know if they claim they won, you’re either going to have to have a receipt proving they didn’t, or pay off. That could be very expensive, Sonny.”
“Interesting thought, Detective McFadden,” Matt said.
“Thank you, Detective Payne”
Sonny, now visibly nervous, looked between Matt and Charley.
“OK, McFadden,” Sonny said. “What do you want?”
“Now that we have you in the right frame of mind, Mr. Boyle,” Matt said, “Detective McFadden wishes to probe your presumably extensive knowledge of Philadelphia’s criminal community.”
“Huh?”
“Tell us about Frankie Foley, Sonny,” Charley said.
Oh, shit! I didn’t even think about him. What the fuck has Foley done now? Christ, did he hit the Narcotics cop?
“Never heard of him,” Sonny said.
“Think hard,” Charley said. Sonny shrugged helplessly.
“Never heard of him, Charley,” Sonny said. “I swear to God!”
“You were apparently wrong, Charles,” Matt said. “Mr. Boyle will not be cooperative. Mr. Boyle, you are under arrest for violating the laws of the City of Philadelphia and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vis-a-vis gambling and participating in an organized gambling enterprise. You have the right to an attorney…”
“Jesus Christ, Charley!” Sonny said. “Now wait a minute.”
“Remember who he is now, Sonny?” Charley asked.
“…and if you cannot afford an attorney,” Matt went on, “one will be appointed for you.” He paused. “I don’t seem to have my handcuffs, Charles. Might I borrow yours?”
“Charley, can we talk? Private?” Sonny asked.
“I have other things on my agenda, Mr. Boyle. I don’t have time to waste on you,” Matt said.
“Matt, Sonny and I go back a long way,” Charley said. “Be a good guy. Give me a minute alone with him.”
Matt gave this some thought. He looked impatiently at his wristwatch.
“Very well,” Matt said. “I will have a word with his accomplice.”
He got up and walked to the booth where Pat O’Hallihan sat with his hands obediently on the table.
“I don’t like your friend, Charley,” Sonny said.
“I don’t think he likes you, either. Too bad for you. He’s a mean sonofabitch sometimes. You don’t know who he is?”
Sonny shook his head.
“He’s the guy who popped the Northwest Serial Rapist in the head. Blew his brains out.”
“No shit, that’s him?”
“That’s him.”
“Charley, you’re going to get me killed,” Sonny said. “I’m not shitting you.”
“How am I going to get you killed?”
“Frankie Foley’s a hit man for the mob. If he finds out I’ve been talking to you, I’m a dead man.”
“An Irish hit man for the mob? Come on, Sonny.”
“I’m telling you. He does hits they don’t want to do themselves.”
Sonny looked over at Pat O’Hallihan. Matt Payne had the zipper bag open and was searching through its contents.
“How do you know?” Charley asked.
“I know. I know. Trust me.”
“‘How do you know?’ I asked.”
“He…uh, Jesus, Charley, you’re going to get me killed.”
“Think about it, Sonny,” Charley said. “When the word gets out that two cops were in here asking you about Frankie Foley, and then hauled you off, Frankie’s going to think you told on him anyway.”
Sonny Boyle felt sick to his stomach.
“He’s come to me a couple times and told me he needed alibis. Usually right after somebody hit one of the Guineas.”
“Lately?”
“I ain’t seen him, I swear to God, in a month.”
“Where does he usually hang out?”
“Meagan’s Bar.”
“He’s in the deep shit now, Sonny.”
“You think he hit the narc?”
“You tell me, Sonny.”
“I ain’t heard nothing, Charley, I swear to God.”
“Payne wants to lock you up, Sonny. You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“Christ, I don’t know any more than I told you. And that’s enough to get me killed. Those Dagos don’t fuck around.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Charley repeated.
“I can ask around,” Sonny said. “I hear things sometimes.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Charley said.
“I swear to God, if I hear anything, I’ll call you.”
“I believe you, Sonny,” Charley said. “But I don’t know about Payne. He wants this guy. He’ll do anything to get him.”
“You lock me up, all you get is what I already told you,” Sonny argued. “Let me ask around, Charley. It makes sense.”
Charley considered that for a moment.
“I’ll try, Sonny,” he said. “I don’t know…”
“Talk to him, Charley. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Charley shrugged and walked over to the booth where Matt was now counting thick, rubber-band-bound stacks of one-dollar bills.
Matt got up and walked with Charley to a corner of the room. Charley began to talk to him. Sonny did not think Payne looked at all happy with what Charley was saying.
But finally, after flashing Sonny Boyle a look of utter contempt, he shrugged and walked out of the restaurant. Charley went back to Boyle’s booth.
“That took some doing,” he said. “My ass is now on the line. Don’t fuck with me about this, Sonny. If that mean sonofabitch comes down on me, I’ll really come down on you. You understand?”
“Charley, I understand. The first thing I hear-”
“And you better hear something, and soon,” Charley interrupted. He laid a calling card on the table, took out a pen, and wrote another number on it. “My home phone is on there. The one I wrote is Special Operations. Call me there, not at Northwest Detectives.”
“You’re in Special Operations now?”
“I expect to hear from you soon, Sonny,” Charley said, and walked out of the restaurant.
Sonny looked out the window and watched him get into a new Ford unmarked car and drive away.
He walked over to where Pat O’Hallihan sat.
“Jesus Christ, what was that all about?” Pat asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sonny said. “Charley McFadden and I are old pals. We were in the same class at Bishop Neuman High School.”
“What about the one with me?”
“You were in pretty fancy company. That was Payne. You remember when a detective shot that sicko in the Northwest who was carving up women?”
“That was him?”
“That was him.”
“What was this all about?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Everything’s under control. Now, order me a cup of coffee. I got to make a telephone call.”
“Right.”
Sonny Boyle went to the pay phone by the door to the men’s room and called Frankie Foley’s house. Frankie’s mother said he was at work, and gave him the number of the warehouse at Wanamaker’s where Frankie worked.
It took some time to get
Frankie on the phone-his boss obviously didn’t like him getting personal calls at work-but finally he came on the line and Sonny told him that two Special Operations detectives were asking questions about him, that one of the detectives was a real hotshot, the cop that shot the Northwest Serial Rapist in the head, and that they seemed to think Frankie had something to do with the Narcotics cop who got himself hit.
He assured Frankie that of course he hadn’t told them a fucking thing.
EIGHTEEN
The radio went off as Matt Payne and Charley McFadden headed north on South Broad Street.
“William Fourteen.”
“That’s me,” Matt said.
Charley looked around, found the microphone on its hook under the dash, and picked it up.
“Fourteen,” he said.
“What’s your location?”
“South Broad, near City Hall.”
“Meet the Inspector at the schoolhouse.”
“En route,” Charley said, and replaced the microphone. “Well, at least we know where to go,” he said.
“I hope we did the right thing,” Matt said. “I’ll bet your ol’ buddy was on the phone before we turned the corner, telling Foley we were asking about him.”
“Hey,” Charley said, his tone making it clear he thought it was a naive observation. “What’s the difference? Bad guys think there’s a cop behind every tree.”
Fifteen minutes later, he gave Matt a smug glance when the same question and answer was paraphrased by Inspector Wohl and Sergeant Washington.
“Is this going to cause a problem?” Wohl asked. “Foley will know now we’re interested in him.”
“Malefactors,” Washington intoned solemnly, “in my experience, see the menacing forces of exposure and punishment lurking behind every bush. Often this causes them to do foolish things.”
Wohl chuckled.
“I do see a jurisdictional problem,” Washington went on. “On one hand, we are interested in Mr. Foley’s possible involvement with the Inferno job, which would put him in Wally Milham’s basket. On the other, Mr. Boyle suggested Mr. Foley has something to do with Officer Kellog’s murder, which would fall into Joe D’Amata’s zone of interest. Or possibly mine, if I am to follow allegations of corruption in the Narcotics Five Squad.”
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