The Witness

by W. E. B Griffin

  “A long time ago?”

  “Just before they gave me Special Operations,” Wohl said.

  “He didn’t know you were a staff inspector?”

  “No. Not until I testified in court.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The next time the Health Department sleaze-ball came in, I was tending bar and I had a photographer up there.” He gestured toward a balcony overlooking the bar and smiled. “I put a microphone in the pretzel bowl. Hanging Harriet gave the Health Department guy three to five,” Wohl said.

  Hanging Harriet was the Hon. Harriet M. McCandless, a formidable black jurist who passionately believed that civilized society was based upon a civil service whose honesty was above question.

  “No wonder he buys you drinks.”

  “The sad part of the story, Jack, is that Charley really was afraid to go to the cops until he found one he thought might be honest.”

  Wohl took a swallow of his drink, and then said, “Let’s carry these to the table. I’ve got to get something to eat.”

  The headwaiter left his padded rope and showed them to a table at the rear of the room. A waiter immediately appeared.

  “The El Rancho Special,” Wohl ordered. “Hold the beans. French fries.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Barbecued beef. Great sauce. You really ought to try it.”

  “I think I will,” Malone said.

  “Yes, sir. And can I get you gentlemen a drink?”

  “Please. The same thing. Jameson’s, isn’t it?”

  “Jameson’s,” Malone offered.

  “And I don’t care what Mr. Meader says, I want the check for this,” Wohl said.

  The waiter looked uncomfortable.

  “You’re going to have to talk to Mr. Meader about that, sir.”

  “All right,” Wohl said. He waited until the waiter left, and then said, “Well, you can’t say I didn’t try to pay for this, can you?”

  Malone chuckled.

  Wohl reached in the breast pocket of his jacket and came out with several sheets of blue-lined paper and handed them to Malone.

  “I’d like to know what you think about that, Jack. I don’t have much—practically no—experience in this sort of thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “How to protect Monahan, the witness in the Goldblatt job, and Matt Payne. Monahan positively identified everybody we arrested, by the way. Washington called me just after I called you.”

  The protection plan was detailed and precise, even including drawings of Monahan’s house, Matt’s apartment, and the areas around them. That didn’t surprise Malone, for he expected as much from Wohl. His brief association with him had convinced him that he really was as smart as his reputation held him to be.

  But he was surprised at the handwriting. He had read somewhere, years before, and come to accept, that a very good clue to a man’s character was his handwriting. From what he had seen of Wohl, what he knew about him, there was a certain flamboyance to his character, which, according to the handwriting theory, should have manifested itself in flamboyant, perhaps even careless, writing. But the writing on the sheets of lined paper was quite the opposite. Wohl’s characters were small, carefully formed, with dots over the i’s, and neatly crossed t’s. Even his abbreviations were followed by periods.

  Maybe that’s what he’s really like, Malone thought. Beneath the fashionable clothing and the anti-establishment public attitude, there really beats the heart of a very careful man, one who doesn’t really like to take the chance of being wrong.

  “You have three officers at Monahan’s house when he’s there,” Malone said, but it was meant as a question, and Wohl answered it.

  “Two two-man Special Operations RPCs,” Wohl said. “Four cops. One car and three cops at Monahan’s. The fourth officer will be the guy wearing the rent-a-cop uniform in the garage on Rittenhouse Square.”

  “He’ll have the second car with him at Payne’s place?” Malone asked.

  Wohl nodded, and went on. “I think Monahan’s at the greatest risk. There is a real chance that they will try to kill him. And I don’t want everybody there just sitting in a car. I want one man, all the time, walking around. It’s cold as hell now, so they can split it up any way they want.”

  “I understand.”

  “Payne’s apartment is really easy to protect. After five-thirty, the main door is locked. There’s a pretty good burglar alarm not only on the door, but on the first-, second-, and third-floor windows. There’s a key for the elevator from the basement. They haven’t been using it, but starting tomorrow, they’ll have to.”

  “Payne gets out of the hospital tomorrow?”

  “Right. Before lunch. He’ll go to the Roundhouse for the Homicide interviews—Chief Coughlin got Chief Lowenstein to hold off on that, kept them out of Frankford Hospital, but it has to be done—and then he’ll go to his apartment. We’ll give the officer in the rent-a-cop uniform a shotgun; he can stay inside that little cubicle with it. And, of course, we’ll have one of the three guys with Payne around the clock. I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. Monahan might be.”

  “And district and Highway cars will make passes by both places all night, right?”

  “District, Highway, and Special Operations,” Wohl said. “There should be at least one of them going by both places at least once an hour, maybe more often. And if Monahan keeps insisting on going to work, by Goldblatt’s during the day.”

  “I don’t want to sound like I’m polishing the apple, Inspector, but I can’t think of a thing I’d do differently.”

  “Good,” Wohl said. “Because, until further notice, you’re in charge. I told Captain Sabara and Captain Pekach that they are to give you whatever you think you need.”

  “Yes, sir,” Malone said. “I met McFadden, and I’ve seen Martinez, but I don’t know this man Lewis.”

  “Great big black kid,” Wohl said. “He just came on the job, sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “He worked Police Radio for four, five years before he came on the job, while he was in college. His father is a cop. He made lieutenant on the list before yours. He used to be a sergeant in the 18th District.”

  “Great big guy? Mean as hell, and goes strictly by the book?”

  “That’s him.”

  “And the young one’s in Highway?”

  “No. He’s been working as a gofer for Detective Harris. Frankly—don’t misunderstand this, he’s a nice kid and he’ll probably make a very good cop—he’s in Special Operations because the mayor made a speech at some black church saying Czernich had assigned him to Special Operations. The same sort of thing that Carlucci did with Payne. Carlucci told the newspapers Payne was my administrative assistant, so I named Payne my administrative assistant. Carlucci told the people at the church that Czernich had assigned this well-educated, highly motivated young black officer to Special Operations, so Czernich assigned him to us—”

  The waiter delivered two plates heaped high with food. The smell made Malone’s mouth water.

  “I’ll get your drinks, gentlemen,” the waiter said.

  “—so not knowing what to do with him,” Wohl went on, “I gave him to Harris. He needed a gofer. We still don’t have a fucking clue about who shot that young Italian cop, Magnella. That’s what Harris is working.”

  Malone, who had heard the gossip about Detective Tony Harris being on a monumental bender, wondered if Wohl knew.

  Wohl started eating.

  “The idea, if I didn’t make this clear,” he said a moment later, “is that with three young cops, in plainclothes, one of whom is actually Payne’s buddy, it will look, I hope, that they’re just hanging around with him.”

  “I got that. Instead of a protection detail, you mean?”

  “Right. I don’t want these scumbags to get the idea that they’re worrying us as much as they are.”

  “How long is this going to go on?”

  “So far a
s Monahan is concerned, I don’t know. At least until the end of the trail, and probably a little longer. Stillwell is going to go before the Grand Jury as soon as he can, probably in the next couple of days, and then they’re going to put it on the docket as soon as that can be arranged. Giacomo will do his damnedest to get continuances, of course, but with a little bit of luck, we’ll have a judge who won’t indulge him. As far as Payne is concerned: He’s a cop. As soon as he’s back for duty, we’ll call off official protection. Encourage him to do his drinking and wenching in the FOP.”

  Malone nodded and chuckled.

  “There is also a chance that we’ll be able to get our hands on the people who are issuing the press releases. I want the people on Monahan’s house to take license numbers, that sort of thing.”

  “That wasn’t in here,” Malone said, tapping the lined paper Wohl had given him, “but I thought about it.”

  “There is also a chance, a very slim one, that we can get some of the other witnesses to agree to testify. Washington’s going to talk to them. And I’m sure that Stillwell will probably try too. If we can get more people to come forward—”

  “Which is exactly what these scumbags are worried about, what they’re trying to prevent,” Malone said, and then, really surprising Wohl, said bitterly, “Shit!”

  Then, having heard what he said, and seeing the look on Wohl’s face, he explained.

  “Second table from the headwaiter’s table. My wife. Ex-wife.”

  Wohl looked, saw a not-especially-attractive woman, facing in their direction, across a table from a man with long, silver-gray hair, and then turned to Malone.

  “That the lawyer?”

  “That’s him.”

  “What I think you should do, Jack,” Wohl said, “is smile and act as if you’re having a great time. I’m only sorry that I’m not a long-legged blonde with spectacular breastworks.”

  Malone looked at him for a moment, and then picked up his glass.

  “Whoopee!” he said, waving it around. “Ain’t we having fun!”

  “What do you say, kiddo?” Mickey O’Hara asked as he stuck his head into Matt Payne’s room. “Feel up to a couple of visitors?”

  “Come on in, Mickey,” Matt said. He had been watching an especially dull program on public television hoping that it would put him to sleep; it hadn’t. He now knew more of the water problems of Los Angeles than he really wanted to know.

  Mickey O’Hara and Eleanor Neal came into the room. O’Hara had a brown bag in his hand, and Eleanor carried a potted plant.

  “I hope we’re not intruding,” Eleanor said, “but Mickey said it would be all right if I came, and I wanted to thank you for saving his life.”

  “Matt, say hello to Eleanor Neal,” Mickey said.

  “How do you do?” Matt said, a reflex response, and then: “I didn’t save his life.”

  “Yeah, you did,” Mickey said. “But for a moment, in the alley, I thought you had changed your mind.”

  Matt had a sudden, very clear mental picture of the fear on Mickey’s face and in his eyes, right after it had happened, when he had, startled by the flash from Mickey’s camera, turned from the man he had shot and pointed his revolver at Mickey O’Hara.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not important,” Mickey said. He pulled a bottle of John Jameson Irish whiskey from the brown paper bag. “Down payment on what I owe you, Matt.”

  “Hey, I didn’t save your life, okay? You don’t owe me a damned thing.”

  Mickey ignored him. He bent over and took two plastic cups from the bedside table, opened the bottle, poured whiskey in each cup, and then looked at Matt.

  “You want it straight, or should I pour some water in it?”

  “I’m not sure you should be giving him that,” Eleanor said.

  “He’s an Irishman,” Mickey said. “It’ll do him more good than whatever else they’ve been giving him in here.”

  “Put a little water in it, please, Mickey,” Matt said.

  Mickey poured water from the insulated water carafe into the paper cup and handed it to Matt.

  “Here’s to you, Matt,” he said, raising his glass.

  “Cheers,” Matt said, and took a swallow.

  Maybe the booze will make me sleepy, or at least take the edge off the pain in the goddamn leg.

  And then: Does he really think I saved his life, or is that bullshit? Blarney.

  “How do you feel, Matt?” Mickey asked.

  “I’m all right,” Matt said. “I get out of here tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” Eleanor asked, surprised.

  “Current medical wisdom is that the sooner they get you moving around, the better,” Matt said.

  “You going home?” Mickey said.

  “If by ‘home,’ you mean my apartment, yes, of course.”

  “I was thinking of—where do your parents live, Wallingford?”

  “My apartment.”

  “You know getting in to see you is like getting to see the gold at Fort Knox?” Mickey asked. Matt nodded. “So you know what these people have been up to?”

  Matt nodded again.

  “The Molotov cocktail, the press release, the second one? All of it?”

  Matt nodded again.

  “What do you think, Mickey?” he asked.

  “I know a lot of black guys, and a lot of Muslims,” Mickey said. “Ordinarily, I can get what I want to know out of at least a couple of them. So far, all I get is shrugs when I ask about the Islamic Liberation Army. That could mean they really don’t know, or it could mean that they think I’m just one more goddamn honky. I’d watch myself, if I were you.”

  “I was thinking—with what they have on television, there’s been a lot of time for that—about what the hell they’re after.”

  “And?”

  “In the thirties, during the Depression, when Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde were running around robbing banks, killing people, there was supposed to be some support for them; people thought they were Robin Hood.”

  “From what I’ve heard about Bonnie, she was no Maid Marion,” Mickey said.

  “What does that mean?” Eleanor asked.

  “Not important,” Mickey said. “For that matter, Clyde wasn’t exactly Errol Flynn, either. What is it you’re saying, Matty, that they’re after public support?”

  Matt nodded.

  “A political agenda?”

  “Why else the press releases?”

  “That’s pretty sophisticated thinking for a bunch of stickup guys who have to have somebody read the Exit sign to them.”

  “Somebody wrote those press releases,” Matt argued. “For their purpose—getting themselves in the newspapers and on TV—they were, by definition, effective. At least one of them can write. And plan things, like the gasoline bomb.”

  “What do you mean, ‘plan the gasoline bomb’? Anybody knows how to make one of those. That I would expect from these people.”

  “When and where to throw it,” Matt said. “They had to be watching Goldbatt’s. One man, just standing around, would have been suspicious. So they had a half a dozen of them, plus of course the guy on the roof who threw it.”

  O’Hara grunted.

  “Unless, of course, Matty, they have somebody inside the cops, inside Special Operations, who just called them and told them when Washington was going to pick up Monahan. That suggests an operation run by people who know what they’re doing.”

  “You really think that’s possible?” Matt asked, genuinely shocked. “That they have somebody inside?”

  O’Hara never got the chance to reply. The door opened again and Mr. and Mrs. Brewster C. Payne walked in.

  “Hi!” Matt said.

  “How are you, honey?” Patricia Payne asked.

  “Just fine,” Matt said. “Mother, you didn’t have to come back. I’m getting out of here tomorrow.”

  She held up her arm, around which was folded a hang-up bag.

  “In your underwear?”


  “It’s the cocktail hour, I see,” Brewster C. Payne said.

  “Dad, do you know Mickey O’Hara?”

  “Only by reputation. How are you, Mr. O’Hara?”

  “Are you allowed to have that?” Patricia Payne asked.

  “Probably not, but I can’t see where it will do any harm,” Brewster Payne said. He smiled at Eleanor. “I’m Brewster Payne, and this is my wife.”

  “I’m Eleanor Neal.”

  “How do you do?” Patricia Payne said.

  “Can I offer you a little taste, Mr. Payne?” Mickey asked.

  “Is there a glass?”

  “How do you know they aren’t giving you some medicine that will react with that?” Patricia Payne asked.

  “All I’m taking is aspirin,” Matt replied.

  Mickey made drinks for the Paynes.

  Patricia Payne nodded her thanks, sipped hers, and said, “I have this terrible premonition that some two-hundred-pound nurse is going to storm in here, find the party in progress, yell for the guards, and I will win the Terrible Mother of the Year award.”

  “I thought bringing Matt a little taste was the least I could do for what he did, saving my life, for me.”

  Thank you, Mickey O’Hara.

  “It was very kind of you, Mr. O’Hara,” Brewster Payne said.

  And thank you, Dad, for cutting off the colorful story of my courage in the face of death.

  “Call me Mickey, please.”

  “Mickey.”

  “Mickey, we should be going,” Eleanor said. “We’ve been here long enough.”

  “You’re right,” Mickey said. He tossed his drink down, shook hands all around, and opened the door for Eleanor.

  “Interesting man,” Brewster Payne said as the door closed after them.

  “He’s supposed to be the best police reporter on the Eastern Seaboard.”

  “He has a Pulitzer, I believe,” Brewster Payne said, and then changed the subject. “Denny Coughlin tells me you insist on going to your apartment when they turn you loose?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How much do you know of what else has happened?”

  “I know about the threats, and the firebomb. Is there something else?”

  “No. I just didn’t know how much you knew. Just before we came here, Dick Detweiler phoned. They wanted to come see you—he called earlier, as soon as he heard what had happened—but I told him you were getting out in the morning.”