"Next worse case scenario, Wally," Chief Coughlin said. "He's not in there. He's the editor of theCatholic Messenger. On his way to complain to the cardinal archbishop that while he and wife were having a retreat at Sacred Heart Monastery, the cops took his front and back doors and scared hell out of his cat, he stops by the PhiladelphiaLedger to tell Arthur Nelson what Carlucci's Commandos have done to him."
That produced more outright laughter than chuckles.
"And Jerry Carlucci, Wally," Lowenstein added, "said he wants to be there if we take anybody's door."
"I agree with Inspector Wohl too," H. Charles Larkin said. "I don' t think, if our man is in one of these houses, that he's liable to do anything tonight. Unless, of course, we panic him. Then all bets are off."
"So what Peter has come up with is this," Lowenstein went on. "At half past seven tomorrow morning, it gets light at six-fifty, we are going to send detectives to the houses adjacent to the houses in question and see what the neighbors know about Wheatley, Stephen J., and Wheatley, M. C. If it looks at all that there's a chance he's our guy, we evacuate the houses in the area, and then we take the door. Stakeout will take the door, backed up by Highway and Ordnance Disposal."
"And what if he's not our man?" Inspector Jenks asked.
"Then we take a look at the other five houses where nobody was home. There will be people still on them, of course."
And if we shoot blanks there too, Wohl thought, we're back to square one.
"So what happens now?" Inspector Jenks asked.
"I don't know about you, Wally," Coughlin said, "but I'm going to go home and go to bed."
"You each, you and Chief Lowenstein, are going to take one of these houses?" Jenks asked.
"That's up to Inspector Wohl," Lowenstein said. "Peter?"
"I'm going to be between the two houses," Wohl said. "Which door we take first, if we take any at all, will depend on what the detectives come up with when they talk to the neighbors. We'll do them one at a time."
"And the mayor's going to be there?"
"Yes, sir. That's what he said."
"And we'll be with Peter and the mayor," Lowenstein said. "Denny's going to pick him up at his house in Chestnut Hill at seven."
Lowenstein put a match to a large black cigar, then turned to Wohl.
"Is that about it, Peter?"
"Yes, sir. All that remains to be done is to pass the word."
"Then I'm going home," Lowenstein said, and walked out of the room.
The meeting was over.
TWENTY-SEVEN
As Mr. Ricco Baltazari walked down the corridor to the door of Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer's apartment, at quarter to one in the morning, he was aware that several things were bothering him.
There was the obvious, of course, that he was between the rock (Mr. Savarese) and the hard place (Mssrs. Gian-Carlo Rosselli and Paulo Cassandro) about this goddamned cop. If the cop either didn't look like he could handle what was required of him or, worse, that he was maybe setting them up, he would have to tell Mr. S. that he thought so, or risk winding up pushing up grass in the Tinnicum Swamps out by the airport, if something went wrong.
But if he did that, it was the same thing as saying that GianCarlo and Paulo were a couple of assholes who were going to get Mr. S. in trouble. They would be insulted, and they both had long memories.
And that wasn't all. There was the business between the goddamned cop and Tony. He was having trouble remembering that all she was, was a dumb Polack who he liked to screw and nothing more. That had been possible as long as he hadn't actually seen what was going on.
But now he was going to be in her apartment, actuallytheir apartment, where they'd had some really great times in the sack, and where she was now fucking the goddamned cop.
Well, shit, there's nothing I can do about it.
He pushed her doorbell and in a moment Tony answered it, wearing a fancy nightgown he'd bought her, and which he now clearly remembered taking off her.
"Whaddaya say, Tony?"
"Hello, Ricco."
"Your boyfriend here? I'd like a word with him."
"Come on in, Ricco," Tony said, and then raised her voice. "Vito, honey, it's Mr. Baltazari. He wants to talk to you."
"It's who?"
"I'm a friend of Mr. Rosselli, Vito," Ricco said.
The goddamned cop came into the living room in his underwear.
My living room, I'm paying the freight. And my girl, I'm paying the freight there too. And here's this sonofabitch in his underwear.
"Vito," Ricco said, putting out his hand, "Mr. Rosselli got tied up. He had to go to the Poconos, as a matter of fact, and he asked me to drop by and pass a little information to you."
"What did you say your name was?"
"Baltazari, Ricco Baltazari. I run the Ristorante Alfredo."
"Oh," the goddamned cop said. He did not offer to shake hands. " You know Tony?"
"We seen each other around, right, Tony?"
"You could put it that way, I guess," Tony said.
"So what's the message?"
"Tony, could you give us a minute alone? Get yourself a beer or something?"
"Whatever you say, Mr. Baltazari," Tony said and went into the bedroom. She turned as she closed the door and gave him a look.
"That shipment you and Mr. Rosselli was talking about?" Ricco began.
"What about it?"
"It's coming in tomorrow night. I mean tonight, it's already today, ain't it? On Eastern Flight 4302 from San Juan. At nine fortyfive."
Vito Lanza nodded.
"It's going to be in a blue American Tourister suitcase, one of the plastic ones, and there will be two red reflective strips on each side of the suitcase," Ricco went on.
Vito nodded again.
"That going to pose any problems for you, Vito?"
"What kind of problems?"
"You're not going to write that down, or anything?"
"I can remember Eastern 4302 at nine forty-five."
"From San Juan."
"Eastern 4302 is always from San Juan," Vito said. "Every day but Sunday."
He's a wiseass. He's an asshole who gambles with money he doesn't have, a fucking cop too dumb to know he's being set up, or that the only reason he's fucking Tony is because I told her to fuck him, and he's a wiseass.
"I'm going to ask you again, Vito. Is that going to pose any problems?"
"What kind of problems?"
"Money does funny things to people. Nothing personal, you understand. But you understand why I have to-ask."
"I understand."
"I'm sure you're not that kind of a guy. Mr. Rosselli speaks very well of you, but there are some people, when they get around that kind of money, they do foolish things. Foolish things that could get them killed."
"I'm not that kind of guy," Vito said evenly.
"I'm sure you're not," Ricco said.
"But I do have a couple of questions."
"What kind of questions?"
"Two questions. What do I do with the suitcase once I get it out of the airport?"
Jesus Christ, I don't know. Didn't they tell him, for Christ's sake?
"Didn't Mr. Rosselli tell you what to do with it?"
"If he had told me, I wouldn't be asking," Vito said calmly.
"Then I guess we'll have to ask him, won't we?" Ricco replied. " What was the other question?"
"When and where do I get my money?"
You're a greedy sonofabitch too, aren't you? Well, I guess if I was into Oaks and Pines for four grand worth of markers, four grand that I didn't have, I'd be a little greedy myself.
"You don't worry about that, Vito. You carry out your end of the deal, Mr. Rosselli will carry out his."
"Yeah."
Ricco walked to the telephone and dialed Gian-Carlo Rosselli's number.
"Yeah?"
"Ricco. I'm with our friend."
"How's things going?"
"He wants to know what he
should do with the basket of fruit."
"Shit, I didn't think about that," Rosselli said. There was a long pause. "Ask him if he could take it home, and we'll arrange to pick it up there."
Ricco covered the microphone with his hand.
"Mr. Rosselli says you should take it home, and he'll arrange to have it picked up. You got any problem with that?"
"No," Vito said, after thinking it over for a moment. "That'd be all right."
"He says that's fine," Ricco said.
"Okay. And everything else is fine too, right?"
"Everything else is fine too."
Mr. Rosselli hung up on Mr. Baltazari.
"Okay," Ricco said. "Everything's fine. I'll get out of your hair."
Vito Lanza nodded.
Ricco turned and walked to the door and opened it. Then he turned.
"I got to make the point," he said. "You know what happens to people who do foolish things, right?"
"Yeah, I know," Vito said. "And I already told you I'm not foolish."
"Good," Ricco said and went through the door.
****
When, a few minutes before one A.M., Matt Payne drove into the underground garage at his apartment at the wheel of the unmarked Special Operations Division car he had been given for the business tomorrow morning, he was surprised to find that the space where he normally parked the Bug was empty.
As if I need another reminder that my ass is dragging, I have no idea where the Bug is. It's almost certainly at the Schoolhouse-where else would it be?-but I'll be damned if I remember leaving it there.
He parked the Ford, and rode the elevator to the third floor, and then walked up the stairs to his apartment.
The red light on the answering machine, which he had come to hate with an amazing passion toward an inanimate object, was blinking.
I don't want to hear what messages are waiting for me. They will be, for one thing, probably not messages at all, but the buzz, hummm, click indication that my callers had not elected to leave a message, in other words, that Evelyn was back dialing my number. Or it might actually be a message from Evelyn, which would be even worse.
On the other hand, it might be a bulletin from the Schoolhouse; Wohl might have thought of some other way in which I can be useful before I meet O'Dowd at half past six, which is 5.5 hours from now.
He was still debating whether to push the PLAY button when the phone rang.
It has to be either Wohl or O'Dowd. And if it's not, if it's Evelyn, I'll just hang up.
"Payne."
"Christ, where the hell have you been?" Charley McFadden's voice demanded.
"What the hell do you want?"
"Have you been at the sauce?"
"No, as a matter of fact, I haven't. But it seems like a splendid idea. You running a survey, or what?"
"Matt, you better get your ass out here, right now," Charley said.
"Out where, and why?"
"I'm on the job. Northwest Detectives. Just get your ass out here, right now," McFadden said, and hung up.
What the hell is that all about?
But Charley's not pulling my chain. I can tell from his voice when he's doing that. Whatever this is, it is not a manifestation of Irish and/or police humor.
He had, in what he thought of as a Pavlovian reflex, laid his revolver on the mantelpiece. He reclaimed it and went down the stairs and took the elevator to the basement.
The Porsche was where he remembered parking it, and he took the keys to it from his pocket and was about to put them in the door when he reconsidered.
Whatever Charley McFadden wants, it's personal, and I don't want to be about personal business when I run into one of Wohl's station wagons full of nuns. But on the other hand, it was made goddamned clear to me that Wohl wants to know where I am, second by second, and there's no radio in the Porsche. The minute I drive the Porsche out of here, Wohl will call, and when he gets the answering machine, will get on the radio. And I won't answer.
He got in the unmarked car and drove out of the garage. There wasn't much traffic, and he was lucky with the lights. The only one he caught was at North Broad Street and Ridge Avenue, which gave him a chance to look at the Divine Lorraine Hotel, and wonder what the hell went on in there.
Wouldn't the bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Philadelphia have a heart attack if there was suddenly a booming voice from heaven saying, "You're wrong, Bishop; my boy Father Divine has it right"?
He remembered he hadn't reported in. He switched to the J frequency and told Police Radio that William Fourteen was en route to Northwest Detectives.
He then wondered, as he continued up North Broad Street, whether what Charley was so upset about was the missing Bug.
I know goddamned well I left it at the apartment. Stolen? Out of the basement, past the rent-a-cop, who knows who it belongs to? And who the hell would steal the Bug when the Porsche was sitting right next to it? Who would steal the Bug if nothing was sitting right next to it?
That impeccable logical analysis of the situation collapsed immediately upon Detective Payne's entering the parking lot of Northwest Detectives, which shares quarters with the 35^th District at Broad and Champlost Streets.
There was the Bug.
Jesus, what the hell is this all about?
He went in the building and took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.
"I'm Detective Payne of Special Operations," Matt said, smiling at the desk man just inside the squad room. "Charley…"
"I know who you are," the desk man said with something less than overwhelming charm. He raised his voice: "McFadden!"
Charley appeared around the corner of a wall inside.
"What's with my car?" Matt asked.
McFadden, who looked very uncomfortable, didn't reply. He came to Matt, and motioned for him to follow him down the stairs.
They went into the district holding cells.
"You got him?" Matt asked. "Brilliant work, Detective McFadden!"
"You better take a look at this," Charley said, pointing at one of the cells.
A very faint bulb illuminated the cell interior just enough for Matt to be able to make out a figure lying on the sheet steel bunk.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Matt saw that the figure was in a skirt, and thus a female, and there was just enough time for the thought,Christ, a womanstole my Bug? when he recognized the woman.
"Jesus Christ!" he said.
Charley McFadden tugged on his sleeve and pulled him out of the detention cell area.
"Okay, what happened?" Matt asked, hoping that he was managing to sound matter-of-fact and professional.
"I was out, serving a warrant, and when I brought the critter in here, two Narcotics undercover guys, I know both of them, brought her in."
"On what charges?"
McFadden did not reply directly.
"They were watching a house on Bouvier, near Susquehanna," he said, avoiding Matt's eyes. "Thinking maybe they'd get lucky and be able to grab the delivery boy."
"What delivery boy? What are you talking about?"
"You know where I mean? Bouvier, near Susquehanna?"
Matt searched his memory and came up with nothing specific, just a vague picture of Susquehanna Avenue as it moved through the slums of North Philadelphia near Temple University.
"No," Matt confessed. "Not exactly."
"You don't go in there alone, you understand?" Charley said.
Matt understood. He was not talking about it being the sort of place it was unwise for Miss Penelope Detweiler of Chestnut Hill to visit alone, he was talking about a place where an armed police officer did not go alone, for fear of his life.
He nodded.
"So they see this white girl in a Volkswagen come down Bouvier, and that attracts their attention. So she circles the block, they think looking for the house they're sitting on. And weaving. They think she's either drunk or stoned. These are not nice guys, Matt, dogooders. But the thought of what was liable to hap
pen to a white girl, stoned or drunk, going in that house was too much."
"Oh, God!"
"So one of them got out of the car and ran down the block, and the next time she came around, he flagged her down. She almost ran over him. But he stopped her, and saw she was drunk…"
"Drunk?"Matt asked.
Please, God! Drunk, not drugged.
"Drunk," Charley said. "So he put cuffs on her and got in her car. She told them she's your girlfriend. So they tried to call you, and when they couldn't find you, brought her here. They know we're pals."
"They know who she is?"
"No. Just that she's your girl. She didn't have an ID. For that matter, not even a purse. Just a couple of hundred-dollar bills in her underwear."
"What's she charged with?"
"Right now, nothing. I called in some favors."
"Jesus, Charley!"
"Yeah, well, you'd do the same for me," McFadden said.
Absolutely. The very next time that your girlfriend, Miss MaryMargaret McCarthy, R.N., who is probably the only virgin over thirteen that I know, gets herself hauled in by an undercover Narcotics officer, I'll pull in whatever favors I can to get her off.
Christ, I feel like crying.
"I don't suppose you have any handcuffs, do you?"
Jesus Christ, handcuffs? What for?
Matt shook his head, no.
McFadden reached behind him, where he wore his handcuffs draped over his belt. He handed them to Matt.
"You got a key?"
Matt nodded.
The cuffs are so it will appear to the uniforms in the lobby that I'm taking her out of here under arrest.
"She's… uh. She was pretty drunk, Matt. And mad about being in here."
"You're saying, I'm going to need the cuffs?"
McFadden nodded.
"She's passed out. But if she wakes up in the car, I think you'd be better off if she was cuffed."
"God!"
"Dailey!" McFadden called.
The turnkey, a tired-looking uniform who looked to be about fifty, came up to them.
"Pete Dailey, Matt Payne," McFadden made the introductions. The two men shook hands, but neither said a word.
"Open it up, please, Pete," McFadden said.
The turnkey unlocked the cell, slid the barred door open, and then walked away.
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