The Witness boh-4

by W. E. B Griffin

  He drove around the block and tried again. This time a turnkey (an officer assigned to make himself useful in the parking lot) waved him down and pointed out a parking spot reserved for a sergeant.

  It was crowded inside too, but finally he managed to give his name to a sergeant at a desk just inside a door marked HEADQUARTERS, SPECIAL OPERATIONS.

  "Welcome to the circus, Lieutenant," the sergeant said. "I saw the teletype. The inspector's office is through that door."

  On the other side of the door was a small room, barely large enough for the two desks it held back-to-back. One of them was not occupied. There was a sign on it, CAPTAIN MICHAEL J. SABARA.

  There was a young plainclothes cop at the other one. When he saw Malone he stood up.

  "Lieutenant Malone?"

  "Right."

  "The inspector's expecting you, sir. I'll see if he's free."

  "Thank you."

  The plainclothes cop stuck his head in an interior door, and Malone heard his name spoken.

  Then the door opened and Staff Inspector Peter Wohl came out. Malone had seen him around before, but now he was surprised to see how young he was.

  He's no older than I am. And not only a staff inspector, but a division commander. Is he really that good? Or is it pull?

  "I'm Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant," Wohl said. "Now that I see you, I know we've met, but I can't remember where."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I hate to make you cool your heels, but I've got something that really won't wait. Officer Payne will get you a cup of coffee. Be careful he doesn't pour it in your lap."

  "Yes, sir."

  Payne? Oh, hell, yes! This is the kid who blew the brains out of the Northwest serial rapist.

  Wohl disappeared behind his door again.

  "How do you take your coffee, Lieutenant?"

  "In a cup, please, if that's convenient," Malone said.

  "Yes, sir," Payne said, chuckling.

  "I don't know why I said that," Malone said. "I wasn't trying to be a smart-ass."

  "I think you'll be right at home around here, Lieutenant," Payne said.

  Payne went to a coffee machine sitting on top of a file cabinet and a moment later handed Malone a steaming china cup.

  "There's sugar and what is euphemistically known as non-dairy creamer," he said.

  "Black's fine," Malone said. "Thank you."

  He remembered a story that had gone around the Department about the time Captain Dutch Moffitt had been shot, and Special Operations had been formed and given to Peter Wohl.

  Dutch Moffitt's deputy had been a well-liked lieutenant named Mike Sabara. It was presumed that, after the scumbag killed Dutch, Mike Sabara would take over as Highway commander. Instead, the job went to newly promoted Captain Dave Pekach. Sabara was named Wohl's deputy commander of Special Operations. It quickly went around Highway that Wohl had told Sabara he could either wear plainclothes or a regular uniform, but he didn't want to see him in Highway breeches and boots. And then Wohl had announced a new recruiting policy for Highway, outstanding young cops who didn't have four, five years on the job. The first two "probationary" Highway Patrolmen were the two Narcs who got the critter who killed Captain Moffitt.

  The idea that just anybody could get into Highway had enraged most Highway Patrolmen.

  Well, maybe the two guys who caught the scumbag who shot down Captain Dutch Moffitt were entitled to a little special treatment, but letting just about anybody in Highway A delegation, someone had told Malone, three Highway sergeants and two long-time Highway Patrolmen, went to see Captain Sabara: Couldn't Sabara have a word with Wohl and tell him how what he was doing was really going to fuck Highway up? Nothing against the inspector personally; it's just that he just doesn'tknow aboutHighway.

  Captain Sabara, a phlegmatic man, announced he would think about it.

  Two days later one of the sergeants who had gone to Captain Sabara to ask him if he could have a word with Staff Inspector Wohl had to go see Captain Sabara again. His emotional state was mingled fury and gross embarrassment.

  "I wouldn't bother you with this, Captain, but nobody knows where Captain Pekach is."

  "What's the problem?"

  "You know about the parade? Escort the governor to Constitution Hall?"

  Sabara nodded. "Twelve wheels. At the airport no later than eleventhirty. Something wrong?"

  "Captain, we brought the bikes here. We went inside for a cup of coffee, before the inspection. When we went back out, there was only ten wheels."

  "You're not telling me somebody stole two Highway bikes?"

  "Stole, no. Some wiseass is fucking around. When I find out who, I'll have his ass. But what do we do now?"

  "Everybody else is outside, where they're supposed to be?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Captain Sabara, with the sergeant following, strode purposefully out of his office and then out the side door of the building, where he found ten Highway motorcycles lined up neatly, their riders standing beside them.

  "Whose wheels are missing?" he demanded.

  Two Highway Patrolmen, holding their plastic helmets in their hands and looking more than a little sheepish, stepped forward.

  "What did you do, leave the keys in them?"

  One patrolman nodded, embarrassed. The second began to explain, " Captain, who the hell's going to steal a Highway-"

  He was stilled in midsentence by one of Captain Mike Sabara's nearly legendary frosty glances.

  Sabara kept up his icy look for about thirty seconds, and then there came the sound of two motorcycles, approaching at high speed.

  "Who the fuck-?" the sergeant asked, only to find that Captain Sabara's cold eyes were now on him.

  Two Highway wheels, ridden by guys in complete Highway regalia, including plastic helmets with the face masks down, appeared just outside the parking lot on Bustleton Street, and slid to a stop on squealing tires. Now their sergeant's stripes were visible.

  They sat there a moment, revving the engines, and then, one at a time, entered the parking lot, where, simultaneously, they executed a maneuver known to the motorcycling fraternity as a "wheelie." This maneuver involves lifting the front wheel off the ground and steering by precisely adjusting the balance of what is now a powered unicycle by shifting the weight of the body.

  It is a maneuver that only can be successfully accomplished by a rider of extraordinary skill. In the interest of rider safety and vehicle economy, the maneuver is forbidden by the Police Department except for instructional purposes by Wheel School instructors.

  After passing one way through the parking lot, the two cyclists dropped the front wheel gently back onto the ground, simultaneously negotiated a turn, and then simultaneously executed another wheelie, in the other direction. A final gentle lowering on the front wheel, a final gentle, precise turn, and then the two rode to the center of the parked motorcycles and stopped. They revved the engines a final time, kicked the kick stands in place in a synchronized movement, and then swung off the machines.

  The first rider raised his face mask and then removed his helmet.

  Jesus H. Christ, it's Pekach! I knew he had been in Highway, but I didn't know he could ride a wheel that good!

  "For obvious reasons," Captain Pekach announced solemnly, "I think I should remind all of you that Departmental regulations require that the keys to motorcycles be removed when they are left unattended."

  The second rider now raised his mask and removed his helmet.

  "Anyone who willingly gets on one of those things," Staff Inspector Peter Wohl announced, "is obviously not playing with a full deck."

  Then he and Captain Pekach walked into the building.

  Captain Sabara had turned to the sergeant who had reported the missing wheels to him.

  "Did I ever tell you, Sergeant, that when I first came to Highway the sergeant I replaced was Inspector Wohl?"

  Then he turned and walked into the building.

  Malone thought it was a great story. But i
t was more than that. Wohl knew how to deal with people. After the wheelie demonstration, and after the word had spread that Wohl had been the youngest sergeant ever in Highway, there had been no more bitching that he didn't understand how things were in Highway.

  And, Malone thought, it had been a nice touch for Wohl to come out of his office himself to apologize for being tied up. Most division commanders wouldn't have done that; they would have told their driver to have the newcomer wait.

  And what Payne had said, "you'll be right at home around here," was interesting too.

  Maybe this Special Operations assignment will turn out all right after all.

  FOUR

  At five minutes past one that afternoon, Abu Ben Mohammed pushed open one of the double doors giving access to the business premises of Goldblatt amp; Sons Credit Furniture amp; Appliances, Inc., which occupied all of a three-story building on the north side of South Street, between South 8^th and South 9^th Streets in South Philadelphia.

  Abu Ben Mohammed, according to police records, had been born, as Charles David Stevens, at the Temple University Hospital, in North Philadelphia, twenty-four years, six months, and eleven days earlier. On the occasion of his most recent arrest, he had been described as a Negro Male, five feet nine inches tall, weighing approximately 165 pounds, and with no particular deformities or scars.

  Goldblatt amp; Sons had a doorman, Albert J. Monahan, who was fifty-six. Red Monahan had been with Goldblatt amp; Sons for thirty-eight years. He went way back to when it had been Samuel Goldblatt Fine Furniture, when Mr. Joshua Goldblatt (now treasurer) and Mr. Harold Goldblatt (now secretary) had been in short pants, and Mr. Samuel Goldblatt, Jr., (now president) then known as "Little Sammy," had been just another muscular eighteen-year-old working one of the trucks delivering merchandise alongside Red.

  Before he'd had his heart attack, three years before, Red Monahan had worked his way up to warehouse supervisor. In addition to the portions of the third floor and of the basement of the building on South Street used to warehouse, there was a five-story warehouse building on Washington Avenue two blocks away.

  Red had been responsible for checking merchandise as it came in, filling orders from the store to be loaded on trucks, and in moving merchandise back and forth between the store and the warehouse.

  Old Mr.Goldblatt had still been alive when Red had his heart attack, although he was getting pretty fragile. But he insisted on being taken to the hospital to see Red, and Young Mr. Sam had, nervously, loaded him into his Buick and taken him.

  Old Mr.Goldblatt had told Red that he was too mean an Irishman to die, or even to stay sick for very long, and anyway not to worry. The store had good hospital insurance and what that didn't pay, the store would. And he could consider himself retired, at full pay, from that moment. Anyone with thirty-five years with the store was entitled to take it easy when the time came.

  Red told Old Mr.Goldblatt that he didn't want to retire; everybody he knew who retired was dead in a year or eighteen months. And what the hell would he do, anyway, sit around the house all day?

  Old Mr.Goldblatt told Red that there would be a job for him at the store as long as he wanted one, and then when he was back in the Buick he told Young Mr. Sam that he was to figure out something for Red to do that wouldn't be a strain on him, but that would also keep him busy.

  "No make work. Red's got pride."

  "Jesus Christ, Pop!"

  "Just do it, Sammy. Let me know what you come up with."

  What Young Mr. Sam came up with was what he called "floor walker." When he was a kid, there had been floor walkers in Strawbridge amp; Clothier, John Wanamaker's, and other top-class department stores. What they did was literally walk the floor, keeping an eye on customers, stock, and employees.

  Goldblatt amp; Sons had never had such people, but once he thought of it, it struck Young Mr. Sam as a pretty good idea. For one thing, Red was a genial Irishman, charming, silver-haired. People liked him. For another, nobody knew more about the stock than Red did. If when people came through the door, Red could be there to greet them with a smile and find out whether they were interested in a bedroom suite, or a refrigerator, or a rug, or whatever, then he could point them in the right direction. "Appliances are on the second floor, right up the stairs." "Carpets are on the third floor, you'll find the elevator right over there."

  The first problem was to think of a new term to describe what he would be doing. Young Mr. Sam didn't think Red would like to be a floor walker. He finally came up with "merchandise counselor." Red's face stiffened when he heard that, but he heard Young Mr. Sam out, listening to Sam explain what would be expected of him.

  "You mean like a doorman, Sam, right? To make sure the customers don' t get away?"

  "Yeah."

  "That sounds like a pretty good idea," Red had said.

  Having Red Monahan working as the doorman turned out to be a very good idea, better than Young Mr. Sam would have believed when he first thought of it.

  Red started out by telling people, "Bedroom suites are in the front of the third floor. Take the elevator and when you get up there ask for Mrs.Lipshutz." Or "Wall-to-wall carpeting is in the back of the store. Ask for Mr.Callahan."

  The next step was to have the salespeople waiting downstairs near the door. Red would march the customer over to Mrs.Lipshutz or whoever and introduce her with a naughty little wink: "Mrs.Lipshutz is our bedroom expert."

  And when somebody came in sore because the Credit Department hadn't credited their account, or because the leg had come off a kitchen chair, or something, Red would be the soul of sympathy and calm them down.

  And he kept the undesirables out. There were a lot of drunks around South Street, particularly on Friday nights, when the store was open until nine P.M. and he discouraged them from coming in the store. And he kept the religious loonies from bothering the customers too. The ones who just wanted to pass out their literature were bad enough, but the ones who just about demanded money to plant trees in Israel, or save souls for Jesus in the Congo, or to buy tickets for the Annual Picnic of the 3^rd Abyssinian Baptist Church, things like that, had been, pre-Red the Doorman, a real pain in the ass.

  Now Red either discouraged them before they got through the doors, or got rid of the really determined ones with a couple of bucks from a roll of singles he got, as needed, from petty cash.

  Abu Ben Mohammed, when Red Monahan greeted him at the door, told him he wanted to see about some wall-to-wall carpet.

  "You saw the ad in the paper, I guess?" Red asked.

  "Huh?"

  "We're having a special sale," Red explained. "Twenty-five percent off everything we have in stock, plus free pad and installation."

  "No kidding?"

  "Absolutely," Red said. "You picked the right day to get yourself some carpet."

  He guided Abu Ben Mohammed over to where Phil Katz, who was Old Mr. Sam's nephew, was sitting with the other salespeople on the tufted blue velvet couch and matching armchairs that a sign advertised as " Today's Special! Three-Piece Suite! $99 Down! No Payment Until March!"

  "Mr. Katz," Red began, which caused Phil Katz to break off his conversation with Mr. Callahan in midsentence and get to his feet with a smile in place.

  "Mr. Katz," Red went on, "this is Mr.-I didn't catch your name?"

  "I didn't tell you," Abu Ben Mohammed replied.

  "This gentleman," Red Monahan went on, "is interested in some wallto-wall carpeting."

  "Well, this is your day," Mr. Katz said, "we're running a special sale. Why don't we ride up to the carpet department and let me show you what we have?"

  Mr. Katz thought he might have a live one. He had, of course, noticed that Abu Ben Mohammed was wearing what he thought of as African clothes. Over a purple turtleneck sweater and baggy black trousers, Abu Ben Mohammed was wearing a brightly colored dashiki. Perched on the back of his head was sort of a black yarmulke, neatly and rather brightly embroidered in a yellow and green pattern. He was also wearing a
trench coat over his shoulders. Maybe they didn't have overcoats in North Africa, Mr. Katz thought, or maybe this guy just didn't have an African coat to handle the chill of January in Philadelphia.

  What was important was that he was into the African thing, and the Africans were deep into carpets. They put them two and three deep on the floors, and sometimes they even upholstered their walls with them.

  What was just about as important was that he had come into the store today. The furniture business just about died after Christmas; it was Phil Katz's personal opinion that the store was just pissing money down the toilet with their advertisements in the PhiladelphiaDaily News for "After Christmas" and "New Year's" sales. People had spent their money (or used up their credit, which was the same thing) buying Christmas presents. They had no money to do anything but start paying the bills they had run up for Christmas.

  But there were exceptions to every rule, and this guy in the dashiki just might be one of them. Mr. Katz had heard that the blacks who had become Muslims had to stop drinking and smoking and gambling, which meant this guy might just have the money to cover the floors of his apartment with carpet.

  He led Abu Ben Mohammed to the elevator, slid the door shut, and took him up to the third floor.

  Five minutes after Abu Ben Mohammed entered the store, a man subsequently identified as Hector Carlos Estivez, twenty-four, five feet nine inches tall, and weighing 140 pounds, and again with no distinguishing marks or features, came in.

  He told Red Monahan that he wanted to look at a washer-drier combination, and was turned over by Red to Mrs. Emily Watkins, who was forty-eight, and had worked for fifteen years in the Credit Department of Goldblatt amp; Sons before deciding, three years before, that she could make more money on the floor, on a small salary plus commission, than she could at her desk. She had asked Young Mr. Sam for a chance to try, and to his surprise, she had done very well, probably, he had finally decided, because women did most of the buying of washers and driers and other appliances, and probably trusted another woman more than they would a man.