"I don't want to deal with this now," Dennis V. Coughlin said, although there was no one in his office to hear him.
He stood up, took his pistol from his left desk drawer, slipped it into his holster, and walked out of his office.
"Come on, Tom," he said to Sergeant Lenihan, "let's go."
FOURTEEN
Patrick Coughlin, a second-generation Irish-American (his father had been born in Philadelphia three months after his parents had immigrated from County Kildare in 1896) had spent his working life as a truck diver, and had been determined that his son Dennis would have the benefits of a college education.
But in 1946, despite an excellent record at Roman Catholic High School, Dennis V. Coughlin had been suspended from LaSalle College for academic inadequacy after his second semester. He had been on academic probation after the first semester.
Once Denny Coughlin had flunked out of LaSalle, life at home had been difficult, and he had enlisted in the navy for four years, in exchange for a navy promise to train him as an electronics technician. He was no more successful in the navy electronics school than he had been at LaSalle, and the navy found itself wondering what to do with a very large young man for the forty-two months remaining on his enlistment.
Shortly after reporting aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Coral Sea as an engineman striker, the Coral Sea's master at arms had offered him a chance to become what was in effect a shipboard policeman. That had far more appeal than long days in the hot and greasy bowels of the ship, and Denny jumped at it.
It wasn't what he thought it would be, marching into waterfront bars and hauling drunken sailors back to the ship, after beating them on the head with a nightstick. There was some of that, to be sure, and once or twice Denny Coughlin did have to use his nightstick. But not often. A sailor had to be both foolhardy as well as drunk to take on someone the size of Coughlin. And Denny learned that a kind word of understanding and reason was almost always more effective than the nightstick.
He found, too, that often the sailors were the aggrieved party to a dispute, that the saloonkeepers were in the wrong. And he found that he could deal with the saloonkeepers as well as he could with sailors. He sensed, long before he could put it into words, that the cowboys really had used the right word. He was a peace officer, and he was good at it.
After eighteen months of sea duty aboard the Coral Sea, he was assigned as a shore patrolman attached to the U.S. Naval Hospital, Philadelphia. He worked with the Philadelphia police, and came to the attention of several senior officers, who saw in him just what the department was looking for in its recruits: a large, healthy, bright, pleasant hometown boy with an imposing presence. The police department was suggested to him as a suitable civilian career when his navy hitch was up. With his navy veteran's preference, he had no trouble with the civil service exam. Once that was out of the way, Captain Francis X. Halloran had a word with the Honorable Lawrence Sheen, M.C., and shortly after that Bosun's Mate Third Class Dennis V. Coughlin was honorably discharged from the U.S. Navy or the convenience of the government to accept essential civilian employment-law enforcement.
Three weeks after taking off his navy blues, Dennis V. Coughlin reported to the police academy for training.
On his first day there, he met John X. Moffitt, just back from a three-year hitch in the marines. They were of an age, they had much in common, and they became buddies. When they graduated from the academy, they were both assigned downtown, Denny Coughlin to the Ninth District, Jack Moffitt to the Sixth/Without much trouble, they managed to have their duty schedules coincide, so they spent their off-duty time together, drinking beer and chasing girls, except for Tuesday nights, when Jack Moffitt went to meetings of the marine corps reserve.
He needed the money, Jack Moffitt argued, and there wasn't going to be a war anyway; Denny should join up too. Denny did not. Jack was called back to the Marines on seventy-two-hours' notice, a week after they had both learned they had passed the detective's exam, in August 1950.
Jack was back in just over a year, medically retired as a staff sergeant for wounds received in the vicinity of Hangun-Ri, North Korea, where he also earned the Silver Star. He went back to work in the West Detective Division; Denny Coughlin was then in the Central Detective Division.
But things weren't the same between them, primarily because of Patricia Stevens, whom Jack had met when she went with the girls from Saint Agnes's to entertain the boys in the navy hospital. Denny was best man at their wedding, and Patty used to have him to supper a lot, and she helped the both of them prepare for the sergeant's examination.
A month after Jack Moffitt died of gunshot wounds suffered in the line of duty, a month before Matt was born, Denny Coughlin had made a rare visit to his parish rectory, for a private conversation with Monsignor Finn. It took some time before Finn realized what Denny Coughlin really wanted to talk about, and it was not his immortal soul.
"You don't want to marry the girl, Denny," Monsignor Finn said, "because you feel sorry for her, or because she's your friend's wife; nor even to take care of the baby when it comes. And you sure don't want her to marry you because she needs someone to support her and the baby. Now you'll notice that I didn't say you don't want to marry the girl. What I'm saying to you is, have a little patience. Time heals. And it wouldn't surprise me at all if Patty Moffitt saw in you the same things she saw in Jack, God rest his soul. But you want to be sure, son. Marriage is forever. You don't want to be jumping into it. What I'm saying is just keep being what you are, a good friend, until Patty gets over both her grief and the baby. Then if you still feel the same way..."
Dennis V. Coughlin had still felt the same way six months later, and a year later, but before he could bring himself to say anything, Patty Moffitt had gone to work, trying to work her way up to be a legal secretary, and then she'd taken Matt for a walk in his stroller, and she'd run into Brewster Cortland Payne II taking his motherless kids for a walk, and then it had been too late.
Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin had been at Dutch Moffitt's wake at the Marshutz & Sons Funeral Home for about an hour when he saw Matt Payne, standing alone, and called him over. He shook his hand, and then put his arm around his shoulders.
"I'd like you to meet these fellows, Matt," he said. "Gentlemen, this is Matt Payne, Dutch's nephew."
Matt was introduced to two chief inspectors, three inspectors, two captains, and a corporal who had gone through the academy with Dutch Moffitt and was being tolerated by the brass for being a little drunk, and just a shade too friendly.
"When you get a moment, Uncle Denny, could I talk to you?"
"You bet you can," Denny Coughlin said. "Excuse us, fellows." He took Matt's arm and led him far down a wide corridor in the funeral home. Finally, they found an empty corner.
"I joined the police department," Matt announced.
"How's that again?"
"I said I'm going to be a policeman," Matt repeated.
"And when did this happen?''
"Today."
"I'll be damned," Dennis V. Coughlin said. "Let me get adjusted to that, Matt."
"So far only my dad knows," Matt said.
"Your dad is dead," Coughlin said, and was immediately contrite. "Ah, Christ, why did I say that? I'm proud to claim Brewster Payne as a friend, and you couldn't have had a better father.''
"I understand," Matt said. "I have trouble with my real father, too. Keeping them separate, I mean."
"Matt, I'm going to say something to you and I don't want you to take offense, son, but I have to say it-"
"I flunked the marine corps physical," Matt said. "I was thinking about becoming a cop before Uncle Dick was killed."
"If you flunked the marine corps physical, what makes you think you can pass the police department physical?"
"I passed it," Matt said. "And I even had a talk with the shrink. Today."
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What's your mother going to say?"
"Why am I getting the feeling t
hat you're a long way from yelling `Whoopee, good for you!' ?"
"Because I'm not entirely sure it's a good idea, for you, or the department," Coughlin said, evenly.
"Why not?"
"I don't know," Coughlin said. "Gut feeling, maybe. Or maybe because I buried your father, and we're about to bury your uncle. Or maybe I'm afraid your mother will think I talked you into it."
"My father, my adoptive father, understands," Matt said.
"Then he's one up on me," Coughlin said. "Matt, you're not doing this because of what you think the police are like, from watching them on TV, are you?"
"No, I'm not," Matt said, simply.
"But you will admit that you have no idea what you're getting into?"
"I was going into the marines, and I had no idea what I was getting into there, either."
Sergeant Tom Lenihan and Staff Inspector George Kegley appeared in the corridor, waiting for Coughlin's attention. Coughlin saw them, and motioned them over.
"You met Sergeant Lenihan yesterday," Coughlin said. "And this is Staff Inspector Kegley. George, this is Matt Payne. He's Dutch's nephew."
They all shook hands.
"What have you got, George?" Coughlin asked.
Kegley seemed momentarily surprised that Coughlin was asking for a report to be delivered before what he thought of as a "civilian relative," but he delivered a concise, but thorough report of what had transpired at the Bridge & Pratt Streets Terminal, including the details of Gerald Vincent Gallagher's death and dismemberment.
"Did they get in touch with Peter Wohl?" Coughlin asked. "Matt Lowenstein said they wanted him to get an identification of Gallagher as the man in the diner from that TV woman."
"Nobody seems to know where either of them are, Chief," Kegley said.
Coughlin snorted, and then his face stiffened in thought.
"Thank you, George," Coughlin said. "I appreciate this. Tom, get the car, we're going for a ride."
"Yes, sir," Sergeant Lenihan said.
"You're coming," Dennis Coughlin said to Matt Payne.
***
"Are you all right, Matthew?" Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin asked when Sergeant Tom Lenihan had eased the Oldsmobile up on the curb before the row house on Fitzgerald Street in South Philadelphia.
Matt had thrown up at the medical examiner's, not when Coughlin expected him to, when they pulled the sheet off the remains of Gerald Vincent Gallagher, but several minutes later, outside, just before they got back into the Oldsmobile. Tom Lenihan had disappeared at that point for a couple of minutes, and Coughlin wasn't sure if he had done that to spare Matt embarrassment, or whether Lenihan had gone behind a row of cars to throw up himself.
"I'm all right," Matt said.
His face was white.
"Sure?"
"I'm fine, thank you," Matt said, firmly.
"You want me to come along, Chief?" Lenihan asked.
"I think maybe you better," Coughlin said, and opened the door.
The door to the McFadden house had a doorbell, an old-fashioned, cast-iron device mounted in the center of the door. You twisted it, and it rang. Coughlin remembered one just like it on the door of the row house where he had grown up. Somebody, he thought, had probably made a million making those bells; there was one on just about every row house in Philly.
Agnes McFadden opened the door, and looked at them in surprise as Coughlin whipped off his snap-brimmed straw hat.
" 'Evening, ma'am," he said. "I'm Chief Inspector Coughlin. I'd like to see Officer McFadden, if that would be convenient."
"What?" Agnes McFadden said.
"We'd like to see Charley, if we can," Lenihan said. "I'm Sergeant Lenihan and this is Chief Inspector Coughlin."
"He's in the kitchen, with his lieutenant," she said. "Lieutenant Pekach. And Mr. McFadden."
"Could we see him, do you think?" Coughlin asked.
"Sure, of course, I don't know what I was thinking of, please come in."
They followed her down a dark corridor to the kitchen, where the three men sat at the kitchen table. There was a bottle of Seagram's 7-Crown and quart bottles of Coke and beer on the table.
Pekach's eyes widened when he saw them. He started to get up.
"Keep your seat, David," Coughlin said. Officer Charley McFadden, who was sitting slumped straight out in the chair, supporting a Kraft cheese glass of liquor on his stomach, finally realized that something was happening. He looked at the three strangers in his kitchen without recognition.
Coughlin crossed the small room to him with his hand extended.
"McFadden, I apologize for barging into your home like this, but I wanted to congratulate you personally on a job well done. I'm sure your parents are very proud of you. The police department is."
Matt saw that McFadden had no idea who was shaking his hand.
Charley's father put that in words. "Who're you?" he asked.
"Mr. McFadden," Lieutenant Pekach said, "this is Chief Inspector Coughlin. And that's Sergeant Lenihan. I'm afraid I don't know the other gentleman."
"My name is Matthew Payne," Matt said, putting out his hand.
"Matt is... Captain Moffitt was Matt's uncle," Coughlin said.
"I'm sorry about your uncle," Charley McFadden said. Then he realized that he should be standing, and got up. He looked at Coughlin. "You're Chief Inspector Coughlin," he said, but there was a question, or disbelief, in his voice.
"That's right," Coughlin said.
"Could I offer you gentlemen a little something to drink?" Mrs. McFadden asked.
"All I got, I'm afraid, is the Seagram's Seven," Mr. McFadden said.
"Well, we're all off duty," Coughlin said. "I think a little Seagram's Seven would go down very nicely."
More cheese glasses were produced, and filled three-quarters full of whiskey..
"I'm afraid the house is a terrible mess," Agnes McFadden said.
"Looks fine to me," Dennis Coughlin said. He raised his glass. "To Officer McFadden, of whom we're all very proud."
"I didn't want that to happen to him," Charley McFadden said, very slowly. "Jesus Christ, that shouldn't happen to anybody.''
"Charley," Coughlin said, firmly. "What happened to Gallagher, he brought on himself.''
Charley looked at him, and finally said, "Yes, sir."
"Lieutenant Pekach, may I see you a moment?" Coughlin said, and signaled Matt to come along.
They went to the vestibule.
"Where's his partner?" Coughlin asked.
"He was here, Chief. His doctor gave him something to calm him down, and it didn't mix with the booze. I sent him home."
"McFadden on anything?"
"No, sir." Pekach said. "He's got a thing about pills. He won't even take an aspirin."
"How long are you going to stay?"
"As long as necessary," Pekach said. "The booze will get to him, sooner or later.''
"Had you planned to write him up?"
"A commendation?" Pekach asked. "I hadn't thought about that. But yes, sure."
"Not only 'at great risk to his life,' " Coughlin said. "But 'exercising great restraint,' et cetera, et cetera. You follow me?"
"Yes, sir."
"This is going to be all over the papers," Coughlin said. "George Kegley tells me that Mickey O'Hara was even up on the elevated tracks. What's that going to do to McFadden on the streets?"
"Well, he won't be much use, not what he's been doing," Pekach said.
"I'll find something else for him to do." Coughlin said. "When you're that age, working plainclothes, and they put you back in a uniform, you think you did something wrong. I don't want that to happen."
"I'll find something for him, Chief," Pekach said.
When they went back in the kitchen, Officer McFadden was being nauseous in the sink. Coughlin put out his hand and stopped Matt from going in, then gestured for Sergeant Lenihan to come along with them.
When they were in the car, moving north on South Broad Street, Coughlin reach
ed forward and touched Matt Payne's shoulder. Matt turned and looked at him.
"Still think you want to be a cop, Matt?" he asked.
"I was just wondering how I would react in a situation like that," Matt said, softly.
"And?"
"I don't know," Matt said. "I was wondering. But to answer your question, yes, I still want to be a cop."
Coughlin made a grunting noise.
W E B Griffin - Badge of Honor 01 - Men In Blue Page 27