"Can't you get out of it?" Stillwell insisted. "Peter, this is important. Possibly to both of us."
You for sure, and me possibly. Fuck you, Stillwell.
"I just can't. One of my men is having a little party to celebrate his engagement. I have to be there. You understand."
"Which one of your men?"
You are a persistent bastard, aren't you ?
"Captain David Pekach, as a matter of fact."
Farnsworth Stillwell laughed, which surprised Wohl.
"I wondered what the hell that was all about. I'll see you there, Peter," he said, and hung up.
What the hell does he mean by that?
Farnsworth Stillwell broke the connection with his finger and dialed his home. "Helene, call the Peebles woman back, tell her that I was able to rearrange my schedule and that we'll be able to come after all."
***
Margaret McCarthy, trailed by Lari Matsi, came up the narrow staircase into Matt Payne's apartment. Both of them were wear-ing heavy quilted three-quarter length jackets and earmuffs.
"I could have come and picked you up," Charley McFadden said.
"Next time, take him up on it," Lari said. "It's cold out there."
Jesus Martinez came up the stairs.
"Hay-zus, you don't know Lari, do you?" Margaret said. "Hay-zus Martinez, Lari Matsi."
"How are you?" Martinez said.
"I didn't catch the name?" Lari replied.
"It's 'Jesus' in Spanish," Charley offered.
"Oh," Lari said, and smiled.
"I don't think we've met," Margaret said, smiling, to the third young man in the room. "And Charley's not too good about introducing people."
He was wearing a mixed sweat suit, gray trousers and a yellow sweatshirt, on which was painted, STOLEN FROM THE SING SING PRISON ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT. There was little doubt in her mind that he was a cop; a shoulder holster with a large revolver in it was hanging from the chair that he was straddling backward. He stood up and put out his hand.
"Jack Matthews," he said.
"Where's Matt?"
"In his bedroom with a woman," Charley said.
"He thought you'd never ask," Jack Matthews said.
"What are you talking about?" Margaret said, not quite sure her leg was being pulled.
"You asked where Matt was, and I told you. He's in his bedroom with a woman."
"I don't believe you."
"Probably with his pants off," Charley added, exchanging a pleased smile with Jack Matthews. Jesus Martinez shook his head in disgust.
Amy Payne came out of Matt's bedroom, saw the women in the living room, and smiled.
"Hi! I'm Amy," she said. "Matt'll be out in a minute, presuming he can get his pants on by himself."
Officer McFadden and Special Agent Matthews for reasons that baffled all three women found this announcement convul-sively hilarious. Even Jesus smiled.
"Just what's going on around here, Charley?" Margaret de-manded.
"Let me take it from the beginning," Amy said. "I'm Amy Payne. Matt's sister. I happen to be a doctor. And knowing my idiot brother as I do, I felt reasonably sure that he would not change his dressings, and that's what I've been doing."
"Not very funny at all, Charley," Margaret said, but she could not keep herself from smiling.
Lari dipped into an enormous purse and held up a plastic bag full of bandages and antiseptic.
"I don't know him as well as you do, Doctor," she said. "But that's why I'm here too. He is that category of patient best described as a pain-in-the-you-know-what. I was filling in on the surgical floor at Frankford when they brought him in."
"Well, that was certainly nice of you," Amy said. "Appar-ently, you don't know my brother very well. If you did, you would encourage gangrene."
"No," Lari said. "That would put him back in the hospital. Anything to prevent that."
They smiled at each other.
Matt came into the room, supporting himself on a cane.
"Oh, good!" he said. "Everybody's here. Choir practice can begin."
"I promised Mother I would see that you were eating," Amy said. "What are your plans for that?"
"We're going out for the worst food in Philadelphia," Matt said. "You're welcome to join us, Amy."
"I know I shouldn't ask, but curiosity overwhelms me. Where are you going to get the worst food in Philadelphia?"
"At the FOP," Matt replied. "As a special dispensation, because I have been a very good boy, I have permission to go there, providing I don't drink too much and I come directly home afterward."
"Actually, I'm looking forward to it," Jack Matthews said. "I've never been there."
"I think I'll pass, thank you just the same," Amy said.
"You're a cop, and you've never been to the FOP?" Lari Matsi asked.
"Oh, come on, Amy," Matt said. "I'll even buy you a chili dog."
"I haven't had supper," Amy said. "For some perverse rea-son, a chili dog has a certain appeal to me."
"How is it," Lari pursued, "that you've never been to the FOP?"
"He's not a real cop," Charley said. "More like a Junior G-man."
"In deference to the ladies, Officer McFadden," Jack Mat-thews said. "I will not suggest that you attempt a physiologi-cally impossible act of self-impregnation."
Matt laughed. After a moment, Amy did too, and then Lari.
"Then what's the gun for?" Lari asked.
"I work for the Justice Department," Jack replied.
"He's an FBI agent, Lari," Matt said.
"Oh, really?"
Matt saw the way Lari was looking at Jack Matthews, and knew that whatever chance there might have been for him to know Lari Matsi in the biblical sense had just gone up in smoke.
"Are you here officially?" Amy asked. "I mean, are you part of Matt's bodyguard, or whatever it's called?"
"Actually, I came to play chess," Jack said. "But these evil people pressed intoxicants on me. Have I shattered your faith in the FBI?"
"Yeah," Amy said, smiling.
Yeah, you are here officially, Matt thought, or at least quasi-officially. You came here, under cover of playing chess, to tell me that yes, indeed, the rumors are true. I am to be investi-gated by the FBI regarding formal charges made that I violated the civil rights of Charles David Stevens, Esq., by shooting the murderous sonofabitch.
"Has any thought been given to how we're going to get Matt-I guess I mean all of us-from here to the FOP?" Amy asked. "I don't have my car."
"No problem," Charley said. "We-Hay-zus and me-have an unmarked car downstairs. We'll take Matt in that. The rest of you can ride with Jack in his G-man wagon."
"That should work," Lari Matsi said.
And I will bet twenty dollars to a doughnut that when the convoy gets under way, Lari will be in the front seat of same with J. Edgar Hoover, Junior, both of them wondering how they can get rid of Amy and Margaret.
Oh, what the hell. There's always Helene.
***
Staff Inspector Peter F. Wohl left his office at Bustleton and Bowler Streets a few minutes after half past five.
On the way to his apartment in the 800 block of Norwood Street in Chestnut Hill, Wohl decided that tonight was a good opportunity to give the Jag a little exercise. He hadn't had it out of the garage since the lousy weather had started.
Among its many not-so-charming idiosyncrasies, the Jag frequently expressed its annoyance at being ignored for more than forty-eight hours at a time by absolutely refusing to start when the person privileged to have the responsibility for its care and feeding finally came to take it out.
Driving it back and forth to Martha Peebles's house-plus maybe a run past Monahan's house on the way home, just to check-would be just long enough a trip to give it a good warm-up, get the oil circulating, and get the flat spots out of the tires.
He thought again that if there was only room, to safely park a car like the Jag at Bustleton and Bowler, he could drive it to work every other day or s
o. He made a mental note to tell Payne, when he came back on duty, and could devote some attention to the "new" school building at Frankford and Cas-tor, to make sure that, as a prerogative of his exalted rank and position, the commanding officer of Special Operations have reserved for him a parking place that was at once convenient and would provide a certain protection against getting its fend-ers dinged.
When he reached the garages behind the mansion he put his city-owned car in the garage, and then took a shovel and started to clear the ice and snow away from the doors of the Jag's garage. He finally got the doors open, but it was even more difficult than he thought it would be. The snow had melted and frozen into ice and thawed and refrozen. He had, he thought, actually chiseled his way through the ice into the garage, rather than shoveled his way through the snow.
He got behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. To his delighted surprise, the engine caught immediately. It ran a little roughly, but it ran. It would not, as he had worst-scenario predicted, refuse to start until he had run the battery down and then recharged it.
"Good girl," he said.
He sat there, running the engine just above idle until the engine temperature gauge needle finally moved off the peg. He shut the engine off, opened the hood and checked the oil and brake fluid, looked at the tires, and then closed the doors, locked them, and went up the stairs at the end of the building to his apartment.
He showered and shaved, put on a glen plaid suit, and won-dered-he had little experience in this sort of thing-if he was expected to bring a gift to the affair, and if so, what?
To hell with it.
He put on his overcoat, which had a collar of some uniden-tified fur, and a green felt snap-brim hat.
There were no messages on his answering machine, which surprised him. He called Special Operations and told the lieu-tenant on duty that he would be at the residence of Miss Martha Peebles in Chestnut Hill from fifteen minutes from now until he advised differently.
Then he went down and got back in the Jaguar. It started immediately. All was right with the world, he told himself, until he glanced at his watch and saw that he was not due at Glengarry Lane for almost an hour.
What the hell, I'll check on the people sitting on Monahan now, instead of later.
When he reached the neighborhood, he drove slowly east on Bridge Street, looking up Sylvester Street at the intersection. There was an unmarked car parked at the curb. He could see the heads of two men in the car, one of them wearing a regular uniform cap, the other what he thought of as a Renfrew of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police cap.
He turned left into the alley behind the row of houses of which, he now remembered. Mr. and Mrs. Albert J. Monahan occupied the sixth from this corner.
He had gone perhaps fifty yards into the alley when a uni-formed officer stepped into it and, somewhat warily, Wohl thought approvingly, motioned for him to stop.
Wohl braked and rolled down the window.
"Good evening, sir," the cop began, and then recognized him. "Oh, it's you, Inspector."
"This way to the North Pole, right?" Wohl said, and offered his hand through the window. The cop laughed dutifully.
"Aside from frostbite, how's things going?" Wohl asked with a smile.
"Quiet as a tomb, Inspector."
An unfortunate choice of words, but I take your point.
"I guess everybody but cops are smart enough to stay in-side, huh?"
"Sure looks that way. Anything I can do for you, Inspec-tor?"
"No. I just thought I'd better check on what was going on. Mr. Monahan is very important."
"Well, we're sitting on him good. There's either a Highway or a district RPC by here every fifteen to twenty minutes. Or a supervisor, or both. Sergeant Carter drove through the alley just a couple of minutes ago."
"But nothing out of the ordinary?"
"Not a thing."
"Well, then, I guess I can go. Good to see you. I'm sorry you have to march around in the snow and ice, but I think it's necessary."
"I've been telling myself the guys in Traffic do this for twenty years," the cop said. "Good evening, sir."
Wohl smiled, rolled up the window, and drove the rest of the way down the alley, looking at the rear of the Monahan house as he went past.
He turned left from the alley onto Sanger Street, and then left again onto Sylvester Street. He would stop and say hello to the two cops in the car.
Now there were two unmarked cars on Rosehill Street.
That's probably Sergeant Carter.
The cop with the Renfrew of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police cap got-surprisingly quickly, Wohl thought-from be-hind the wheel and stepped into the street, signaling him to stop.
Christ, I hope they're not stopping every car that comes down the street!
This time there was no recognition in the cop's eyes when Wohl rolled the window down and looked up at him.
"Sir," the cop said, "you're going the wrong way down a one-way street. May I see your driver's license please?"
Wohl took his leather ID folder from his pocket and passed it out the window.
"Maybe you could give me another chance, Officer," he said. "I'm usually not this stupid."
"Oh, Jesus, Inspector!"
"I honest to God didn't see the one-way sign," Wohl said. "Who's that in the back of the RPC? Sergeant Carter?"
"Lieutenant Malone, sir."
"Let me pull this over-turn it around, I guess-I'd like a word with him."
"Yes, sir."
Wohl turned the car around and parked it, and then went and got in the back of the unmarked car.
"We all feel a little foolish, Inspector," Malone said when Wohl got in the backseat of the RPC. "We should have rec-ognized you."
Wohl saw that Malone was in civilian clothing.
"You don't feel half as foolish as I do," Wohl said. "If I had been doing ninety in a thirty-mile zone, that I would un-derstand. But going the wrong way down a one-way street-"
"I'll let you go with a warning this time, Inspector," the cop who had stopped him said, "but the next time, right into Lewisburg!"
Everyone laughed.
"Something on your mind, Inspector?" Malone asked.
"Just wanted to check on Monahan, that's all."
"He's been home about an hour and a half," the cop who had stopped Wohl said. "I don't think he'll be going out again tonight in this weather."
"How are you working this?" Wohl asked, and touched Malone's knee to silence him when it looked like Malone was going to answer.
"Simple rotation," the second cop answered. "One of us walks for thirty minutes-when the wind's really blowing, only fifteen minutes-and then one of us takes his place. We do a four-hour tour, and then go on our regular patrols."
"Your reliefs showing up all right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Does the man walking the beat have a radio?"
"We all have radios."
"Can you think of any way to improve what we're trying to do? Even a wild hair?"
"How about a heated snowmobile?"
"I'll ask Commissioner Czernick in the morning about a snowmobile. Don't hold your breath. But I meant it, anybody got any ideas about something we should, or should not, be doing?"
Both cops shook their heads.
"Well, I can see that I'm not needed here," Wohl said. "I guess everybody understands how important Monahan is as a witness?"
"Yes, sir," they said, nearly in unison.
"Can I have a word with you, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir, certainly."
Wohl shook hands with both cops and got out of the car. Malone followed him to the Jaguar.
"Yes, sir."
"You have anything else to do here?"
"No, sir."
"Any hot plans for tonight? For dinner, to start with?"
"No, sir."
"Okay, Jack. Get in your car and follow me."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere where it's
warm, and where, I suspect, there will be a more than adequate supply of free antifreeze."
TWENTY-FOUR
Miss Martha Peebles had decided that it would be better to receive her and Captain Pekach's guests in the family (as op-posed to the formal) dining room of her home. For one thing, it had been her father's favorite room. She had good memories of her father and his friends getting up from the dinner table and moving to the overstuffed chairs and couches at the far end of the room for cognac and cigars and coffee.
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