“What time are you meeting McFadden and Martinez?”
“Nine o’clock, at the FOP,” Matt said.
What in the world is the Eff Oh Pee?
“I thought that was it,” Wohl said. “So what I propose is that we go to an Italian restaurant I know on Tenth Street, and have dinner. Then I could drop you at the FOP, Matt, and take Dr. Payne to the Roundhouse, and borrow an office there where we could have our talk.”
I really loathe spaghetti and meatballs; but what did I expect?
“Sir,” Matt said, “why don’t you come back here? I mean, she has her car in the garage here.”
“Well, I don’t know….”
“How would you get in if you gave us your key?” Amy asked.
“I wouldn’t give you my key,” Matt explained tolerantly. “I would leave the door to the apartment unlocked, and you use your key to get in the building.”
“Doctor?” Peter asked, politely.
“Whatever would be best,” Amy heard herself saying.
It is absolutely absurd of me to think about being alone in an apartment with a man I hardly know. This is a purely professional situation; he’s a policeman and I am a physician. I will do my professional duty, even if that entails pretending I like spaghetti and meatballs. And besides it’s important to Matt.
The tailcoated waiter in Ristorante Alfredo bowed over the table, holding out a bottle of wine on a napkin for Peter Wohl’s inspection.
“Compliments of the house, sir,” he said, speaking in a soft Italian accent. “Will this be satisfactory?”
Wohl glanced at it, then turned to Amy. “That’s fine with me. How about you, Doctor? It’s sort of an Italian Pinot Noir.”
“Fine with me,” Amy said. She watched as the waiter uncorked the bottle, showed Wohl the cork, then poured a little in his glass for him to taste.
“That’s fine, thank you,” Wohl said to the waiter, who proceeded to fill all their glasses.
“I think it will go well with the tournedos Alfredo,” the waiter said. “Thank you, sir.”
Peter Wohl had explained to both of them that the tournedos Alfredo, which he highly recommended, were sort of an Italian version of steak with a marchand de vin sauce, except there was just a touch more garlic to it.
“You must be a pretty good customer in here, Inspector,” Amy said, aware that there was more than a slight tone of bitchiness in her voice.
“I come here fairly often,” Wohl replied. “I try not to abuse it, to save it for a suitable occasion.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, my money is no good in here,” Wohl said.
“I don’t think I understand that,” Amy said.
“The Mob owns this place,” Wohl said, matter-of-factly. “Specifically a man named Vincenzo Savarese—the license is in someone else’s name, but Savarese is behind it—and he has left word that I’m not to get a bill.”
“Excuse me,” Amy flared, “but isn’t that what they call ‘being on the take’?”
“My God, Amy!” Matt said, furiously.
“No,” Wohl said. “‘Being on the take’ means accepting goods or services, or money, in exchange for ignoring criminal activity. Vincenzo Savarese knows that I would like nothing better than to put him behind bars; and that, as a matter of fact, before they dumped this new job in my lap, I was trying very hard to do just that.”
“Then why does he pick up your restaurant bills?” Amy asked.
“Who knows? The Mob is weird. They operate as if they were still in Sicily or Naples, with a perverted honor code. He thinks he’s a ‘man of honor,’ and thinks I am, too. He thought Dutch Moffitt was, too. Mrs. Savarese and her sister went to his funeral. The wake, too, I think, and when Dutch, before he went to Highway, was in Organized Crime, he tried very hard to lock Savarese up.”
Amy decided she was talking too much, and needed time to consider what she had just heard.
The waiter and two busboys, with great élan, served the tournedos Alfredo and the side dishes. Amy took four bites of the steak, then curiosity got the best of her.
“And it doesn’t offend your sense of right and wrong to take free meals from a gangster?” she asked.
“Come on, Amy!” Matt protested again.
“No,” Wohl said, making a gesture with his hand toward Matt to show that since he didn’t mind the question, Matt should not be upset. “What I will do in the morning is send a memo to Internal Affairs, reporting that I got a free meal here. As far as taking it—why not? Savarese knows he’ll get nothing in return, and this is first-class food.”
“But you know he’s a gangster,” Amy argued.
“And he knows I’m a cop, an honest cop,” Wohl countered. “Under those circumstances, if it gives both of us pleasure, what’s wrong with it?”
Amy Payne could think of no withering counterargument, and was furious. Then doubly furious when she saw Matt smiling smugly at her.
Matt glanced at his watch as the pastry cart was wheeled to the table, then jumped to his feet.
“I better get over to the FOP,” he said. “You finish your dinner. I’ll catch a cab. Or run.”
When he was gone, Wohl said, “He’s a very nice young man, soaking wet behind the ears, but very nice.”
“I think I should tell you, Inspector,” Amy said, “that I’m not thrilled with his choice of career.”
“I would be very surprised if you were,” Wohl said. “Your mother must really be upset.”
Damn it, you weren’t supposed to agree with me!
“She is,” Amy said. “I had lunch with her today.”
“I feel a little sorry for myself, too,” Wohl said. “Dennis Coughlin sent him to me, with the unspoken, but very obvious, implication that I am to look after him. I think Coughlin is probably as unhappy as you and your family about his taking the job.”
He looked at her, and when she didn’t reply, added, “He’s twenty-one years old, Dr. Payne. I suspect that he has been very humiliated by having failed the Marine Corps physical. He has decided he wants to be a policeman, and I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do, or could have done to dissuade him.”
I don’t need you to explain that to me, damn you again!
“You don’t agree?” Wohl asked.
“I suppose that’s true,” Amy said. “Where’s he going tonight? What’s the Eff Oh Pee?”
“Fraternal Order of Police,” Wohl said. “They have a building on Spring Garden, just off Broad. He’s meeting two of my men there. They’re going to look for a man we think is connected with a couple of burglaries in Chestnut Hill. I told them to take Matt with them, to give him an idea how things are, on the street.”
“Oh,” she said.
“That chocolate whateveritis looks good,” Wohl said. “Would you like a piece?”
“No, thank you,” Amy snipped. “Nothing for me, thank you.”
“You don’t mind if I do?”
“No, of course not,” Amy said.
Damn this man, he has a skin like an elephant, the smug sonofabitch!
Matt got out of the taxi in front of the Fraternal Order of Police Building on Spring Garden Street and looked at his watch. He was five minutes late.
Damn! he thought, and then Double Damn, either I’ve got the wrong place, or this place is closed!
Then, on the right corner of the building, he saw movement, a couple going into a door. He walked to it, and saw there were stairs and went down them. He had just relaxed with the realization that he had found “the bar at the FOP,” even if five minutes late, when a large man stepped in front of him.
“This is a private club, fella,” he said.
“I’m meeting someone,” Matt replied. “Officer McFadden.”
The man looked at him dubiously, but after a moment stepped out of his way, and waved him into the room.
Matt wondered how one joined the FOP; he would have to ask.
The room was dark and noisy. There was a dance floor c
rowded with people and what he thought at first was a band, but quickly realized was a phonograph playing records, very loudly, through enormous speakers. At the far end of the room, he saw a bar, and made his way toward it.
He found Officers McFadden and Martinez standing at the bar, at the right of it.
“Sorry to be late,” Matt said.
“We was just starting to wonder where you were,” Charley McFadden said. “Talking about you, as a matter of fact.”
“You got to learn to be on time,” Jesus Martinez said.
“He said he was sorry, Hay-zus,” McFadden defended him.
McFadden, Matt saw, was drinking Ortleib’s beer, from the bottle. Martinez had what looked like a glass of water.
“You want a beer, Matt?”
“Please,” Matt said. “Ortleib’s.”
“Hey, Charley,” McFadden called to the bartender. “Give us another round here!”
“Two beers and a glass of water?” the bartender said. “Or is Jesus still working on the one he has, taking it easy?”
“Call him, Hay-zus,” McFadden said. “He likes that better. Charley, say hello to Matt Payne.”
Matt was at the moment distracted by something to his right. A woman leaned up off her bar stool, supported herself with one hand on the bar, and threw an empty cigarette package into a plastic garbage can behind the bar. In doing so, her dress top fell open, and her brassiere came into view. Her brassiere was one that Matt had yet to see in the flesh, but had seen in Playboy, Penthouse, and other magazines of the type young men buy for the high literary content of their articles and fiction.
It was black, lacy, and instead of the cloth hemispheres of an ordinary brassiere, this one had sort of half hemispheres, on the bottom only, which presented the upper portion of the breast to Matt’s view, including the nipple.
Matt found this very interesting, and was grossly embarrassed when the woman glanced his way, saw him looking, said “Hi!” and then returned to her bar stool.
She was old, he thought, at least thirty-five, and she had caught him looking down her dress.
Oh, shit! If she says something…
“Matt, say hello to Charley Castel,” Charley McFadden repeated.
Matt offered his hand to Charley Castel. “How are you?”
“Matt’s out with us in Special Operations,” Charley said.
“Is that so?” Charley Castel said.
“He just got out of the Academy,” Jesus Martinez offered.
Thanks a lot, pal, Matt thought.
“Is that so?” Charley Castel repeated. “Well, welcome to the job, Matt.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” a female voice said in Matt’s ear. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it was the woman who had caught him peering down her dress.
“Yeah, why not?” Charley said, chuckling. “Matt, this is Lorraine Witzell, Lorraine, this is Matt Payne.”
“How are you, Matt Payne?” Lorraine said, putting her arm between Matt and Charley to shake his hand, which action served to cause her breast to press against Matt’s arm. “Is that short for Matthew, or what?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Matt said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jesus Martinez parroted sarcastically.
“You’re sweet,” Lorraine Witzell said to Matt, looking into his eyes and not letting go of his hand. “Did I hear Charley say you’ve been assigned to Special Operations?”
“That’s right,” Matt said.
For an older woman, she’s really not too bad-looking. And she either didn’t really catch me looking down her dress, or, Jesus, she doesn’t care.
“That should be an interesting assignment,” Lorraine said.
“We’re on the job now, Lorraine,” Charley McFadden said. “We was just talking about that.”
“You’re working plainclothes?” she asked. Matt sensed the question was directed to him, but Charley answered it.
“We’re looking for a fag burglar,” Charley replied. “Been hitting some rich woman in Chestnut Hill.”
“Well, if you’re going to work the fag joints,” Lorraine said, again directly to Matt, “you better keep your hand you-know-where, and I don’t mean on your gun. They’re going to love you!”
“What we was talking about,” Charley McFadden said, “is maybe splitting up. Hay-zus taking the unmarked car—he don’t drink, and it’s better that way—and you and me go together.”
“Whatever you say, Charley,” Matt said.
“You got your car? Mine’s a dog.”
“I came in a cab,” Matt said.
“Oh,” Charley said.
Matt saw the look of disappointment on McFadden’s face.
“But I don’t live far; getting it wouldn’t be any trouble.”
McFadden’s disappointment diminished.
“What I was thinking was that in a car like yours, we could cruise better,” McFadden said.
“I understand,” Matt said. “You mean it’s the sort of car a fag would drive?”
“I didn’t say that,” McFadden said, embarrassed. “But, no offense, yeah.”
“What kind of car do you have?” Lorraine asked.
“A Porsche 911T,” Charley answered for him.
“Oh, they’re darling!” Lorraine said, clutching Charley’s arm high up under the armpit, which also caused her breast to press against his arm again.
Which caused a physical reaction in Matt Payne that he would rather not have had under the circumstances, at this particular point in space and time.
“Where do you live, Payne?” Jesus Martinez asked.
“On Rittenhouse Square,” Matt said.
“Figures,” Martinez said. “Let’s get the hell out of here, somebody’s liable to spot that car in the parking lot and start asking questions.”
“To which we answer, we were picking up Payne, and you were drinking water,” McFadden replied, but Matt saw that he picked up his fresh Ortleib’s and drank half of it.
“Hay-zus is a worrier,” Charley said to Matt.
“You better be glad I am,” Martinez replied.
Lorraine Witzell pushed between Charley and Matt to sit her glass on the bar, which served to place her rear end against Matt’s groin and the physiological phenomenon he would have rather not had manifesting itself at that moment. It didn’t seem to bother Lorraine Witzell at all; quite the contrary. She seemed to be backing harder against it.
Matt took a pull at his bottle of Ortleib’s.
“I’m ready,” he said, signifying his willingness to leave. “Anytime.”
Lorraine Witzell chuckled deep in her throat.
“Well,” she said, “if it turns out to be a dull night, come on back. I’ll probably be here.”
FIFTEEN
At quarter to one, Officer Charley McFadden pulled Matt Payne’s Porsche 911T to the curb before a row house on Fitzgerald Street, not far from Methodist Hospital, in South Philadelphia.
“It happens that way sometimes,” Charley said to Matt. “Sometimes you can go out and find who you’re looking for easy as hell. And other times, it’s like this. We’ll catch the bastard. Hay-zus will turn up something.”
“Yeah,” Matt said.
“And you got the fag tour, right?” Charley said. “So it wasn’t a complete waste of time, right?”
“It was…educational,” Matt said, just a little thickly.
“And we wasn’t in all of them,” McFadden laughed. “Maybe half.”
“There seem to be more of those places than I would have thought possible,” Matt said, pronouncing each syllable carefully.
“You all right to drive?”
“Fine,” Matt said.
“You’re welcome to sleep on the couch here,” Charley offered.
“I’m all right,” Matt insisted.
“Well, drive careful, huh? You don’t want to fuck up a car like this.”
“I’ll be careful,” Matt said, and got out of the car and walked around the back.
“We’ll get the bastard,” Charley McFadden repeated. “And what the hell, we were on overtime, right?”
“Right,” Matt said. “Good night, Charley. See you in the morning.”
He started the engine, returned to South Broad Street, and pointed the nose toward Willy Penn, surveying the city from atop City Hall.
Matt had asked Charley McFadden about “that woman you introduced me to in the FOP” five minutes after they had picked up the Porsche, and were headed into West Philadelphia.
“She works for the district attorney,” Charley said. “They call her the shark.”
“Why?”
“Well, she likes cops,” Charley said. “Young cops in particular. What did she do, grab your joint?”
“No. Nothing like that,” Matt said. “I was just curious, that’s all.”
“I’m surprised,” Charley said. “She looked pretty interested, to me.”
“She seemed to know a good deal about the police, about police work.”
“As much as any cop,” Charley had said.
Matt reached City Hall, and drove around it, and up North Broad to Spring Garden and into the FOP parking lot.
The place was still crowded. He made his way to the bar and ordered a scotch and soda. He had a good deal to drink, some of the drinks paid for by either the proprietors of the bars they visited, or put in front of him by the bartender, who had then said, “The tall fellow at the end of the bar,” or something like that.
He saw Lorraine Witzell at the far end of the bar, with three men standing around her.
Well, it was dumb coming here in the first place.
And then fingers grazed his neck.
“I was beginning to think you’d found something more interesting to do,” Lorraine Witzell said, as she slid onto the bar stool behind, which action caused first one of her knees and then the other to graze his crotch.
“May I buy you a drink?” Matt said, very carefully.
Lorraine Witzell looked at him and smiled.
“You can, but what I think would make a lot more sense, baby, would be for Lorraine to take you home and get some coffee into you. You can take me for a ride in your Porsche some other time. It’ll be safe in the parking lot here.”
Special Operations Page 24
