Special Operations

FOURTEEN

The apartment under the eaves of what was now the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building was an afterthought, conceived after most of the building had been renovated.

C. Kenneth Warble, A.I.A, the architect, had met with Brewster C. Payne II of Rittenhouse Properties over luncheon at the Union League on South Broad Street to bring him up to date on the project's progress, and also to explain why a few little things-in particular the installation of an elevator-were going a little over budget.

Almost incidentally, C. Kenneth Warble had mentioned that he felt a little bad,vis-a-vis space utilization, about the "garret space," which on his plans, he had appropriated to "storage."

"I was there just before I came here, Brewster," he said. "It's a shame."

"Why a shame?"

"You've heard the story about the man with thinning hair who said he had too much hair to shave, and too little to comb? It's something like that. The garret space is really unsuitable for an apartment, a decent apartment-by which I mean expensive-and too nice for storage."

"Why unsuitable?"

"Well, the ceilings are very low, with no way to raise them, for one thing; by the time I put a kitchen in there, and a bath, which it would obviously have to have, there wouldn't be much room left. A small bedroom, and, I've been thinking, a rather nice, if long and narrow living room, with those nice dormer windows overlooking Rittenhouse Square,would be possible."

"But you think it could be rented?"

"If you could find a short bachelor," Warble said.

"That bad?" Brewster Payne chuckled.

"Not really. The ceilings are seven foot nine; three inches shorter than the Code now calls for. But we could get around that because it's a historical renovation."

"How much are we talking about?"

"Then, there's the question of access," Warble said, having just decided that if he was going to turn the garret into an apartment, it would be Brewster C. Payne's wish, rather than his own recommendation. "I'd have to provide some means for the short bachelor to get from the third-floor landing, which is as high as the elevator goes, to the apartment, and I'd have to put in some more soundproofing around the elevator motors-which are in the garret, you see, taking up space."

"How much are we talking about?" Payne repeated.

"The flooring up there is original," Warble went on. "Heart pine, fifteen-eighteen-inch random planks. That would refinish nicely, and could be done with this new urethane varnish, which is really incredibly tough."

"How much, Kenneth?" Payne had asked, mildly annoyed.

"For twelve, fifteen thousand, I could turn it into something really rather nice," Warble said. "You think that would be the way to go?"

"How much could we rent it for?"

"You could probably get three-fifty, four hundred a month for it," Warble said. "There are a lot of people who would be willing to pay for the privilege of being able to drop casually into conversation that they live on Rittenhouse Square."

"I see a number of well-dressed short men walking around town," Brewster C. Payne II said, after a moment. "Statistically, a number of them are bound to be bachelors. Go ahead, Kenneth,"

Rental of the apartment had been turned over to a realtor, with final approval of the tenant assumed by Mrs. Irene Craig. There had been a number of applicants, male and female, whom Irene Craig had rejected. The sensitivities of the Delaware Valley Cancer Society had to be considered, and while Irene Craig felt sure they were as broad-minded as anybody, she didn't feel they would take kindly to sharing the building with gentlemen of exquisite grace, or with ladies who were rather vague about their place of employment and who she suspected were practitioners of the oldest profession.

It was, she decided, in Brewster C. Payne II's best interests to wait until the ideal tenant-in Irene's mind's eye, a sixtyish widow who worked in the Franklin Institute-came along. And she waited.

And then Matt Payne had come along, needing a residence inside the city limits to meet a civil service regulation, and about to be evicted from his fraternity house. She called the Director of Administration at the Cancer Society and told him that the apartment had been rented, and that, as he had been previously informed, the two parking spaces in the garage behind the building, which they had until now been permitted to use temporarily, would no longer be available to them.

She assured him that the new tenant was a gentleman whose presence in the building would hardly be noticed, and devoutly hoped that would be the case.

Air conditioning had also been an afterthought, or more accurately an after-afterthought. Not only was their insufficient capacity in the main unit already installed, but there was no room to install the duct work that would have been necessary. Two 2.5-ton window units had been installed, one through the side wall, the second in the bedroom in the rear. The wave of hot muggy air that greeted Matt Payne when he trotted up the narrow stairway from the third floor and unlocked his door told him that he had forgotten to leave either unit on when he had last been home.

He put the carton of requisition forms on the desk in the living room and quickly turned both units on high. The desk, like the IBM typewriter sitting on it, had been "surplus" to the needs of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester. With a great deal of difficulty, four burly movers had been able to maneuver the heavy mahogany desk up the narrow stairs from the third floor, but, short of tearing down a wall, there had been no chance of getting it into the bedroom, as originally planned.

He then stripped off his clothes and took a shower. Despite the valiant efforts of the air conditioners, the apartment was still hot when he had toweled himself dry. If he got dressed now, he would be sweaty again. Officer Charley McFadden had told him, in response to Matt's question as to how he should dress while they sought to locate Mr. Walton Williams, "Nice. Like you are now. He's an arty fag, not the leather and chains kind."

Matt then did what seemed at the moment to be entirely logical. He went into the living room in his birthday suit, sat down behind the IBM typewriter in that condition, and started typing up the forms.

He had been at it for just over an hour when his concentration was distracted by a soft two-toned bonging noise that he recognized only after a moment as his doorbell.

He decided it was his father, who not only had a key to the downstairs, but was a gentleman, who would sound the doorbell rather than just let himself in.

He trotted naked to the door and pulled it open.

It was not his father. It was Amelia Alice Payne, M.D., Fellow of the American College of Psychiatrists, his big sister.

"Jesus Christ, Amy! Wait till I get my goddamned pants on."

"I really hope I'm interrupting something," Amy said as she entered the apartment. She smirked at the sight of her naked brother trotting into his bedroom and then looked around.

Amy Payne was twenty-seven, petite and intense, a wholesome but not quite pretty woman who looked a good deal like her father. She was in fact not related to Matt except in the law. Her mother had been killed in an automobile accident. Six months later, her father had married Matt's widowed mother, and Brewster Payne had subsequently adopted Matthew Mark Moffitt, her infant son. Patricia Moffitt Payne and Matt had been around as far back as Amy could remember.

In Amy's mind, Patricia Moffitt Payne was her mother, and Matt her little brother.

Matt returned to the living room bare-chested and zipping up a pair of khaki pants.

"How'd you get inside?" he asked.

"Dad gave me a key so that I could use the garage," she said. "It also opens the door downstairs, as I just found out."

"Not to the apartment?" he challenged.

"No, not to the apartment," Amy said.

"To what do I owe the honor of your presence?" Matt asked. "You want a beer or a Coke or something?"

"I want to talk to you, Matt."

"Why does that cause me to think I'm not going to like this? The tone of your voice, maybe?"

"I don't care if you like what I have to say or not," she said. "But you're going to listen to me."

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

He looked at the desk, and then at the clock, and then decided he had typed the last form he was going to have to type tonight, and he could thus have a beer.

He walked to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Heineken. He held it up.

"You want one of these?"

"I don't suppose you would have any white wine in there?"

"Yeah, I do," he said, and took a bottle from the refrigerator door.

"How long has that been in there, I wonder?" she asked.

"You want it or not?" he asked.

She nodded. "Please."

He took a stemmed glass from a cupboard over the sink, filled it nearly full with wine, and handed it to her.

"Make this quick, whatever it is," he said. "I have to work tonight, and between now and nine, I've got to grab a sandwich or something."

She didn't respond to that. Instead she raised her glass toward the mantelpiece of the fireplace, which showed evidence of having recently been bricked in.

"What's this?" she asked. "Your temple of the phallic symbol?"

"What?"

"Firearms are a substitute phallus," she said.

He saw that she was referring to his pistols, both of which he had placed on the wooden mantelpiece.

"Only for people with performance problems," Matt snorted. "I don't have that kind of problem. Not only did I take Psychology 101, too, Amy, but I stayed awake through the parts you missed."

"That's why you have two of them, right?" she replied. "I hope they' re not loaded."

"One of them is," he said. "Leave them alone."

"Why two?"

"I bought the little one today; it's easier to conceal," he said. "Is that the purpose of your uninvited visit, to lay some of your psychiatric bullshit on me?"

She turned to face him.

"I had lunch with Mother today," she said. "She worries me."

"What's the matter with Mother?" he asked, concern coming quickly into his voice.

"Why you are, of course," she said. "Don't tell me that hasn't run through your mind."

"Oh, not that again!"

"Yes, that again," she said. "And she has every reason to feel that way. She's had a husband killed,and a brother-in-law, and she'd be a fool if she closed her mind to the possibility that could happen to a son, too."

"Did she say anything?"

"Of course not," Amy said. "Mother's not the type to whine."

"We have, I seem to recall," Matt said, "been over this before. My position, I seem to recall, was that I had-there was a much greater chance of my getting myself blown away if I had made it into the Marines. I didn't hear any complaints, I seem to recall, from you about my going in the Marines."

"You had no choice about that," she said. "You do about being a policeman."

"Oh, shit!" he said, disgustedly. "When you get a real complaint about me from Mother, then come to see me, Amy. In the meantime, butt out."

"You refuse to see, don't you, that this entire insane notion of yours to be a policeman is nothing more than an attempt to overcome the psychological castration you underwent when you failed the Marine physical."

"I seem to recall your saying something like that, before, Dr. Strangelove."

"Well, I don't have to be a psychiatrist to know that your being a policeman is tearing Mother up!"

"But your being a shrink makes it easier, right?"

The telephone rang. Matt picked it up.

"Dr. Payne's Looney-Bin, Matt the Castrated speaking."

"Peter Wohl, Matt," his caller identified himself.

Oh, shit! Those two bastards in the highway RPC sure didn't lose any time squealing on me!

And, oh, Jesus, what I just said!

"Yes, sir?"

Amy looked at him curiously. The phrase "yes, sir" was not ordinarily in his vocabulary.

"That was an interesting way to answer your phone," Peter Wohl said.

"Sir," Matt said, lamely. "My sister is here. We were having a little argument."

"Actually, that's what I called you about. You did mean your sister the psychiatrist?"

"Yes, sir."

"Jason Washington was just in to see me. He didn't turn up anything useful interviewing Miss Flannery. I'm sort of clutching at straws. In other words, I was hoping that your offer to talk to your sister was valid."

"Yes, sir, of course. I'm sure she'd be happy to speak with you."

"Who is that?" Amy asked in a loud whisper. Matt held up his hand to silence her, which had the exact opposite reaction."Who is that?" Amy repeated, louder this time.

"I'm talking about now, Matt," Wohl said.

"Yes, sir," Matt said. "Now would be fine."

"I suppose you've eaten?"

"Sir?"

"I asked, have you had dinner?"

"No, sir."

"Well, then, why don't I pick you up, and we'll get a little something to eat, and I can speak with her. Would that be too much of an imposition on such short notice?"

"Not at all, sir."

"You live in the 3800 block of Walnut, right?"

"No, sir. I've moved. I'm now on Rittenhouse Square, South, in the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building-"

"I know where it is."

"In the attic, sir. Ring the button that says'Superintendent' in the lobby."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Wohl said. "Thank you."

The phone went dead.

"What was all that about? Who were you talking to?"

"That was my boss," Matt said. "He wants to talk to you. I told him about you."

"Tell him to call the office and make an appointment," Amy snapped. " My God, you've got your nerve, Matt!"

"It's important," Matt said.

"Maybe it is to you, Dick Tracy, to polish the boss's apple, but it's not to me. The nerve! I don't believe that you really thought I would go along with this!"

"A lunatic who has already raped, so to speak, a half dozen women, grabbed another one last night, forced her into his van at knifepoint, and hasn't been seen since," Matt said, evenly. "Inspector Wohl thinks you might be able to provide a profile of this splendid fellow, and that might possibly help us to find him."

"Doesn't the Police Department have its own psychologists, psychiatrists?" Amy asked.

"I'm sure they do," Matt said. "But he wants to talk to you. Please, Amy."

She looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged.

"Why did you say, 'raped, so to speak'?"

"Because, so far," Matt said, as evenly, "there has been no vaginal or anal penetration, and the forced fellatio has not resulted in ejaculation."

"You should hear yourself," she said, softly. "How cold-blooded and clinical you sound. Oh, Matt!"

It was, she realized, a wail of anguish at the loss of her little brother's innocence.

"Under these circumstances," she added, as cold-bloodedly as she could manage, "I don't have much choice, do I?"

"Not really," Matt said. "He's going to take us to dinner."

"I can't go anywhere looking like this," she said. "I came here right from the hospital."

"Well, then, we'll go someplace where you won't look out of place," Matt said.

"The bathroom, presumably, is in there?" Amy asked, pointing toward his bedroom.

"Vanity, thy name is woman," Matt quoted sonorously.

"Screw you, Matt," Dr. Amelia Alice Payne replied.

Staff Inspector Peter Wohl was not what Amy Payne expected. She wasn' t sure exactly what she had expected- maybe a slightly younger version of Matt's "Uncle Denny" Coughlin-but she had not expected the pleasant, well-dressed young man (she guessed that he was in his early thirties) who came through Matt's apartment door.

"Amy," Matt said, "this is Inspector Wohl. Amy Payne, M.D."

Wohl smiled at her.

"Doctor, I very much appreciate your agreeing to talk to me like this," he said. "I realize what an imposition it is."

"Not at all," Amy said, and hearing her voice was furious with herself; she had practically gushed.

"I've been trying to figure out the best way to do this," Wohl said. "What I would like you to do, if you would be so kind, would be to read the file we have on this man, and then tell me what kind of man he is."

"I understand," Amy said.

He gave her a look she understood in a moment was surprise, even annoyance, that she had interrupted him.

He smiled.

"But that isn't really the sort of thing you want to talk about over dinner. And dinner is certainly necessary. Then there's Matt."

"Sir?" Matt said.

There he goes again with that "Sir" business, Amy thought. Who does he think this cop is, anyway?

"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 realty 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 aboutbeing 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 inRistorante 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 ItalianPinot 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 thetournedos Alfredo," the waiter said. "Thank you, sir."

Peter Wohl had explained to both of them that thetournedos Alfredo, which he highly recommended, were sort of an Italian version of steak with amarchand 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 elan, served thetournedos 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 crowded 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 inPlayboy, 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."