The Witness

NINETEEN

Lieutenant Jack Malone had just carefully rewrapped the aluminum foil around the remnants of his dinner-two egg rolls and beef-and-pepperand was about to shoot it, basketball-like, into the wastebasket under the writing desk in his room in the St. Charles Hotel when his telephone rang.

He glanced at his watch as he reached for the telephone. Quarter past seven. Sometimes Little Jack would telephone him around this hour. His first reaction was pleasure, which was almost immediately replaced with something close to pain:

If it is Little Jack, he's liable to ask again why I'm not coming home.

"Peter Wohl, Jack," his caller said. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"No, sir."

"Sorry to bother you at home, but I want to talk to you about something."

"Yes, sir?"

"Have you had dinner?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would you mind watching me eat? I've got to get something in my stomach."

"Not at all."

"You know Ribs Unlimited on Chestnut Street?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you meet me there in-thirty, thirty-five minutes?"

"Yes, sir, I'll be there."

"At the bar, Jack. Thank you," Wohl said, and hung up.

What the fuck does Wohl want? Is this going to be one of those heartto-heart talks better held in an informal atmosphere? Has word finally got to him that I was watching Holland's body shop?

"Malone, you disappoint me. A word to the wise should have been sufficient. Get Bob Holland out of your mind. In other words, get off his case."

Malone pushed himself out of bed and started to dress. He really hated to wear anything but blue jeans and a sweater and a nylon jacket,because sure as Christ made little apples, if I put on a suit and shirt, I will get something -slush or barbecue sauce, something-on them and have to take them to the cleaners.

"But on the other hand," he said aloud as he took a tweed sports coat and a pair of cavalry twill trousers from the closet, "one must look one's best when one is about to socialize with one's superior officer. Clothes indeed do make the man."

When he got outside the hotel, he saw that the temperature had dropped, and frozen the slush. He decided to walk. It wasn't really that close, but if he drove, he might not be able to find a place to park when he came back, and he had plenty of time. Wohl had said thirty, thirty-five minutes.

Now I won't soil my clothes, I'll slip on the goddamn ice and break my fucking leg.

Ribs Unlimited, despite the lousy weather, was crowded. There was a line of people waiting for the nod of the head-waiter in the narrow entrance foyer.

Malone stood in the line for a minute or two, and then remembered Wohl had said "in the bar." The headwaiter tried to stop him.

"I'm meeting someone," Malone said, and kept walking. He found an empty stool next to a woman who was desperately trying to appear younger than the calendar made her, and whose perfume filled his nostrils with a scent that reminded him of something else he hadn't been getting much-any-of lately.

When the bartender appeared, he almost automatically said "Ortleib's" but at the last moment changed his mind.

"John Jameson, easy on the ice," he said.

Fuck it, I've been a good boy lately. One little shooter will be good for me. And one I can afford.

Wohl appeared as the bartender served the drink.

"Been waiting long?"

"No, sir, I just got here."

"What is that?"

"Irish."

"I feel Irish," Wohl said to the bartender. "Same way, please. Not too much ice."

A heavyset man appeared, beaming.

"How are you, Inspector?"

"How are you, Charley?" Wohl replied. "Charley, this is Lieutenant Jack Malone. Jack, Charley Meader, our host."

"You work with the inspector, Lieutenant?" Meader said, pumping Malone's hand.

"Yes, sir," Malone said.

"I've got you a table in the back anytime you're ready, Inspector," Meader said.

"I guess we could carry our drinks, right?" Wohl said. "When I get mine, that is."

"Whatever you'd prefer," Meader said, and waited until the bartender served Wohl.

"House account that, Jerry," he said.

"Very kind, thank you," Wohl said.

"My pleasure, Inspector. And anytime, you know that."

He patted Wohl on the shoulder and shook hands with both of them.

"Whenever you're ready, Inspector, your table's available," Meader said. "Good to see you. And to meet you, Lieutenant."

Wohl waited until he was gone, then said, "There was once a Department of Health inspector who led Charley Meader to believe that he would have far less trouble passing his inspections if he handed him an envelope once a week when he came in for a free meal."

"Oh," Malone said.

"Charley belongs to the Jaguar Club," Wohl went on. "You know I have a Jaguar?"

"I've seen it."

"1950 SK-120 Drophead Coupe," Wohl said. "So he came to me after a meeting one night and said he had heard I was a cop, and that he didn' t want to put me on the spot, but did I know an honest sergeant, or maybe even an honest lieutenant. He would go to him, without mentioning my name, and tell him his problem."

"A long time ago?"

"Just before they gave me Special Operations," Wohl said.

"He didn't know you were a staff inspector?"

"No. Not until I testified in court."

"So what happened?"

"The next time the Health Department sleaze-ball came in, I was tending bar and I had a photographer up there." He gestured toward a balcony overlooking the bar and smiled. "I put a microphone in the pretzel bowl. Hanging Harriet gave the Health Department guy three to five," Wohl said.

Hanging Harriet was the Hon. Harriet M. McCandless, a formidable black jurist who passionately believed that civilized society was based upon a civil service whose honesty was above question.

"No wonder he buys you drinks."

"The sad part of the story, Jack, is that Charley really was afraid to go to the cops until he found one he thoughtmight be honest."

Wohl took a swallow of his drink, and then said, "Let's carry these to the table. I've got to get something to eat."

The headwaiter left his padded rope and showed them to a table at the rear of the room. A waiter immediately appeared.

"The El Rancho Special," Wohl ordered. "Hold the beans. French fries."

"What's that?"

"Barbecued beef. Great sauce. You really ought to try it."

"I think I will," Malone said.

"Yes, sir. And can I get you gentlemen a drink?"

"Please. The same thing. Jameson's, isn't it?"

"Jameson's," Malone offered.

"And I don't care what Mr. Meader says, I want the check for this," Wohl said.

The waiter looked uncomfortable.

"You're going to have to talk to Mr. Meader about that, sir."

"All right," Wohl said. He waited until the waiter left, and then said, "Well, you can't say I didn't try to pay for this, can you?"

Malone chuckled.

Wohl reached in the breast pocket of his jacket and came out with several sheets of blue-lined paper and handed them to Malone.

"I'd like to know what you think about that, Jack. I don't have muchpractically no-experience in this sort of thing."

"What is it?"

"How to protect Monahan, the witness in the Goldblatt job, and Matt Payne. Monahan positively identified everybody we arrested, by the way. Washington called me just after I called you."

The protection plan was detailed and precise, even including drawings of Monahan's house, Matt's apartment, and the areas around them. That didn't surprise Malone, for he expected as much from Wohl. His brief association with him had convinced him that he really was as smart as his reputation held him to be.

But he was surprised at the handwriting. He had read somewhere, years before, and come to accept, that a very good clue to a man's character was his handwriting. From what he had seen of Wohl, what he knew about him, there was a certain flamboyance to his character, which, according to the handwriting theory, should have manifested itself in flamboyant, perhaps even careless, writing. But the writing on the sheets of lined paper was quite the opposite. Wohl's characters were small, carefully formed, with dots over the I's, and neatly crossed T' s. Even his abbreviations were followed by periods.

Maybe that's what he's really like, Malone thought. Beneath the fashionable clothing and the anti-establishment public attitude, there really beats the heart of a very careful man, one who doesn't really like to take the chance of being wrong.

"You have three officers at Monahan's house when he's there," Malone said, but it was meant as a question, and Wohl answered it.

"Two two-man Special Operations RPCs," Wohl said. "Four cops. One car and three cops at Monahan's. The fourth officer will be the guy wearing the rent-a-cop uniform in the garage on Rittenhouse Square."

"He'll have the second car with him at Payne's place?" Malone asked.

Wohl nodded, and went on. "I think Monahan's at the greatest risk. There is a real chance that they will try to kill him. And I don't want everybody there just sitting in a car. I want one man, all the time, walking around. It's cold as hell now, so they can split it up any way they want."

"I understand."

"Payne's apartment is really easy to protect. After five-thirty, the main door is locked. There's a pretty good burglar alarm not only on the door, but on the first-, second-, and third-floor windows. There's a key for the elevator from the basement. They haven't been using it, but starting tomorrow, they'll have to."

"Payne gets out of the hospital tomorrow?"

"Right. Before lunch. He'll go to the Roundhouse for the Homicide interviews-Chief Coughlin got Chief Lowenstein to hold off on that, kept them out of Frankford Hospital, but it has to be done-and then he'll go to his apartment. We'll give the officer in the rent-a-cop uniform a shotgun; he can stay inside that little cubicle with it. And, of course, we'll have one of the three guys with Payne around the clock. I don't think that's going to be a problem. Monahan might be."

"And district and Highway cars will make passes by both places all night, right?"

"District, Highway, and Special Operations," Wohl said. "There should be at least one of them going by both places at least once an hour, maybe more often. And if Monahan keeps insisting on going to work, by Goldblatt's during the day."

"I don't want to sound like I'm polishing the apple, Inspector, but I can't think of a thing I'd do differently."

"Good," Wohl said. "Because, until further notice, you're in charge. I told Captain Sabara and Captain Pekach that they are to give you whatever you think you need."

"Yes, sir," Malone said. "I met McFadden, and I've seen Martinez, but I don't know this man Lewis."

"Great big black kid," Wohl said. "He just came on the job, sort of."

"Sort of?"

"He worked Police Radio for four, five years before he came on the job, while he was in college. His father is a cop. He made lieutenant on the list before yours. He used to be a sergeant in the 18^th District."

"Great big guy? Mean as hell, and goes strictly by the book?"

"That's him."

"And the young one's in Highway?"

"No. He's been working as a gofer for Detective Harris. Frankly-don't misunderstand this, he's a nice kid and he'll probably make a very good cop-he's in Special Operations because the mayor made a speech at some black church saying Czernick had assigned him to Special Operations. The same sort of thing that Carlucci did with Payne. Carlucci told the newspapers Payne was my administrative assistant, so I named Payne my administrative assistant. Carlucci told the people at the church that Czernick had assigned this well-educated, highly motivated young black officer to Special Operations, so Czernick assigned him to us-"

The waiter delivered two plates heaped high with food. The smell made Malone's mouth water.

"I'll get your drinks, gentlemen," the waiter said.

"-so not knowing what to do with him," Wohl went on, "I gave him to Harris. He needed a gofer. We still don't have a fucking clue about who shot that young Italian cop, Magnella. That's what Harris is working."

Malone, who had heard the gossip about Detective Tony Harris being on a monumental bender, wondered if Wohl knew.

Wohl started eating.

"The idea, if I didn't make this clear," he said a moment later, "is that with three young cops, in plainclothes, one of whom is actually Payne's buddy, it will look, I hope, that they're just hanging around with him."

"I got that. Instead of a protection detail, you mean?"

"Right. I don't want these scumbags to get the idea that they're worrying us as much as they are."

"How long is this going to go on?"

"So far as Monahan is concerned, I don't know. At least until the end of the trial, and probably a little longer. Stillwell is going to go before the Grand Jury as soon as he can, probably in the next couple of days, and then they're going to put it on the docket as soon as that can be arranged. Giacomo will do his damnedest to get continuances, of course, but with a little bit of luck, we'll have a judge who won't indulge him. As far as Payne is concerned: He's a cop. As soon as he's back for duty, we'll call off official protection. Encourage him to do his drinking and wenching in the FOP."

Malone nodded and chuckled.

"There is also a chance that we'll be able to get our hands on the people who are issuing the press releases. I want the people on Monahan's house to take license numbers, that sort of thing."

"That wasn't in here," Malone said, tapping the lined paper Wohl had given him, "but I thought about it."

"There is also a chance, a very slim one, that we can get some of the other witnesses to agree to testify. Washington's going to talk to them. And I'm sure that Stillwell will probably try too. If we can get more people to come forward-"

"Which is exactly what these scumbags are worried about, what they're trying to prevent," Malone said, and then, really surprising Wohl, said bitterly, "Shit!"

Then, having heard what he said, and seeing the look on Wohl's face, he explained.

"Second table from the headwaiter's table. My wife. Ex-wife."

Wohl looked, saw a not-especially-attractive woman, facing in their direction, across a table from a man with long, silver-gray hair, and then turned to Malone.

"That the lawyer?"

"That's him."

"What I think you should do, Jack," Wohl said, "is smile and act as if you're having a great time. I'm only sorry that I'm not a longlegged blonde with spectacular breastworks."

Malone looked at him for a moment, and then picked up his glass.

"Whoopee!" he said, waving it around. "Ain't we having fun!"

"What do you say, kiddo?" Mickey O'Hara asked as he stuck his head into Matt Payne's room. "Feel up to a couple of visitors?"

"Come on in, Mickey," Matt said. He had been watching an especially dull program on public television hoping that it would put him to sleep; it hadn't. He now knew more of the water problems of Los Angeles than he really wanted to know.

Mickey O'Hara and Eleanor Neal came into the room. O'Hara had a brown bag in his hand, and Eleanor carried a potted plant.

"I hope we're not intruding," Eleanor said, "but Mickey said it would be all right if I came, and I wanted to thank you for saving his life."

"Matt, say hello to Eleanor Neal," Mickey said.

"How do you do?" Matt said, a reflex response, and then: "I didn't save his life."

"Yeah, you did," Mickey said. "But for a moment, in the alley, I thought you had changed your mind."

Matt had a sudden, very clear mental picture of the fear on Mickey's face and in his eyes, right after it had happened, when he had, startled by the flash from Mickey's camera, turned from the man he had shot and pointed his revolver at Mickey O'Hara.

"What does that mean?"

"Not important," Mickey said. He pulled a bottle of John Jameson Irish whiskey from the brown paper bag. "Down payment on what I owe you, Matt."

"Hey, I didn't save your life, okay? You don't owe me a damned thing."

Mickey ignored him. He bent over and took two paper cups from the bedside table, opened the bottle, poured whiskey in each cup, and then looked at Matt.

"You want it straight, or should I pour some water in it?"

"I'm not sure you should be giving him that," Eleanor said.

"He's an Irishman," Mickey said. "It'll do him more good than whatever else they've been giving him in here."

"Put a little water in it, please, Mickey," Matt said.

Mickey poured water from the insulated water carafe into the paper cup and handed it to Matt.

"Here's to you, Matt," he said, raising his glass.

"Cheers," Matt said, and took a swallow.

Maybe the booze will make me sleepy, or at least take the edge off the pain in the goddamn leg.

And then: Does he really think I saved his life, or is that bullshit? Blarney.

"How do you feel, Matt?" Mickey asked.

"I'm all right," Matt said. "I get out of here tomorrow."

"So soon?" Eleanor asked, surprised.

"Current medical wisdom is that the sooner they get you moving around, the better," Matt said.

"You going home?" Mickey said.

"If by 'home,' you mean my apartment, yes, of course."

"I was thinking of-where do your parents live, Wallingford?"

"My apartment."

"You know getting in to see you is like getting to see the gold at Fort Knox?" Mickey asked. Matt nodded. "So you know what these people have been up to?"

Matt nodded again.

"The Molotov cocktail, the press release, the second one? All of it?"

Matt nodded again.

"What do you think, Mickey?" he asked.

"I know a lot of black guys, and a lot of Muslims," Mickey said. " Ordinarily, I can get what I want to know out of at least a couple of them. So far, all I get is shrugs when I ask about the Islamic Liberation Army. That could mean they really don't know, or it could mean that they think I 'm just one more goddamn honky. I'd watch myself, if I were you."

"I was thinking-with what they have on television, there's been a lot of time for that-about what the hell they're after."

"And?"

"In the thirties, during the Depression, when Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde were running around robbing banks, killing people, there was supposed to be some support for them; people thought they were Robin Hood."

"From what I've heard about Bonnie, she was no Maid Marion," Mickey said.

"What does that mean?" Eleanor asked.

"Not important," Mickey said. "For that matter, Clyde wasn't exactly Errol Flynn, either. What is it you're saying, Matty, that they're after public support?"

Matt nodded.

"A political agenda?"

"Why else the press releases?"

"That's pretty sophisticated thinking for a bunch of stickup guys who have to have somebody read the Exit sign to them."

"Somebody wrote those press releases," Matt argued. "For their purpose-getting themselves in the newspapers and on TV-they were, by definition, effective. At least one of them can write. And plan things, like the gasoline bomb."

"What do you mean, 'plan the gasoline bomb'? Anybody knows how to make one of those.That I would expect from these people."

"When and where to throw it," Matt said. "They had to be watching Goldbatt's. One man, just standing around, would have been suspicious. So they had a half a dozen of them, plus of course the guy on the roof who threw it."

O'Hara grunted.

"Unless, of course, Matty, they have somebody inside the cops, inside Special Operations, who just called them and told them when Washington was going to pick up Monahan.That suggests an operation run by people who know what they're doing."

"You really think that's possible?" Matt asked, genuinely shocked. " That they have somebody inside?"

O'Hara never got the chance to reply. The door opened again and Mr. and Mrs. Brewster C. Payne walked in.

"Hi!" Matt said.

"How are you, honey?" Patricia Payne asked.

"Just fine," Matt said. "Mother, you didn't have to come back. I'm getting out of here tomorrow."

She held up her arm, around which was folded a hang-up bag.

"In your underwear?"

"It's the cocktail hour, I see," Brewster C. Payne said.

"Dad, do you know Mickey O'Hara?"

"Only by reputation. How are you, Mr. O'Hara?"

"Are you allowed to have that?" Patricia Payne asked.

"Probably not, but I can't see where it will do any harm," Brewster Payne said. He smiled at Eleanor. "I'm Brewster Payne, and this is my wife."

"I'm Eleanor Neal."

"How do you do?" Patricia Payne said.

"Can I offer you a little taste, Mr. Payne?" Mickey asked.

"Is there a glass?"

"How do you know they aren't giving you some medicine that will react with that?" Patricia Payne asked.

"All I'm taking is aspirin," Matt replied.

Mickey made drinks for the Paynes.

Patricia Payne nodded her thanks, sipped hers, and said, "I have this terrible premonition that some two-hundred-pound nurse is going to storm in here, find the party in progress, yell for the guards, and I will win the Terrible Mother of the Year award."

"I thought bringing Matt a little taste was the least I could do for what he did, saving my life, for me."

Thank you, Mickey O'Hara.

"It was very kind of you, Mr. O'Hara," Brewster Payne said.

And thank you, Dad, for cutting off the colorful story of my courage in the face of death.

"Call me Mickey, please."

"Mickey."

"Mickey, we should be going," Eleanor said. "We've been here long enough."

"You're right," Mickey said. He tossed his drink down, shook hands all around, and opened the door for Eleanor.

"Interesting man," Brewster Payne said as the door closed after them.

"He's supposed to be the best police reporter on the Eastern Seaboard."

"He has a Pulitzer, I believe," Brewster Payne said, and then changed the subject. "Denny Coughlin tells me you insist on going to your apartment when they turn you loose?"

"Yes, sir."

"How much do you know of what else has happened?"

"I know about the threats, and the firebomb. Is there something else?"

"No. I just didn't know how much you knew. Just before we came here, Dick Detweiler phoned. They wanted to come see you-he called earlier, as soon as he heard what had happened-but I told him you were getting out in the morning."

"Thank you."

"He also volunteered to send out to Wallingford as many of the Nesfoods plant security people as would be necessary for as long as would be necessary. The point of this is that if the reason you don't want to come home is because of your concern for your mother and me, that won't be a problem. Dick would really like to help."

"I'm a cop," Matt said. "I'm not about to let these scumbags run me out of town."

"I told you that's what he would say," Patricia Payne said.

"And I'll have people with me," Matt said.

"That was explained to us in great detail by Denny Coughlin. Having said that, I think Denny would be more comfortable if you were in Wallingford."

"I'm going to the apartment, Dad," Matt said.

"The police are taking these threats seriously, honey," Patricia Payne said. "Getting in to see you is like trying to walk into the White House."

"I suspect Uncle Denny had a lot to do with whatever security there is here," Matt said. "In his godfather, as opposed to chief inspector of police, role."

"I think that probably has a lot to do with it," Brewster Payne agreed, smiling. "Okay. You change your mind-I suspect you'll get claustrophobia in your apartment-and we'll get you out to the house."

The door opened again, and a nurse came in. She was well under two hundred pounds, but she was every bit as formidable and outraged as the two-hundred-pounder Patricia Payne had imagined.

"Liquor is absolutely forbidden," she announced. "I should think you would have known that."

"I tried to tell my wife that," Brewster C. Payne said, straightfaced, "but she wouldn't listen to me."

Matt laughed heartily, and even more heartily when he saw the look on his mother's face. Each time his stomach contracted in laughter his leg hurt.

Jason Washington was waiting for Peter Wohl when he walked into the building at Bustleton and Bowler at five minutes to eight the next morning.

"Morning, Jason."

"Can I have a minute, Inspector?"

"Sure. Come on in the office. With a little bit of luck, there will be hot coffee."

"How about here? This will only take a yes or a no."

"Okay. What's on your mind?"

"Captain Sabara told me he wants Tiny Lewis-you know who I mean?"

"Sure."

"-on the security detail for Matt Payne. I'd rather he got somebody else."

"You have something for Lewis to do?"

Washington nodded.

"You got him. You discuss this with Sabara?"

"No."

"I'm sure he would have let you have Lewis."

"He would have asked why."

"You're losing me."

"I didn't know if he knew Tony Harris has been at the bottle."

"What's that got to do with Lewis?"

"Harris is sober. If we can keep him that way for the next seventytwo hours, I think we can keep him that way more or less indefinitely. Lewis will be with Harris all day, with orders to call me if Tony even looks at a liquor store."

"And at night?"

"Martha likes him. We have room at the apartment. He can stay with us for a while."

"Martha is a saint," Wohl said.

"No," Washington said, "it's just-"

"Yeah,"Wohl interrupted coldly. "Only a saint or a fool can stand a dedicated drunk, and Martha's not a fool."

"He's a good cop, Inspector."

"That's what I've been thinking, with one part of my mind, for the last three or four days. Theother part of my mind keeps repeating, ' He's a drunk, he's a drunk, he's a drunk.' "

"I think it's under control," Washington said.

"It better be, Jason."

"Thanks, Inspector," Washington said.

"You got something going now? I'd like you to sit in on what Malone has set up for Matt and Monahan. They're supposed to be waiting for me in my office."

"I can make time for that," Washington said.

Wohl led the way to his office. Sabara was standing by his desk, a telephone to his ear.

"He just walked in, Commissioner," Sabara said. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "This is the third time he called."

Wohl nodded and took the telephone from him.

"Good morning, Commissioner. Sorry you had to call back."

The others in the room could hear only Wohl's end of the conversation:

"I'm sure Mr. Stillwell has his reasons…

"I checked with the hospital fifteen minutes ago. We're planning on taking him out of there at about half past ten…

"Yes, sir…

"I can stop by your office as soon as the interview is over, Commissioner…

"I'm sure everyone else-No. I don't know about O'Hara, come to think of it. But every one involved but O'Hara has given a statement, sir. I'll check on O'Hara right away and let you know, sir…

"Yes, sir. I'll see you in your office as soon as they've finished with Payne. Good-bye, sir."

He put the telephone in its cradle, but, deep in thought, did not take his hand off it.

He finally shrugged and looked at the others.

"Stillwell wants to run Matt Payne, the shooting, past the Grand Jury. It probably makes sense, if you think about it-"

He paused, thinking, I wonder why that sonofabitch didn't tell me "-they will decline to indict, and then Giacomo can't start making noise about a police cover-up."

"It was a good shooting," Sabara said. "Stevens-what does he call himself?"

"Abu Ben Mohammed," Wohl furnished.

"-came out shooting. It wasn't even justifiable force, it was selfdefense."

"I guess that's what Stillwell figures," Wohl said, and then changed the subject. "Jack has polished my rough plan to protect Matt and Monahan. I'd like to hear what you think of it. Jack?"

Malone took the protection plan, which he had just had typed up and duplicated, from his jacket pocket.

Is he trying to give me credit for this to be a nice guy, Malone wondered, or trying to lay the responsibility on me in case something goes wrong!