The Witness

FIVE

Officers Gerald Quinn and Charles McFadden had spent all of the morning hanging around the sixth-floor hallway outside Courtroom 636 in City Hall waiting to be called to testify. The assistant DA sent word, however, that they probably would be, and asked them not to leave the building until he gave them permission or until the court broke for lunch.

That meant that in addition to the lousy coffee served by the concessionaire in the stairwell, they would have to eat lunch in some crowded greasy spoon restaurant nearby.

They went back to Courtroom 636 a few minutes before two. The assistant district attorney told them they would not be needed. By the time they had gone back downstairs and checked out through Court Attendance, it was a few minutes after two.

They went out and found their car. Quinn got behind the wheel and cranked the battered Chevrolet. The radio warmed almost immediately, and came to life:

"BEEP BEEP BEEP. 800 South Street. Assist officer. Holdup in progress. Report of shooting and hospital case.

"BEEP BEEP BEEP. 800 South Street. Assist officer. Holdup in progress. Report of shooting and hospital case.

Quinn had the siren howling and the lights flashing even before McFadden could pick up the microphone.

When he had it in his hand, he said, "Highway Twenty-Two in on that."

Mrs. Janet Grosse's-Police Radio's-second call about the robbery of Goldblatt amp; Sons Credit Furniture amp; Appliances, Inc Beep Beep Beep. 800 South Street. Assist officer. Holdup in progress. Report of shooting and hospital case. was also picked up by one of the several police frequency radios in an antennae festooned Buick, a new one, registered to one Michael J. O'Hara of the 2100 block of South Shields Street in West Philadelphia.

Mr. O'Hara had just a moment before entered the Buick after having taken luncheon (a cheese-steak sandwich, a large side order of french fries, and three bottles of Ortleib's beer) at Beato's on Parrish Street, in the company of Sergeant Max Feldman, of the 9^th District.

When the call came, Mr. O'Hara was filling out a small printed document that he would, on Friday, turn into the administrative office of the PhiladelphiaBulletin, the newspaper by which he was employed. It would state that in the course of business he had entertained Sergeant Feldman at luncheon at a cost of $23.50, plus a $3.75 tip, for a total of $27.25. In due course, a check would be issued to reimburse Mr. O'Hara for this business expense.

Actually, Mr. O'Hara had not paid for the lunch, and indeed had no idea what it had cost. Sergeant Feldman's money was no good at Beato' s, and the management had picked up Mr. O'Hara's tab as a further courtesy to Sergeant Feldman.

But several months before, Casimir J. Bolinski, LLD, had renegotiated Mr. O'Hara's contract for the provision of his professional services to theBulletin. Among other stipulations, the new contract required theBulletin to reimburse Mr. O'Hara for whatever expenses he incurred in carrying out his professional duties, specifically including the entertainment of individuals who, in Mr. O'Hara's sole judgment, might prove useful to him professionally.

Since Casimir had gone to all that trouble for him, it seemed to Mr. O'Hara that it would be ungrateful of him not to turn in luncheon expense vouchers whether or not cash had actually changed hands. Anyway, Mr. O'Hara reasoned, if Beato's hadn't grabbed the tab, hewould have paid it.

Mr. O'Hara's profession was journalism. Specifically, he was theBulletin's top crime reporter. Arguably, he was the best crime reporter in Philadelphia or, for that matter, between Boston and Washington.

Dr. Bolinski had enjoyed a certain fame-some said "notoriety"-as a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers professional football team before hanging up the suit and joining the bar and entering the legal specialization field of representing professional athletes.

Bull Bolinski had surprised a lot of people, including Mickey O'Hara, who had known him since they were in the third grade at Saint Stephen' s Parochial School at 10^th and Butler, with his near-instant success at big-dollar contract negotiations.

"What it is, Michael," The Bull had once explained to him over a beer, "is that the fuckers think I'm just a dumb fucking jock. That gives me a leg up on the bastards."

The Bull was the only person in the world except Mickey's mother who called Mr. O'Hara "Michael." Mickey, similarly, was the only person in the world save Mrs. Bolinski who called The Bull "Casimir." The Bull's mother didn't even call him Casimir; usually it was Sonny, but often she called him "Bull" too.

That went back to Saint Stephen's too, where Sister Mary Magdalene, the principal, had a thing about Christian names. You either used the name you got when you were baptized, or you took a crack across the hand, bottom, or a stab into the ribs from Sister Mary Magdalene's eighteen-inch steel-reinforced ruler.

Casimir had been in town eight months before and had been deeply shocked to learn how little Michael was being compensated for his services by theBulletin.

"Jesus, Michael, you got a fucking Pulitzer Prize, and that's all those cheap bastards are paying you? That's fucking outrageous!"

"Casimir, you may have been a hot shit ball player, and you may be a hot shit lawyer now, but you don't know your ass from left field about newspapers."

"Trust me, Michael," The Bull had said confidently. "I can handle those bastards."

Somewhat uneasily, Mr. O'Hara had placed the financial aspects of his career into Dr. Bolinski's hands. To his genuine surprise, theBulletin was now paying him more money than he had ever expected to make, and there were fringe benefits like the Buick (previously he had driven his own car and been reimbursed at a dime a mile) and the expense account.

While it would not be fair to say that Mickey O'Hara was happy to hear that someone had been illegally deprived of their property at gunpoint, or that somebody had gotten themselves shot, neither would it be honest to say that he was beside himself with vicarious sorrow.

It had been a damned dull week, so far, and so far the line of type reading,"By Michael J. O'Hara, Bulletin Staff Writer" had not appeared on the front page of theBulletin. A good shooting would probably fix that.

Mickey finished filling out the expense account chit, shoved the pad of forms back into the glove compartment, and got the Buick moving.

Mickey knew the streets of the City of Philadelphia as well as any London taxi driver knows those of the city on the Thames. He turned left onto 26^th Street and headed south toward the Art Museum and moved swiftly down the Benjamin Franklin Parkway toward City Hall. The pedestrian traffic around City Hall was frustrating, but his pace picked up as he headed south on Broad Street toward South Street. As he turned east on South Street, he could see flashing lights a few blocks ahead.

He drove expertly. That is to say, he was not reckless. But he paid absolutely no attention to the posted speed limits, and paused for red lights only long enough to make sure he could get across the intersection without getting hit.

He was not worried about being cited for violation of the Motor Vehicle Code. His chances of being charged with speeding or running a red light or reckless lane changing were about as great as those of Mayor Jerry Carlucci's.

Mickey O'Hara was regarded by the Police Department as one of their own. To be sure, there was always some stiff-necked prick who would point out that all Mickey O'Hara was, was a goddamn civilian and entitled to no special privileges. But for every one of these, there were two or three cops, driving RPCs or walking beats, or captains and inspectors, who had known Mickey for twenty years and had come to believe that he was on the side of the cops, and told the prick where to head in.

When the Emerald Society had a function, and there was a head table, Mickey O'Hara was routinely seated at it. The Fraternal Order of Police club, downtown, off North Broad Street, had an ironclad rule that the only way a civilian could get past the door was in the company of a member. Except for Mickey O'Hara, who could be expected to drop in once a night for a beer, sitting at a stool near the cash register that might as well have had his name on it, because it was tacitly reserved for him.

The thing about Mickey, it was said, was that he never betrayed a confidence. If you told him something was out of school, you would never see it in the newspaper.

There was a white-capped (Traffic Division) cop diverting traffic away from South Street onto South 9^th Street when Mickey O'Hara's Buick appeared.

He waved Mickey through, winked at him as he passed, and then furiously blew his whistle at the car behind him, who thought he wanted to follow Mickey.

Mickey pulled up behind a car he recognized as belonging to Central Detectives. Some of the chrome letters that had once spelled out CHEVROLET had fallen off; now it read CHE RO T. He had seen it the night before downtown; a lawyer from Pittsburgh had been mugged and stabbed coming out of a bar. The detective had told Mickey what had happened, and when Mickey had asked him, "What do you think?" the detective had said, "It's a start, but the bastards breed like rabbits."

Mickey took a 35-mm camera from the passenger side floor and got out. He saw that South Street was jammed with police vehicles of all descriptions. There were three 6^th District RPCs, cars assigned to one of the 6^th District sergeants and the 6^th District lieutenant captain, a Highway RPC, a 6^th District van and two stakeout vans, the Mobile Crime Lab vehicle, and a number of unmarked cars. One of the unmarked cars was a brand-new Chevrolet Impala, telling Mickey that a captain (or better) with nothing more important to do had come to the crime scene, and was more than likely getting in the way. The other unmarked cars were battered; that meant they were from Central Detectives.

Obviously (people were standing around) whatever had happened here was over. The stakeout vans, which are manned by specially trained policemen who are equipped with special weapons (rifles, shotguns, machine guns, et cetera) and equipment, and called into use in situations where ordinary armament (handguns) is likely to be inadequate, were not going to be needed.

Then Mickey saw a familiar face, that of Homicide Detective Joe D' Amata, and knew that something serious had happened. The "hospital case" in the Police Radio call hadn't needed a hospital.

Mickey stepped over the Crime Scene barrier and walked toward another familiar face. He now knew who was driving the new Impala.

"I didn't know they let old men like you go in on real jobs," Mickey said.

Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein, a short, stocky man with large, dark eyes, who commanded the Detective Division, took a black, six-inch cigar from between his lips and looked coldly at Mickey.

"If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a laugh-a-minute Irishman," he said. "I knew if I didn't get out of here, something unpleasant, like you showing up, would happen."

"Things a little slow at the Roundhouse, are they? Or are you trying to recapture your youth by patrolling the streets?"

"I was driving by, all right? Up yours, O'Hara."

Despite the exchange, they were friends. Matt Lowenstein met Mickey O'Hara's criteria for a very good cop. Not all senior supervisors did. O'Hara admired Lowenstein for being an absolute straight arrow, who protected his men like a mother hen.

On Lowenstein's part, he not only respected O'Hara professionally, but when his son had been bar mitzvahed, not only had Mickey shown up (his gift had beenThe Oxford Complete Dictionary of the English Language) but the event had been reported on the front page of the Sunday Social Section, complete with a three-column picture of Lowenstein and his son via Mickey's influence at theBulletin.

"So before you go back to the rocking chair, you going to tell me what happened? Why are you here?"

"I told you, I was nearby and heard the call," Lowenstein said. "It's a strange one, Mickey. Six, eight guys, A-rabs-"

"Real Arabs?" Mickey interrupted.

"They kept saying 'motherfucker.' That's Arabian, isn't it?"

Mickey chuckled. "I think so," he said solemnly.

"They came in the place one at a time, spread out through the building, and then pulled guns. They shot up the place, God only knows why, and then tried to set some rugs on fire. The maintenance man walked in while it was going on, and they killed him."

"He try to do something or what?"

Lowenstein shrugged.

"Don't know yet. You want to have a look?"

"I'd like to, Matt," Mickey said.

Lowenstein pursed his lips. A surprisingly loud whistle came from between them. A dozen people turned to look, including the uniformed cop guarding access to the Goldblatt crime scene.

"He's okay," Lowenstein said, pointing to Mickey O'Hara.

"Thanks," Mickey said.

"Sylvia said if you can watch your filthy mouth, you can come to dinner."

"When?"

"How about tonight?"

"Fine. What time and what can I bring?"

"Half past six. You don't have to bring anything, but take a shave and a shower."

"Didn't The Dago tell you you were supposed to cultivate the press?"

"No. But I'll tell you what I did hear: You finally found some girl willing to be seen in public with you. Bring her, if you want."

"Okay. I was going to anyway," Mickey said, and touched Lowenstein's arm and walked past the cop into Goldblatt amp; Sons Credit Furniture amp; Appliances, Inc.

As Michael J. O'Hara walked into Goldblatt amp; Sons Credit Furniture amp; Appliances, Inc., on South Street, four blocks away, on 11^th Street, near Carpenter, three law enforcement officers in civilian clothing were having their lunch in Shank amp; Evelyn's Restaurant.

They were Staff Inspector Peter Wohl and Officer Matthew Payne of the Philadelphia Police Department, and Walter Davis, a tall, well-built, well-dressed (in a gray pin-striped, three-piece suit) man in his middle forties, who was the special agent in charge (the "SAC") of the Philadelphia Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Shank amp; Evelyn's Restaurant was not the sort of place Walter Davis had had in mind when he had telephoned Wohl early that morning to ask if he was free for lunch. Davis had had in mind the Ristorante Alfredo, in downtown Philadelphia, in part because the food was superb and the banquettes would provide what he considered to be the necessary privacy he sought, and also because he thought it would provide an opportunity to needle the management a little.

There was no question in Davis's mind (or for that matter in the minds of any peace officer with the brains to find his rear end with both hands) that Ristorante Alfredo was owned by persons connected with organized crime, otherwise known as "the Mob" and sometimes as " the Mafia."

Davis was sure that there would be someone in the restaurant who would recognize him and Wohl, whom Davis believed to be as bright and competent a Philadelphia cop as they came, and note and report to his superiors that they had been taking lunch together.

If that had caused Ricco Baltazari, who held the restaurant license for Ristorante Alfredo, or Vincenzo Savarese, "the businessman" who actually owned it, some uncomfortable moments wondering what the head of the FBI and the head of Special Operations were up to, together, that would have added a little something to the luncheon.

But that had not come to pass. Wohl had accepted the invitation, and said that since he would be at the Roundhouse at about lunchtime, he would just stop by the FBI office when he was finished with his business and pick Davis up.

The Administration Building of the Philadelphia Police Department, at 8^th and Race Streets, was universally called "the Roundhouse" because its architect had been fascinated with curves, and everything in the building was curved, right down to the elevators.

Wohl's own office was at Bustleton and Bowler Streets in Northeast Philadelphia, from which he commanded the Special Operations Division, which consisted of the Highway Patrol and a newly formed, somewhat experimental unit of above-average uniformed and plainclothes cops.

The original idea was that Special Operations, which like the Highway Patrol had city-wide responsibility, would move into high-crime areas of the city, and overwhelm the problem with manpower, special equipment and techniques, and an arrangement with the district attorney to hustle the arrested through the criminal justice procedure.

That was being done, but politics had inevitably entered the picture almost immediately. First, there had been the murder of Jerome Nelson, whose father, Arthur J. Nelson, was chairman of the board of the DayeNelson Corporation, which owned (among other newspapers and television stations) the PhiladelphiaLedger and WGHA-TV.

When a Homicide Division lieutenant, Edward M. DelRaye, had been truthfully tactless enough to inform the press that the police were looking for a Negro Male, Pierre St. Maury, a known homosexual known to be living with young Nelson in his luxury Society Hill apartment, in connection with the killing, theLedger and its publisher had declared war on both the Police Department and the Hon. Jerry Carlucci, mayor of the City of Philadelphia.

Mayor Carlucci had "suggested" to Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernick that the investigation of the Nelson murder be turned over to Peter Wohl's Special Operations Division.

The case had more or less solved itself when two other Negro Homosexual Males had been arrested in Atlantic City in possession of Jerome Nelson's Visa and American Express cards, and had been charged by New Jersey authorities with the murder of Pierre St. Maury, whose body had been found near Jerome Nelson's abandoned Jaguar in the wilds of New Jersey.

SAC Davis knew that, for reasons that could only be described as political, Mayor Carlucci had "suggested" to Commissioner Czernick that Peter Wohl's Special Operations Division be given responsibility for three other situations that had attracted a good deal of media attention, much of it (all of it, in the case of theLedger) unfavorable.

The first of these, a serial murder-rapist in Northwest Philadelphia, had been resolved, to favorable publicity, when a police officer assigned to Special Operations had not only shot the murder-rapist to death, but done so when the villain actually had his next intended victim tied up, naked, in the back of his van.

The other two highly publicized cases had not gone at all well. One was the apparently senseless murder of a young police officer who had been on patrol near Temple University. A massive effort, still ongoing, hadn't turned up a thing, which gave Arthur Nelson'sLedger an at least once-a-week opportunity to run an editorial criticizing the Police Department generally, Special Operations specifically, and Mayor Carlucci in particular.

Davis was sure that the pressure on Wohl to find the cop killer must be enormous.

The third case had been that of a contract hit of a third-rate mobster, Anthony J. DeZego, also known as "Tony the Zee," on the roof of a downtown parking garage. Ordinarily, the untimely demise of a minor thug would have been forgotten in twenty-four hours, but this particular thug had been in the company of a young woman named Penelope Detweiler when someone had opened up on him with a shotgun. The Detweiler girl's father was president of Nesfoods International and one of the rocks upon which the cathedral of Philadelphia society had been built. Not only had this young woman been wounded during the attack on Mr. DeZego, but it had come out that she was not only carrying on with Tony the Zee but also addicted to heroin.

Obviously, since it wasn't their fault that their precious child had not only been shacking up with a married thug, but had been injecting and inhaling narcotics, it had to be somebody's fault. Since the police were supposed to stop that sort of thing it was obviously the fault of the police. For a few days, the influence of Nesfoods International had allied itself with Mr. Nelson and his newspaper in roundly condemning the Police Department and the mayor.

But then that had stopped, with Mr. Detweiler making a 180-degree turn. Davis had no idea how Mayor Carlucci (or possibly Peter Wohl) had pulled that off, but what had happened was that Detweiler had made a speech not only praising the police, but also starting, with a large contribution of his own, a reward fund to catch whoever had murdered the young cop in his patrol car.

Special Agent Davis knew that Mr. Detweiler's change of heart had nothing to do with the cops having caught whoever had killed DeZego and seriously wounded his daughter. That was never going to happen. The DeZego murder and the Detweiler aggravated assault cases would almost certainly never be officially closed.

There had been a report from the FBI's Chicago office that a known contract hit man meeting the description of the DeZego killer had been found in the trunk of his car with three.45-caliber bullets having passed through his cranial cavity. There was little question in anyone's mind that the DeZego/Detweiler hit man had himself been hit, probably to shut his mouth, but knowing something and being able to prove it were two entirely different things.

Special Agent in Charge Davis had been meaning to have lunch with Peter Wohl, to chat, out of school, about these cases, even before he had learned, within the past forty-eight hours, that the Nelson case was not, in something of an understatement, over. It was in fact the reason he had asked Staff Inspector Wohl to break bread with him, preferably in some quiet restaurant, like Ristorante Alfredo, where they could talk in confidence.

Davis had been summoned to Washington two days before and informed that after a review of the facts, the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania had brought the case of the two Negro Males who had kidnapped Pierre St. Maury, taken him against his will across a state border, and then shot him to death before a federal Grand Jury and secured an indictment against them under the Lindbergh Act.

Davis had been informed that it behooved him to do whatever he could to assist the deputy attorney general in securing a conviction. He had been told that the case had attracted the interest of certain people high in the Justice Department. Davis did not need to be reminded that the deputy attorney general of the United States, before his appointment, had been a senior partner of the law firm that represented the Daye-Nelson Corporation.

Davis had been on the telephone when Wohl had appeared at his office, and Wohl consequently had had to cool his heels for fifteen minutes before Davis could come out of his office to greet him, and apologize for getting hung up.

This would have annoyed Peter Wohl in any case, when all things were going fine in his world. Today that wasn't the case. He had just come from the Roundhouse, where he had had a painful session with Mayor Carlucci and Commissioner Czernick, witnessed by Chief Inspectors Matt Lowenstein (Detective Division) and Dennis V. Coughlin concerning the inability of the Special Operations Division to come up with evenone fucking thing that might lead them to find whoever had put four.22 Long Rifle bullets into the chest, and one into the leg, of Police Officer Joseph Magnella.

He had not been in the mood to be kept waiting by anybody, and Special Agent Davis had seen this on his face.

It was unfortunate, Davis had thought, that Wohl first of all looked too young to be a staff inspector of police, (he was, in fact, Davis had recalled, the youngest staff inspector in the Department) and second, he seemed to have a thing about not introducing himself by giving his rank or even identifying himself as a police officer unless it was absolutely necessary.

If he had told the receptionist that he was "Staff Inspector Wohl, " Davis thought, she would certainly have taken him into the staff coffee room as a professional courtesy. But apparently, he had not done so; the receptionist had said, "There's a man named Wohl to see you." And so she had pointed out a chair in the outer office to him and let him wait.

And then, no sooner had Davis put on his topcoat and hat, as they were literally walking out of the reception room to the elevators, there had been another "must-take" telephone call.

"Peter, I'm sorry."

"Why don't we try this another time? You're obviously really too busy."

"Wait downstairs, I'll only be a minute."

It had been at least ten minutes. When he walked out onto the street, Wohl had been leaning against the fender of his official Plymouth, wearing a visibly insincere smile.

"Well, Walter, here you are!"

"You know how these things go," Davis replied.

"Certainly," Wohl said. "I mean, my God, FBI agents aren't expected to have to eat, are they?"

"How does Italian sound, Peter?"

"Italian sounds fine," Wohl replied and opened the back door of the car for him. Only then did Davis see the young man behind the wheel of the Ford.

A plainclothesman, he decided. He's too young to be a detective.

He realized that the presence of Wohl's driver was going to be a problem. He didn't want to talk about the murder-kidnapping case, especially the political implications of it, in front of a junior police officer.

Wohl slammed the door after Davis and got in the front seat.

"Shank amp; Evelyn's, Matt," he ordered. "Eleventh and Carpenter."

"Yes, sir," the young cop said.

"Officer Payne, this is Special Agent-Special Agentin Charge, excuseme, Davis."

"How do you do?" Payne said.

"Nice to meet you," Davis said absently, forcing a smile. He had begun to suspect that the luncheon was not going to go well. "Peter, I was thinking about Alfredo's-"

"That's a Mob-owned joint," Wohl said, as if shocked at the suggestion. "I don't know about the FBI, but we local cops have to worry about where we're seen, isn't that so, Officer Payne?"

"Yes, sir, we certainly do," the young cop said, playing straight man to Wohl.

"Besides, the veal is better at Shank amp; Evelyn's than at Ristorante Alfredo, wouldn't you say, Officer Payne?"

"Yes, sir, I would agree with that."

"Officer Payne is quite a gourmet, Walter. He really knows his veal."

"Okay, Peter, I give up," Davis said. "I'm sorry about making you wait. I really am. It won't happen again."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Walter. Anyway, Officer Payne and I don't have anything else to do but wait around to buy the FBI lunch, do we, Officer Payne?"

"Not a thing, sir."

"I'm buying the lunch," Davis said.

"In that case, you want us to go back and stand around on the curb for a while?"

"So, how are things, Peter?" Davis said, smiling. "Not to change the subject, of course?"

"Can't complain," Wohl said.

Davis had seen that they had turned left onto South Broad and were heading toward the airport.

"Where is this restaurant?" Davis asked.

"In South Philly. If you want good Italian food, go to South Philly, I always say. Isn't that so, Officer Payne?"

"Yes, sir," Officer Payne replied. "You're always saying that, sir."

"So tell me, Officer Payne, how do you like being Inspector Wohl's straight man?"

Officer Payne turned and smiled at Davis. "I like it fine, sir," he said.

Nice-looking kid, Davis thought.

A few minutes later Payne turned off South Broad Street, and then onto Christian, and then south onto 11^th Street. A 3^rd District sergeant's car was parked in a Tow Away Zone at a corner.

"Pull up beside him, Matt," Wohl ordered, and, when Payne did so, rolled down the window.

What Davis thought of as a real, old-time beat cop, a heavy-set, florid-faced sergeant in his fifties, first scowled out of the window and then smiled broadly. With surprising agility, he got out of the car, put out his hand, and said, "Goddamn, look who's out slumming. How the hell are you, Peter-Inspector?"

He saw me, Davis thought, and decided he should not call Wohl by his first name in front of a stranger, who is probably a senior police official.

"Pat, say hello to the headman of the FBI, Walter Davis," Wohl said. "Walter, Sergeant Pat McGovern. He was my tour sergeant in this district when I got out of the Academy.

"Hello, sir, an honor I'm sure," McGovern said to Davis.

"How are you, Sergeant?"

McGovern looked at Payne, decided he wasn't important, and nodded at him.

"Anything I can do for you?" McGovern asked.

"Where can we find a place to park?" Wohl asked.

"Going in Shank amp; Evelyn's?"

"Yeah."

"You got a parking place," Sergeant McGovern said. He raised his eyes to Matt Payne. "Back it up, son, and I'll get out of your way."

"Good to see you, Pat."

"Yeah, you too," McGovern said as he started to get back in his car. "Say hello to your old man. He all right?"

Davis remembered that Wohl's father was a retired chief inspector.

"If anything, meaner."

"Impossible," McGovern said, and then got his car moving.

Payne moved into the space vacated, and Davis and Wohl got out of the car.

"Peter," Davis said quietly, touching Wohl's arm. "Could we send your driver someplace else to eat?"

"Is this personal, Walter?"

Davis hesitated a moment before replying.

"No. Not really."

"He's good with details," Wohl said, nodding toward Payne.

Which translates, Davis thought, a little annoyed, that Wohl's straight man doesn't go somewhere else to eat.

Shank amp; Evelyn's Restaurant was worse for Davis's purposes than he could have imagined possible. The whole place was smaller than his office, and consisted of a grill, a counter with ten or twelve stools, and half a dozen tables, at the largest of which, provided they kept their elbows at their sides, four people could eat.

What I should have done, Davis thought, annoyed, was simply get in my car and drive out to Wohl's office at Bustleton and Bowler. This is a disaster.

They found seats at a tiny table littered with the debris of the previous customers' meals. A massively bosomed waitress with a beehive hairdo first cleaned the table and then took their orders. Wohl ordered the veal, and somewhat reluctantly, Davis ordered the same.

"Sausage,hot sausage, and peppers, please, extra peppers," Matt Payne said.

"Frankie around?" Wohl asked her.

"In the back," the waitress said.

Wohl nodded.

A minute or so later, a very large, sweating man in a chef's hat, Tshirt, and white trousers came up to the table, offering his hand.

"How the hell are you, Peter?"

"Frankie, say hello to Walter Davis and Matt Payne," Wohl said. "This is Frankie Perri."

Frankie gave them a callused ham of a hand.

"Matt works for me," Wohl went on. "Walter runs the FBI. He said he'd never met a Mob guy, so I said I could fix that and brought him here."

"He's kidding, I hope you know," Frankie said.

"Yes, of course," Davis said uncomfortably.

"With a name like Frankie Perri, the FBI figures you have to be in the Mafia," Wohl said.

"Kiss my ass, Peter," Frankie Perri said, punching Wohl affectionately on the arm. "I'm going to burn your goddamn veal."

He put out his hand to Davis, and nodded at Matt.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Davis. Come back. Both of you."

"Thank you," Davis said, and then when he was gone, he said, "What do you call that, Peter, community relations?"

"What's on your mind, Walter?"

"The government is going to try Clifford Wallis and Delmore Travis for murder/kidnapping under the Lindbergh Act."

"Who?" Matt Payne asked.

Wohl glanced at him, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

"New Jersey's got them," Wohl said, "with a lot of evidence, on a murder one. They might plea bargain that down to manslaughter one, but no further. That's good for twenty-to-life, anyway. Why?"

"They violated federal law, Peter."

"Come on."

"Let us say there is considerable interest in this case rather high up in the Justice Department."

"You mean that Arthur Nelson wants them prosecuted," Wohl said.

Davis, who had been sitting back in his chair with his left hand against his cheek, moved the hand momentarily away from his face, a tacit agreement with Wohl's statement.

"Why?" Wohl asked, visibly thinking aloud.

"People get paroled on a state twenty-to-life conviction after what, seven years?" Davis said.

"And he wants to make sure they do more than seven years for the murder of his son. You got enough to try them?"

"We have enough for a Grand Jury indictment."

"That's not what I asked."

"I grant, it's pretty circumstantial," Davis said. "That's why I'm turning to you for help, Peter."

"Would you think me cynical to suspect that someone's leaning on you about this, Walter?"

"Yes," Davis said, smiling. "But they called me to Washington yesterday, and both of the telephone calls that delayed this little luncheon of ours concerned this case."

The waitress with the beehive hairdo delivered three large plates with sliced tomatoes and onions just about covering them.

When she had gone, Wohl took a forkful, chewed it slowly, and then asked, "So how can I help, Walter? More than the established, official routine for cooperation with the FBI would be helpful?"

"I need what you have as soon as I can get it, and I want everything you have, not just what a normal request for information would produce."

The waitress delivered three round water glasses, now scarred nearly gray by a thousand trips through the dishwasher. She half filled them, from a battered stainless-steel water pitcher, with a red liquid.

"Frankie said his grandfather made it over in Jersey," the waitress said.

Wohl picked up his glass, then stood up, called "Frankie," and, when he had his attention, called "Salud!" and then sat down again.

Walter Davis, thinking,Oh, God, homemade Dago Red! took a swallow. It was surprisingly good.

"You're almost certainly drinking an alcoholic beverage on which the applicable federal tax has not been paid," Wohl said. "Does that bother you?"

"Not a damned bit, to tell you the truth," Davis said. He stood up, called "Frankie" and then "Salud!" and then sat down, looking at Wohl, obviously pleased with himself.

Wohl chuckled, then looked at Matt Payne.

"Matt, when we get back to the office, round up everything in my files on the Nelson murder case. Make a copy of everything. Then go to Homicide and do the same thing. Then find Detective Harris and photocopy everything he has. Have it ready for me in the morning."

"Yes, sir," Matt Payne said.

"I'll take a look at it, see if anything is missing, and then you can take it to the FBI. Soon enough for you, Walter?"

"Thank you, Peter. 'Harris,' you said, was the detective on the job? Any chance that I could talk to him?"

"You, or one of your people?"

"Actually, I was thinking of one of my people."

"Tony Harris is the exception to the rule that most detectives really would rather be FBI agents, Walter. I don't think that would be very productive."

"I thought everybody loved us," Davis said.

"We all do. Isn't that so, Officer Payne?"

"Yes, sir. We all love the FBI."

The waitress with the beehive hairdo delivered their meal.

The veal was, Walter Davis was willing to admit, better than the veal in Ristorante Alfredo. And the homemade Chianti was nicer than some of the dry red wine he'd had at twenty-five dollars a bottle in Ristorante Alfredo.

But he knew that neither the quality of the food nor its considerably cheaper than Ristorante Alfredo prices were the reasons Peter Wohl had brought him here for lunch.