"I'll be there," Peter said. "Chief, my dad suggested I wear my uniform."
Chief Inspector Coughlin thought that over a moment.
"What did you decide about it?"
"Until I heard about being a pallbearer, I was going to wear it."
"I think it would nice, Peter, if we carried Dutch to his rest in uniform," Chief Inspector Coughlin said. "I'll call the wife and make sure mine's pressed."
Officer Anthony F. Caragiola, who was headed for the job on the fourto-midnight watch, glanced at his wrist-watch, and walked into Gene amp; Jerry's Restaurant amp; Sandwiches across the street from the Bridge Street Terminal. There would be time for a cup of coffee and a sweet roll before he climbed the stairs to catch the elevated and go to work.
Officer Caragiola, who wore the white cap of the Traffic Division, had been a policeman for eleven years, and was now thirty-four years old. He was a large and swarthy man, whose skin showed the ravages of being outside day after day in heat and cold, rain and shine.
He eased his bulk onto one of the round stools at the counter, waved his fingers in greeting at the waitress, a stout, blond woman, and helped himself to a sweet roll from the glass case. He had lived three blocks away, now with his wife and four kids, for most of his life. When there was a problem at Gene amp; Jerry's, if one of the waitresses took sick, or one of the cooks, and his wife, Maria, could get somebody to watch the kids, she came and filled in.
The waitress put a china mug of coffee and three half-and-half containers in front of him.
"So how's it going?"
"Can't complain," Officer Caragiola said. "Yourself?"
She shrugged and smiled and walked away. Tony Caragiola carefully opened the three tubs of half-and-half and carefully poured them into his coffee, and then stirred it.
He heard a hissing noise, and looked at the black swinging doors leading to the kitchen. Gene was standing there, wiggling her fingers at him. Gene was Eugenia Santalvaria, a stout, black-haired woman in her fifties who had six months before buried her husband, Gerimino, after thirty-three years of marriage.
Caragiola slipped off the stool and, carrying his coffee with him, stepped behind the counter and walked to the doors to the kitchen.
"Tony, maybe it's something, maybe it ain't," Gene Santalvaria said, in English, and then switched to Italian. There were two bums outside, a big fat slob and a little guy that looked like a spic, she told him. They had been there for hours, sitting in an old Volkswagen. Maybe they were going to stick up the check-cashing place down the block, or maybe they were selling dope or something; every once in a while, one of them got out of the car and went up the stairs to the elevated, and then a couple of minutes later came back down the stairs and got back in the car. She didn't want to call the district, 'cause maybe it wasn't nothing, but since he had come in, she thought it was better she tell him.
"I'll have a look," Officer Caragiola said.
He left the kitchen and walked to the front of the restaurant and, sipping on his coffee, looked for a Volkswagen. There was two guys in it, one of them, a big fat slob with one of them hippie bands around his forehead, behind the wheel, slumped down in the seat as if he was asleep. And then the passenger door opened, and a little guy-she was right, he looked like a spic-got out and looked for traffic, and then walked across the street to the stairs to the elevated. Looked like a mean little fucker.
Officer Caragiola set his coffee on the counter and walked quickly out of Gene amp; Jerry's, and across the street, and up the stairs after him.
He got to the platform just as a train arrived. Everybody on the platform got on it but the little spic. He acted as if he was waiting for somebody who might have ridden the elevated to the end of the line and just stayed on. If he did that, he would just go back downtown. If somebody like that was either buying or selling dope, that would be the way to do it.
Officer Caragiola ducked behind a stairwell so the little spic couldn't see him, and waited. People started coming up the stairs, filling up the platform, and then a train arrived from downtown and left, and then five minutes later reappeared on the downtown track. Everybody on the platform got on the train but the little spic.
Tony Caragiola came out from behind the stairwell and walked over to the little spic.
"Speak to you a minute, buddy?" he said.
"What about?"
Tony saw that the little spic was pissed. He probably knew all the civil rights laws about cops not being supposed to ask questions without reasonable cause.
"You want to tell me what you and your friend in the Volkswagen are doing?"
"Narcotics," the little spic said. "I'd rather not show you my I.D. Not here."
"Who's your lieutenant?" Tony asked.
"Lieutenant Pekach."
It was a name Officer Caragiola did not recognize.
"I think you better show me your ID," he said.
"Shit," the little spic said. He reached in his back pocket and came out with a plastic identity card. "Okay?" he said.
"The lady in the restaurant said you were acting suspicious," Tony Caragiola said.
"Yeah, I'll bet."
Officer Jesus Martinez put his ID back in his pocket and walked down the stairs. Officer Anthony Caragiola walked twenty feet behind him. He went back in Gene amp; Jerry's and told Gene everything was all right, not to worry about it. Then he went back across the street and climbed the stairs to catch the elevated to go to work.
Officer Martinez got back into the Volkswagen. He glowered for a full minute at Officer Charley McFadden, who was asleep and snoring. Then he jabbed him, hard, with his fingers, in his ribs. McFadden sat up, a look of confusion on his face.
"What's up?"
"I thought you would like to know, asshole, that the lady in the restaurant called the cops on us. Said we look suspicious."
At quarter to five, Peter Wohl drove to Marshutz amp; Sons. As he walked up the wide steps to the Victorian-style building, the Moffitts-Jean, the kids, and Dutch's mother-came out.
Jean Moffitt was wearing a black dress and a hat with a veil. The kids were in suits. Gertrude Moffitt was in a black dress and hat, but no veil.
"Hello, Peter," Jean Moffitt said, and offered a gloved hand.
"Jeannie," Peter said.
"You know Mother Moffitt, don't you?"
"Yes, of course," Peter said. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Moffitt."
"We're going out for a bite to eat," Gertrude Moffitt said. "Before people start coming after work."
"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Moffitt, about Dick," Peter said.
"His close personal friends, some of who I didn't even know," Gertrude Moffitt went on, "were at the house last night."
It was a rebuke.
"I'm sorry I couldn't come by last night, Jeannie," Peter said.
"Your mother explained," Jeannie Moffitt said. "Did Denny Coughlin ask you?"
"About being a pallbearer?" Peter asked, and when she nodded, went on: "Yes, and I'm honored."
"Dennis Coughlin was a sergeant when he carried my John, God rest his soul, to his grave," Gertrude Moffitt said. "And now, as a chief inspector, he'll be doing the same for my Richard."
"Mother, would you please put the kids in the car?" Jean Moffitt said. "I want a word with Inspector Wohl."
That earned Jeannie a dirty look from Mother Moffitt, but it didn't seem to faze her. She returned the older woman's look, staring her down until she led the boys down the stairs.
"Tell me about the TV lady, Peter," Jeannie Moffitt said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Isn't that why you didn't come by the house last night? You were afraid I'd ask you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Jeannie," Wohl said.