"As I was saying, broad-backed young rookies like yourself generally begin their careers in a District with a couple of years in a wagon. That gives them practical experience, and the only way to really learn this job is on the job. After a couple of years in a wagon, rookies move on, either, usually, to an RPC, or somewhere else. There are exceptions to this, of course. Both Charley McFadden and Jesus Martinez went right from the Academy to Narcotics, as plainclothes, undercover. The reasoning there was that their faces weren't known to people in the drug trade, and that, presuming they dressed the part, they could pass for pushers or addicts. But that sort of thing is the exception, not the rule."
"Yes, sir."
"Speaking of our Irish-American friends, when was the last time you saw Chief Coughlin?"
"I had dinner with him one night last week," Matt said.
"Would you be surprised to learn that Chief Coughlin sent you to Special Operations?"
"Chief Matdorf told me that he had arranged for me to be sent to Highway," Matt said, hesitated, and then went on, "but Chief Coughlin didn't say anything to me about it."
"He told me he was sending you over," Wohl said, "but he didn't tell me what he expected me to do with you. What would you like to do?"
The question surprised Matt; he raised both his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"I don't think he had in mind putting you on a motorcycle," Wohl said. "And since, for the moment at least, I'm not even thinking of any kind of undercover operations, I really don't know what the hell to do with you. Can you type?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well?"
"Yes, sir. I think so."
"Well, I don't think Chief Coughlin wants me to turn you into a clerk, either," Wohl said, "but we're going to start generating a lot of paperwork to get Special Operations up to speed. More than Sergeant Frizell can handle. More than he can handle while he does things for me, too, anyway. The thought that occurs to me is that you could work for me, as sort of a gofer, until I can sort this out. How does that sound?"
"That sounds fine, sir."
"And, for the time being, anyway, I think in plainclothes," Wohl said.
He looked around, caught the waitress's eye, and gestured for the check.
He turned back to Matt. "Jason Washington was right," he said. "You should get yourself a snub-nose and an ankle holster. You'll have to buy it yourself, but Colosimo's Gun Store offers an alleged police discount. Know where it is?"
"No, sir."
"The-nine-hundred block on Spring Garden," Wohl said.
"Sir, I thought you had to qualify with a snubnose," Matt said.
"How did you do on the pistol range in the Academy?" Wohl asked.
"All right, I think," Matt said. "Better than all right. I made Expert with the.45 at Quantico."
"That's right," Wohl said. "You told me that the night I first met you, the night of Dutch's wake. You were planning to be a Marine, weren't you? And then you busted the physical."
"Yes, sir."
"Is that why you came on the cops? To prove you're a man, anyway?"
"That's what my sister says," Matt said. "She says I was psychologically castrated when I flunked the physical, and that what I'm doing is proving my manhood."
"Your sister the psychiatrist?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you get the feeling that Tony Harris is not too impressed with psychiatrists?" Wohl asked.
"Yes, sir, that came through pretty clearly."
"Or did you come on the job because of what happened to Dutch? And/or your father?" Wohl asked, picking that up again.
"That's probably got something to do with it," Matt said. "It probably was impulsive. But from what I've seen so far-"
"What?"
"It's going to be fascinating," Matt said.
"You haven't seen enough of it to be able to make that kind of judgment," Wohl said. "All you've seen is the Academy."
"And Washington and Harris," Matt argued gently.
"You're a long way, Matt, from getting close to guys like those two. The folklore is that being a detective is the best job in the Department; and that being a Homicide detective is the best of detective jobs. Washington and Harris, in my judgment, are the best two Homicide detectives, period. But that does trigger a thought: it would be a good idea for you to hang around with somebody, some people, who know what they're doing. I'm talking about McFadden and Martinez. I'll tell them to show you the ropes. That'll mean a lot of night work, overtime. How do you feel about overtime?"
"I really don't have anything better to do," Matt said, honestly. " Sure, I'd like that."
"The eyes of the average police officer would light up when a supervisor mentioned a lot of overtime," Wohl said.
"Sir?" Matt asked, confused.
The waitress appeared with the check on a small plastic tray. Matt had to wait until Wohl had carefully added up the bill and handed her his American Express card before he got an explanation.
"Overtime means extra pay," Wohl said. "Washington and Harris take home as much money as I do. More, probably. Supervisors get, at least, compensatory time, not pay for overtime. To most cops, overtime pay is very important."
"I wondered why you kept mentioning to them they could have all the overtime they wanted," Matt said.
"My point is that you weren't thinking about the money, were you? Money isn't much of a consideration for you, is it? You remember, you told me about that the night we met."
"I don't think that will keep me from doing my job," Matt said.
"I don't think it will, either," Wohl said. "But I think you should keep it in mind."
"Yes, sir."
"About the snub-nose," Wohl said, as he signed the American Express bill, "I don't think anyone will challenge you, but if that happens, the paperwork will come through me, and I'll handle it. But don't buy a Smith amp; WessonUndercover, or a Colt with a hammer shroud."
"Sir?"
"AnUndercover comes with a built-in shroud over the hammer; it's intended to keep you from snagging the gun on your clothing, if you should ever need to get at it in a hurry. And they sell shrouds for Colts. The problem is you can't carry a gun with a shroud in an ankle holster; there's no place for the strap on the holster to catch."
"I understand, sir."
"The odds that you will ever have to use your revolver, which I hope they told you at the Academy, are about a thousand to one. But as the Boy Scouts say,"Be Prepared!"
He smiled at Matt and got up and walked out of the restaurant with Matt at his heels.
When Peter Wohl walked into what had been Mike Sabara's office as Acting Commanding Officer of Highway Patrol, and was now his, it was empty; all of Mike's photographs and plaques were gone from the walls, and so were the pistol shooting and bowling trophies Sabara had had on display on top of filing cabinets and other flat surfaces. Wohl walked to the desk, pulled drawers open, and saw that they too had been emptied.
He walked to the door.
"What happened to Captain Sabara?" he asked Sergeant Frizell.
"He and Captain Pekach moved in there," Frizell said, pointing to a door.
Wohl walked to it and pulled it open. He had been unaware of the room's existence until that moment, and now that he saw it, he realized that it was really too small for two captains, and felt a moment's uneasiness at having the relatively large office to himself. He hadn't had an office when he had been just one more Staff Inspector. He had shared a large room with all of his peers, and he had not had a Sergeant to handle his paperwork.
I guess it goes with the territory, he decided, but I don't like it.
"We're going to have to do better than that," he said, to Sergeant Frizell. "In your planning, did the subject of space come up?"
"Space is tight, Inspector."
"That's not what I asked."