"Peter, as soon as you hear something, let me know, will you?"
"Yes, sir. Of course."
"And pass my 'well done' down the line, will you?"
"Yes, sir."
They shuffled out of his office.
"I'm going to try to see Manny," Coughlin said. "Before he sees the Five Squad."
"And ask him what?" Lowenstein asked.
"To hold off on giving Savarese the names of the Five Squad."
"Good luck," Lowenstein said.
"At least hold off for a while. Until we get somebody to roll over. Or know nobody is," Coughlin said.
"You know, I got a guy in my office, Phebus," Tony Callis said. "He used to be a sergeant in Narcotics. Do you think he'd be useful? I mean, they see one of their own… They just might listen to him."
"I don't see how it could hurt," Wohl said. "But… could you send him out to South Detectives and tell him Washington's in charge?"
"Sure," Callis said. "I know he's in the office. I left word that I wanted to see him about the guy who shot Officer Kellog. That can wait. I'll have Phebus at South Detectives in thirty minutes."
TWENTY-FIVE
"My arm is going to sleep," Officer Timothy J. Calhoun said to Detective Charles McFadden. He moved his right arm, which was held by handcuffs to the strap on the rear of the front seat of the unmarked Plymouth.
McFadden was sitting beside him. Martinez was driving. They were on U.S. 222, five miles out of Harrisburg, headed for the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
"What do you want me to do?" McFadden asked. "I can't take the risk of you doing something stupid, Timmy."
"He already did a lot stupid," Jesus said from the front seat.
"Like what?" Calhoun asked, trying to ignore Martinez.
McFadden went along with him. He felt a little sorry for him, and Jesus could be a real prick. Timmy had enough on his back without Jesus digging at him.
"Like jumping out of the car, for example," Charley said.
"I wouldn't do that, Charley," Calhoun said.
"I can't take that chance," McFadden said.
"Cuff me behind my back," Calhoun said.
"Fuck you, Calhoun," Martinez said. "Just sit there and shut up."
"Ease off, Jesus," Charley said.
"When they get you in the slam, Calhoun," Martinez said, "and some sweaty two-hundred-fifty-pound lifer starts shoving his schlong up your ass, you'll look back on your fucking arm going to sleep as the good old days."
"Just drive the car, will you, Jesus?" Charley said.
"I could be wrong," Martinez said. "Maybe he'll like getting fucked in the ass."
"Put your left hand behind your back, Timmy," Charley said. "Jesus, let me have your cuffs."
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to cuff Calhoun behind his back."
"Fuck him, let his arm go to sleep. Let his arm turn black and fall off."
"Give me your goddamn cuffs, goddamn it!"
Martinez grunted as he shifted around on the seat trying to get his handcuffs out from where he carried them, in the small of his back. He finally succeeded and laid them on the back of the seat.
McFadden placed one of them on Calhoun's left wrist, and then freed his right wrist from the handcuff shackling him to the front seat. Then he put Calhoun's right wrist behind his back and clipped the handcuff to it.
Calhoun slumped back against the seat.
"Thanks, Charley."
"Okay," McFadden said.
Ninety seconds later, Calhoun announced: "Charley, I got to go to the toilet."
"Fuck you!" Martinez said. "Crap in your pants, you dirty cocksucker!"
"What the hell is the matter with you, Martinez?" Calhoun asked. "What did I ever do to you?"
"You were born, is what you did to me," Martinez said, and then seemed to warm to the subject. "I don't like dirty cops, is what's the matter with me," Martinez said. "And you know-you're a goddamn narc-what that shit does to people, and you were selling it. Stealing it from drug people, and then selling it! Probably to kids! You are the lowest of the fucking low, Calhoun!"
"Ease off, Jesus," Charley said.
"Fuck you, ease off! What I would like to do to this miserable shitheel is shoot him with a. 22 in both knees, and make him crawl to jail."
"I'm telling you to ease off, goddamn it!"
"With that damned Rolex watch shoved up his ass!" Martinez went on, undaunted.
"Charley, unless I get to go to the toilet, I'm going to crap in my pants!" Calhoun said plaintively.
"I don't give a shit!"
Two minutes later, Martinez turned off 222 into a Cities Service complex, a large service station with two rows of pumps, a store offering tires and other automotive accessories, and a restaurant.
He pulled the unmarked Plymouth up in front of the restaurant and jumped out of the driver's seat. He took his identification folder from his pocket and opened it so the shield was visible, then pushed his jacket aside so that his holstered pistol was visible. He waved his badge around at shoulder height.
"Nothing to worry about, folks. We are police officers! "
That, of course, caught the attention of everyone within fifty feet, including several people seated at tables inside the restaurant.
"Let him out, McFadden!" Martinez ordered.
Charley reached over Calhoun and opened the door.
Calhoun made his way awkwardly out of the backseat.
Charley slid across the seat and got out after him.
"You go set things up in the restaurant," Martinez ordered.
"I'm not going to leave you alone with him," McFadden said.
"You don't think I'd shoot him right here, do you?"
"I'm not going to leave him alone with you, Martinez," Charley repeated.
"Suit yourself," Martinez said, and walked into the restaurant, where, from the door, he repeated the "Nothing to worry about folks, we're police officers" routine.
By the time Charley marched the handcuffed former police officer Timothy J. Calhoun through the door of the restaurant, the eyes of everyone in the restaurant were on them, and Calhoun was so humiliated Charley thought he might actually cry.
Charley marched Calhoun past the fascinated restaurant customers to the men's room. Martinez preceded them, and ran a frightened-looking civilian out of the place before he would permit Charley to lead Calhoun inside.
Charley marched him up to a stall and turned him around.
"Aren't you going to take the cuffs off?" Calhoun asked.
"Timmy, I just can't take the chance," Charley said, sounding genuinely sorry.
He unfastened Calhoun's belt, unbuttoned the flap, pulled down his zipper, and pulled first his trousers and then his shorts down over his hips.
"Back in there," he ordered.
Calhoun, his trousers at his ankles, backed into the stall and finally managed to lower himself onto the toilet.
"How am I supposed to wipe myself?" Calhoun asked.
"When you're finished, I'll uncuff you to do that," Charley said.
It became evident to Officer Calhoun that Detective McFadden had no intention of closing the door, but instead was leaning on the frame, obviously intending to watch him.
"You're not even going to close the door?"
"Timmy, I just can't take the chance," Charley said. "If I was in your shoes, I think I'd eat my gun."
"Maybe that's what I should have done when I saw the cars outside."
"Too late for that, now, Timmy. You're going down."
"Shit!"
In Detective McFadden's professional judgment, Officer Calhoun was about to cry. Which meant that he had swallowed the good cop-bad cop routine hook, line, and sinker. He hadn't thought it would be this easy, but on the other hand, Calhoun had never had a reputation for being very smart, just a good guy.
"What are you going to do, Timmy?" Charley asked sympathetically.