"How are you going to get it back?"
"Commissioner Czernick is a reasonable man," Colonel Mawson said. "He's a friend of mine. And by a fortunate happenstance, at the moment he owes me one."
"He owes you one what?" Grace Detweiler demanded.
Brewster C. Payne was glad she had asked the question. He didn't like what Mawson had just said, and would have asked precisely the same question himself.
"A favor," Mawson said, a trifle smugly. "A scratch of my back in return, so to speak."
"What kind of a scratch, Dunlop?" Payne asked, a hint of ice in his voice.
"Just minutes before I came in here," Mawson said, "I was speaking with Commissioner Czernick on the telephone. I was speaking on behalf of one of our clients, a public-spirited citizeness who wishes to remain anonymous."
"The point?" Payne said, and now there was ice in his voice.
"The lady feels the entire thread of our society is threatened by the unsolved murder of Officer Whatsisname, the young Italian cop who was shot out by Temple. So she is providing, through me, anonymously, a reward of ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and successful prosecution of the perpetrators. Commissioner Czernick seemed overwhelmed by her public-spirited generosity. I really think I'm in a position to ask him for a little favor in return."
"Well, that's splendid," H. Richard Detweiler said. "That would take an enormous burden from my shoulders."
"What do we do about the newspapers?" Grace Detweiler asked. "Have you any influence with them, Colonel?"
"Very little, I'm afraid."
"Arthur Nelson will do what he can, I'm sure, and that should take care of that," H. Richard Detweiler said.
"I don't trust Arthur J. Nelson," Grace said.
"Don't be absurd, Grace," H. Richard Detweiler said. "He seemed to understand the problem, and was obviously sympathetic."
"Brewster, will you please tell this horse's ass I'm married to that even if Nelson never printed the name Detweiler again in theLedger, there are three other newspapers in Philadelphia that will?"
"He implied that he would have a word with the others," H. Richard Detweiler said. "We take a lot of advertising in those newspapers. We' re entitled to a little consideration."
"Oh, Richard," Grace said, disgusted, "you can be such an ass! If Nelson has influence with the other newspapers, how is it that he couldn't keep them from printing every last sordid detail of his son's homosexual love life?"
Detweiler looked at Payne.
"I'm afraid Grace is right," Payne said.
"You can't talk to them? Mentioning idly in passing how much money Nesfoods spends with them every year?"
"I'd be wasting my breath," Payne said. "The only way to deal with the press is to stay away from it."
"You're a lot of help," Detweiler said. "I just can't believe there is nothing that can be done."
"Unfortunately thereis nothing that can be done. Except, of course, to reiterate, to stay away from the press. Say nothing."
"Just a moment, Brewster," Colonel Mawson said. "If I might say something?"
"Go ahead," Grace said.
"The way to counter bad publicity is with good publicity," Mawson said. "Don't you agree?"
"Get to the point," Grace Detweiler said.
He did.
TWENTY
Matt Payne was watching television determinedly. PBS was showing a British-made documentary of the plight of Australian aborigines in contemporary society, a subject in which he had little or no genuine interest. But if he did not watch television, he had reasoned, he would get drunk, which did not at the moment have the appeal it sometimes did, and which, moreover, he suspected was precisely the thing he should not do at the moment, under the circumstances.
He had disconnected his telephone. He did not want to talk to either his father, Officer Charles McFadden, Amanda Spencer, Captain Michael J. Sabara, or Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, all of whom had called and left messages that they would try again later.
All he wanted to do was sit there and watch the aborigines jumping around Boy Scout campfires in their loincloths and bitching, sounding like brown, fuzzy-haired Oxford dons, about the way they were treated.
His uniform was hanging from the fireplace mantelpiece. He had taken it from the plastic mothproof bag and hung it there so he could look at it. He had considered actually putting it on and examining himself in the mirror, and decided against that as unnecessary. He could imagine what he would look like in it as Officer Payne of the 12^th Police District.
If there was one thing that could be said about the uniform specified for officers of the Philadelphia Police Department, it did not have quite the class or the elan of the uniform prescribed for second lieutenants of the United States Marine Corps.
He had actually said, earlier on, "Damn my eyes," which sounded like a line from a Charles Laughton movie. But if it wasn't for his goddamn eyes, he would now be on his way to Okinawa and none of this business with the cops would have happened.
He would have gone to Chad and Daffy's wedding as a Marine officer and met Amanda, and they would have had their shipboard romance, as she called it, in much the same way. And things probably would have turned out much the same way, except that what had happened between them in the apartment would have happened in a hotel room or something, for if he had gone into the Marines, ergo, he would not have gotten the apartment.
But he had not gone into the Marines. He had gone into the cops and as a result of that had proven beyond any reasonable doubt that he was a world-class asshole with a naivete that boggled the imagination, spectacular delusions of his own cleverness, and a really incredible talent for getting other people-goddamngood people, Washington and Wohl, plus of course his father-in trouble because of all of the above. Not to mention embarrassing Uncle Denny Coughlin.
And now, having sinned, he was expected to do penance. He had not told Wohl the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about whether he thought he was too good to ride around in an RPW hauling drunks off to holding cells and fat ladies off to the hospital. He didn't want to do it. Was that the same as thinking he was too good to do it?
Presuming, of course, that he could swallow his pride and show up at the 12^th District on Monday, preceded by his reputation as the wiseass college kid who had been sent there in disgrace, what did he have to look forward to?
Two years of hauling the aforementioned fat lady down the stairs and into the wagon and then off to the hospital, perhaps punctuated, after a while, when they learned that within reason I could be trusted with exciting assignments, like guarding school crossings and maybe even-dare I hope?-filling in for some guy on vacation or something and actually getting to go on patrol in my RPC.
Then I will be eligible to take the examination for detective or corporal. Detective, of course. I don't want to be a corporal. And I will pass that. I will even study to do well on it, and I will pass it, and then what?
Do I want to ride shotgun in a wagon for two years to do that?
Amanda would, with justification, decide I was rather odd to elect to ride shotgun on a wagon. Amanda does not wish to be married to a guy who rides shotgun on a wagon. Can one blame Amanda? One cannot.
There was a rustling, and then a harsher noise, almost metallic.
The building is empty. I carefully locked the door to my stairs; therefore it cannot be anything human rustling around my door. Perhaps the raven Mr. Poe spoke of, about to quote "Nevermore" to me, as in " Nevermore, Matthew Payne, will you be the hotshot, hotshit special assistant to Inspector Wohl."
It's a rat, that's what it is. That's all I need, a fucking rat!
"You really ought to get dead-bolt locks for those doors," a vaguely familiar voice said.