There was more fucking trouble with the fucking cops going around the block. There was something wrong with the sewer or something, and there was a cop standing in the middle of the street with his hand up. And they couldn't back up and go around, either, because another car, an old Jaguar convertible, was behind them. They took five minutes minimum, and the result was that when they went all the way around the block, Mr. S. was standing on the curb looking nervous. He didn't like to wait around on curbs.
"Sorry, Mr. S.," Mr. Cassandro said. "We had trouble with a cop."
"What kind of trouble with a cop?"
"Fresh nigger cop, just proving he had a badge," Mr. Cassandro said.
"I don't like trouble with cops," Mr. Savarese said.
"It wasn't his fault, Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said.
"I don't want to hear about it. I don't like trouble with cops."
Mr. Savarese's Lincoln turned south on South Broad Street.
Mr. Cassandra became aware that the car behind, the stupid bastard, had his bright lights on. He reached up and flicked the little lever under the mirror, which deflected the beam of light, and he could see the car behind him.
"There's a fucking cop behind us," Mr. Cassandro said.
"I don't like trouble with cops," Mr. Savarese said. "Don't give him any excuse for anything."
"Maybe he's just there, like coincidental," Mr. Rosselli said.
"Yeah, probably," Mr. Cassandro said.
Six blocks down South Broad Street, the police car was still behind the Lincoln, which was now traveling thirty-two miles per hour in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone.
"Is the cop still back there?" Mr. Savarese asked.
"Yeah, he is, Mr. S.," Mr. Cassandro said.
"I wonder what the fuck he wants," Mr. Rosselli asked.
"I don't like trouble with cops," Mr. Savarese said. "Have we got a bad taillight or something?"
"I don't think so, Mr. S.," Mr. Cassandro said.
Three blocks farther south, the flashing lights on the roof of the police car turned on, and there was the whoop of its siren.
"Shit," Mr. Cassandro said.
"You must have done something wrong," Mr. Savarese said.
"I been going thirty-two miles an hour," Mr. Cassandro said.
"You sure it's a cop?" Mr. Savarese said as they pulled up to the curb.
"It's that gigantic nigger that gave us the trouble before," Mr. Rosselli said.
"Jesus," Mr. Savarese said.
Officer Lewis walked up to the car and flashed his flashlight at Mr. Cassandro, Mr. Rosselli, and Mr. Savarese in turn.
"Is something wrong, Officer?" Mr. Cassandro said.
"May I have your driver's license and registration, please?" Tiny Lewis asked.
"Yeah, sure. You gonna tell me what I did wrong?"
"You were weaving as you drove down the street," Officer Lewis said.
"No I wasn't!" Mr. Cassandro said.
"Have you been drinking, sir?"
"Not a goddamn drop," Mr. Cassandro said. "What is this shit?"
"Shut your mouth," Mr. Savarese said sharply to Mr. Cassandro.
Officer Lewis flashed his light at Mr. Savarese.
"Oh, you're Mr. Savarese, aren't you?"
After a discernible pause Mr. Savarese said, "Yes, my name is Savarese."
"You left something behind you in the restaurant, Mr. Savarese," Officer Lewis said.
"I did? I don't recall-"
"Here it is, sir," Tiny Lewis said, and handed Mr. Savarese a large manila envelope.
"Please try to drive in a straight line," Tiny Lewis said. "Good night."
He walked back to his car and turned off the flashing lights.
"What did he give you?" Mr. Rosselli asked.
"Feels like photographs," Mr. Savarese replied.
"Of who?"
"There's two of them, Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said. "I adjusted the rearview mirror. I can see good."
"Two of who?"
"Two cop cars. The other's got a lieutenant or something in it. Another nigger."
"Get me out of here," Mr. Savarese said.
"You got it, Mr. S.," Mr. Cassandro said.
Officer Tiny Lewis watched until the Lincoln was out of sight, then drove to a diner on South 16^th Street. Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., drove his car into the parking lot immediately afterward.
A very large police officer, obviously Irish, about forty years of age, came out of the diner.
"Thank you," Lieutenant Lewis said to him.
"Don't talk to me, I haven't seen you once on this shift," the officer said, and got in the car Officer Lewis had been driving and drove away.
Officer Lewis got in the car with his father.
"You going to tell me what that was all about?"
"Whatwhat was all about?"
"Thanks a lot, Pop."
"You did that rather well for a rookie who's never spent sixty seconds on the street," Lieutenant Lewis said.
"Runs in the family."
"Maybe."
"You're really not going to tell me what that was all about?"
"Whatwhat was all about?"
The next day, Friday, Officer Matthew W. Payne was stopped twice by law-enforcement authorities while operating a motor vehicle.
The first instance took place on the Hutchinson River Parkway, north of the Borough of Manhattan, some twelve miles south of Scarsdale.
An enormous New York State trooper, wearing a Smoky the Bear hat sat in his car and waited until he had received acknowledgment of his radio call that he had stopped a 1973 Porsche 911, Pennsylvania tag GHC-4048, for exceeding the posted limit of fifty miles an hour by twenty miles per hour. Then he got out of the car and cautiously approached the driver's window.
Nice-looking kid, he thought. But twenty miles over the limit is just too much.
And then he saw something on the floorboard. His entire demeanor changed. He nicked the top of his holster off and put his hand on the butt of his revolver.
"Put your hands out the window where I can see both of them," he ordered in a no-nonsense voice.
"What?"
"Do what I say, pal!"
Both hands came out the window.
"There's a pistol on your floorboard. You got a permit for it?"
"I'm a cop," Matt said. "I wondered what the hell you were up to. You scared the hell out of me."
"You got a badge?"
"I've got photo ID in my jacket pocket."
"Let's see it. Move slowly. You know the routine."
Matt produced his identification.
"You normally drive around with your pistol on the floorboard?"
"It's in an ankle holster. It rubs your leg if it's on a long time."
"I never tried one," the state trooper said. "I always thought I would kick my leg or something, and the gun would go flying across a room."
"No. They work. They just rub your leg, is all."
"You working?"
"I cannot tell a lie, I'm on my way to see my girl."
"This is yours?" the state trooper asked incredulously, gesturing at the Porsche.
"We take them away from drug dealers," Matt said.
"You work Narcotics?"
"Until Monday I work in something called Special Operations."
"Nice work."
"Yeah. It was. Monday I go back in uniform."
"Into each life some rain must fall," the state trooper said. " Take it easy."
"I will."
"I mean that. Take it easy. I clocked you at seventy-one."
"Sorry," Matt said. "I wasn't thinking. I'll watch it."
"My sergeant is a prick. He would ticket Mother Teresa."
"I have a lieutenant like that," Matt said.
The state trooper returned to his car, tooted the horn, and resumed his patrol.