He drove expertly. That is to say, he was not reckless. But he paid absolutely no attention to the posted speed limits, and paused for red lights only long enough to make sure he could get across the intersection without getting hit.
He was not worried about being cited for violation of the Motor Vehicle Code. His chances of being charged with speeding or running a red light or reckless lane changing were about as great as those of Mayor Jerry Carlucci's.
Mickey O'Hara was regarded by the Police Department as one of their own. To be sure, there was always some stiff-necked prick who would point out that all Mickey O'Hara was, was a goddamn civilian and entitled to no special privileges. But for every one of these, there were two or three cops, driving RPCs or walking beats, or captains and inspectors, who had known Mickey for twenty years and had come to believe that he was on the side of the cops, and told the prick where to head in.
When the Emerald Society had a function, and there was a head table, Mickey O'Hara was routinely seated at it. The Fraternal Order of Police club, downtown, off North Broad Street, had an ironclad rule that the only way a civilian could get past the door was in the company of a member. Except for Mickey O'Hara, who could be expected to drop in once a night for a beer, sitting at a stool near the cash register that might as well have had his name on it, because it was tacitly reserved for him.
The thing about Mickey, it was said, was that he never betrayed a confidence. If you told him something was out of school, you would never see it in the newspaper.
There was a white-capped (Traffic Division) cop diverting traffic away from South Street onto South 9^th Street when Mickey O'Hara's Buick appeared.
He waved Mickey through, winked at him as he passed, and then furiously blew his whistle at the car behind him, who thought he wanted to follow Mickey.
Mickey pulled up behind a car he recognized as belonging to Central Detectives. Some of the chrome letters that had once spelled out CHEVROLET had fallen off; now it read CHE RO T. He had seen it the night before downtown; a lawyer from Pittsburgh had been mugged and stabbed coming out of a bar. The detective had told Mickey what had happened, and when Mickey had asked him, "What do you think?" the detective had said, "It's a start, but the bastards breed like rabbits."
Mickey took a 35-mm camera from the passenger side floor and got out. He saw that South Street was jammed with police vehicles of all descriptions. There were three 6^th District RPCs, cars assigned to one of the 6^th District sergeants and the 6^th District lieutenant captain, a Highway RPC, a 6^th District van and two stakeout vans, the Mobile Crime Lab vehicle, and a number of unmarked cars. One of the unmarked cars was a brand-new Chevrolet Impala, telling Mickey that a captain (or better) with nothing more important to do had come to the crime scene, and was more than likely getting in the way. The other unmarked cars were battered; that meant they were from Central Detectives.
Obviously (people were standing around) whatever had happened here was over. The stakeout vans, which are manned by specially trained policemen who are equipped with special weapons (rifles, shotguns, machine guns, et cetera) and equipment, and called into use in situations where ordinary armament (handguns) is likely to be inadequate, were not going to be needed.
Then Mickey saw a familiar face, that of Homicide Detective Joe D' Amata, and knew that something serious had happened. The "hospital case" in the Police Radio call hadn't needed a hospital.
Mickey stepped over the Crime Scene barrier and walked toward another familiar face. He now knew who was driving the new Impala.
"I didn't know they let old men like you go in on real jobs," Mickey said.
Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein, a short, stocky man with large, dark eyes, who commanded the Detective Division, took a black, six-inch cigar from between his lips and looked coldly at Mickey.
"If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a laugh-a-minute Irishman," he said. "I knew if I didn't get out of here, something unpleasant, like you showing up, would happen."
"Things a little slow at the Roundhouse, are they? Or are you trying to recapture your youth by patrolling the streets?"
"I was driving by, all right? Up yours, O'Hara."
Despite the exchange, they were friends. Matt Lowenstein met Mickey O'Hara's criteria for a very good cop. Not all senior supervisors did. O'Hara admired Lowenstein for being an absolute straight arrow, who protected his men like a mother hen.
On Lowenstein's part, he not only respected O'Hara professionally, but when his son had been bar mitzvahed, not only had Mickey shown up (his gift had beenThe Oxford Complete Dictionary of the English Language) but the event had been reported on the front page of the Sunday Social Section, complete with a three-column picture of Lowenstein and his son via Mickey's influence at theBulletin.
"So before you go back to the rocking chair, you going to tell me what happened? Why are you here?"
"I told you, I was nearby and heard the call," Lowenstein said. "It's a strange one, Mickey. Six, eight guys, A-rabs-"
"Real Arabs?" Mickey interrupted.
"They kept saying 'motherfucker.' That's Arabian, isn't it?"
Mickey chuckled. "I think so," he said solemnly.
"They came in the place one at a time, spread out through the building, and then pulled guns. They shot up the place, God only knows why, and then tried to set some rugs on fire. The maintenance man walked in while it was going on, and they killed him."
"He try to do something or what?"
Lowenstein shrugged.
"Don't know yet. You want to have a look?"
"I'd like to, Matt," Mickey said.
Lowenstein pursed his lips. A surprisingly loud whistle came from between them. A dozen people turned to look, including the uniformed cop guarding access to the Goldblatt crime scene.
"He's okay," Lowenstein said, pointing to Mickey O'Hara.
"Thanks," Mickey said.
"Sylvia said if you can watch your filthy mouth, you can come to dinner."
"When?"
"How about tonight?"
"Fine. What time and what can I bring?"
"Half past six. You don't have to bring anything, but take a shave and a shower."
"Didn't The Dago tell you you were supposed to cultivate the press?"
"No. But I'll tell you what I did hear: You finally found some girl willing to be seen in public with you. Bring her, if you want."
"Okay. I was going to anyway," Mickey said, and touched Lowenstein's arm and walked past the cop into Goldblatt amp; Sons Credit Furniture amp; Appliances, Inc.
As Michael J. O'Hara walked into Goldblatt amp; Sons Credit Furniture amp; Appliances, Inc., on South Street, four blocks away, on 11^th Street, near Carpenter, three law enforcement officers in civilian clothing were having their lunch in Shank amp; Evelyn's Restaurant.
They were Staff Inspector Peter Wohl and Officer Matthew Payne of the Philadelphia Police Department, and Walter Davis, a tall, well-built, well-dressed (in a gray pin-striped, three-piece suit) man in his middle forties, who was the special agent in charge (the "SAC") of the Philadelphia Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Shank amp; Evelyn's Restaurant was not the sort of place Walter Davis had had in mind when he had telephoned Wohl early that morning to ask if he was free for lunch. Davis had had in mind the Ristorante Alfredo, in downtown Philadelphia, in part because the food was superb and the banquettes would provide what he considered to be the necessary privacy he sought, and also because he thought it would provide an opportunity to needle the management a little.