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This would have annoyed Peter Wohl in any case, when all things were going fine in his world. Today that wasn't the case. He had just come from the Roundhouse, where he had had a painful session with Mayor Carlucci and Commissioner Czernick, witnessed by Chief Inspectors Matt Lowenstein (Detective Division) and Dennis V. Coughlin concerning the inability of the Special Operations Division to come up with evenone fucking thing that might lead them to find whoever had put four.22 Long Rifle bullets into the chest, and one into the leg, of Police Officer Joseph Magnella.

He had not been in the mood to be kept waiting by anybody, and Special Agent Davis had seen this on his face.

It was unfortunate, Davis had thought, that Wohl first of all looked too young to be a staff inspector of police, (he was, in fact, Davis had recalled, the youngest staff inspector in the Department) and second, he seemed to have a thing about not introducing himself by giving his rank or even identifying himself as a police officer unless it was absolutely necessary.

If he had told the receptionist that he was "Staff Inspector Wohl, " Davis thought, she would certainly have taken him into the staff coffee room as a professional courtesy. But apparently, he had not done so; the receptionist had said, "There's a man named Wohl to see you." And so she had pointed out a chair in the outer office to him and let him wait.

And then, no sooner had Davis put on his topcoat and hat, as they were literally walking out of the reception room to the elevators, there had been another "must-take" telephone call.

"Peter, I'm sorry."

"Why don't we try this another time? You're obviously really too busy."

"Wait downstairs, I'll only be a minute."

It had been at least ten minutes. When he walked out onto the street, Wohl had been leaning against the fender of his official Plymouth, wearing a visibly insincere smile.

"Well, Walter, here you are!"

"You know how these things go," Davis replied.

"Certainly," Wohl said. "I mean, my God, FBI agents aren't expected to have to eat, are they?"

"How does Italian sound, Peter?"

"Italian sounds fine," Wohl replied and opened the back door of the car for him. Only then did Davis see the young man behind the wheel of the Ford.

A plainclothesman, he decided. He's too young to be a detective.

He realized that the presence of Wohl's driver was going to be a problem. He didn't want to talk about the murder-kidnapping case, especially the political implications of it, in front of a junior police officer.

Wohl slammed the door after Davis and got in the front seat.

"Shank amp; Evelyn's, Matt," he ordered. "Eleventh and Carpenter."

"Yes, sir," the young cop said.

"Officer Payne, this is Special Agent-Special Agentin Charge, excuseme, Davis."

"How do you do?" Payne said.

"Nice to meet you," Davis said absently, forcing a smile. He had begun to suspect that the luncheon was not going to go well. "Peter, I was thinking about Alfredo's-"

"That's a Mob-owned joint," Wohl said, as if shocked at the suggestion. "I don't know about the FBI, but we local cops have to worry about where we're seen, isn't that so, Officer Payne?"

"Yes, sir, we certainly do," the young cop said, playing straight man to Wohl.

"Besides, the veal is better at Shank amp; Evelyn's than at Ristorante Alfredo, wouldn't you say, Officer Payne?"

"Yes, sir, I would agree with that."

"Officer Payne is quite a gourmet, Walter. He really knows his veal."

"Okay, Peter, I give up," Davis said. "I'm sorry about making you wait. I really am. It won't happen again."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Walter. Anyway, Officer Payne and I don't have anything else to do but wait around to buy the FBI lunch, do we, Officer Payne?"

"Not a thing, sir."

"I'm buying the lunch," Davis said.

"In that case, you want us to go back and stand around on the curb for a while?"

"So, how are things, Peter?" Davis said, smiling. "Not to change the subject, of course?"

"Can't complain," Wohl said.

Davis had seen that they had turned left onto South Broad and were heading toward the airport.

"Where is this restaurant?" Davis asked.

"In South Philly. If you want good Italian food, go to South Philly, I always say. Isn't that so, Officer Payne?"

"Yes, sir," Officer Payne replied. "You're always saying that, sir."

"So tell me, Officer Payne, how do you like being Inspector Wohl's straight man?"

Officer Payne turned and smiled at Davis. "I like it fine, sir," he said.

Nice-looking kid, Davis thought.

A few minutes later Payne turned off South Broad Street, and then onto Christian, and then south onto 11^th Street. A 3^rd District sergeant's car was parked in a Tow Away Zone at a corner.

"Pull up beside him, Matt," Wohl ordered, and, when Payne did so, rolled down the window.

What Davis thought of as a real, old-time beat cop, a heavy-set, florid-faced sergeant in his fifties, first scowled out of the window and then smiled broadly. With surprising agility, he got out of the car, put out his hand, and said, "Goddamn, look who's out slumming. How the hell are you, Peter-Inspector?"

He saw me, Davis thought, and decided he should not call Wohl by his first name in front of a stranger, who is probably a senior police official.

"Pat, say hello to the headman of the FBI, Walter Davis," Wohl said. "Walter, Sergeant Pat McGovern. He was my tour sergeant in this district when I got out of the Academy.

"Hello, sir, an honor I'm sure," McGovern said to Davis.

"How are you, Sergeant?"

McGovern looked at Payne, decided he wasn't important, and nodded at him.

"Anything I can do for you?" McGovern asked.

"Where can we find a place to park?" Wohl asked.

"Going in Shank amp; Evelyn's?"

"Yeah."

"You got a parking place," Sergeant McGovern said. He raised his eyes to Matt Payne. "Back it up, son, and I'll get out of your way."

"Good to see you, Pat."

"Yeah, you too," McGovern said as he started to get back in his car. "Say hello to your old man. He all right?"

Davis remembered that Wohl's father was a retired chief inspector.

"If anything, meaner."

"Impossible," McGovern said, and then got his car moving.

Payne moved into the space vacated, and Davis and Wohl got out of the car.

"Peter," Davis said quietly, touching Wohl's arm. "Could we send your driver someplace else to eat?"

"Is this personal, Walter?"

Davis hesitated a moment before replying.

"No. Not really."

"He's good with details," Wohl said, nodding toward Payne.

Which translates, Davis thought, a little annoyed, that Wohl's straight man doesn't go somewhere else to eat.

Shank amp; Evelyn's Restaurant was worse for Davis's purposes than he could have imagined possible. The whole place was smaller than his office, and consisted of a grill, a counter with ten or twelve stools, and half a dozen tables, at the largest of which, provided they kept their elbows at their sides, four people could eat.

What I should have done, Davis thought, annoyed, was simply get in my car and drive out to Wohl's office at Bustleton and Bowler. This is a disaster.

They found seats at a tiny table littered with the debris of the previous customers' meals. A massively bosomed waitress with a beehive hairdo first cleaned the table and then took their orders. Wohl ordered the veal, and somewhat reluctantly, Davis ordered the same.

"Sausage,hot sausage, and peppers, please, extra peppers," Matt Payne said.

"Frankie around?" Wohl asked her.

"In the back," the waitress said.

Wohl nodded.

A minute or so later, a very large, sweating man in a chef's hat, Tshirt, and white trousers came up to the table, offering his hand.