McFadden!
Payne appeared a moment later.
I should have guessed he might be over here helping out his buddy.
All of a sudden, he was blinded by the light from one of the lamps.
"Who are you?" McFadden demanded firmly, but before Malone could speak, McFadden recognized him, and the light went back on the ground. "Hello, Lieutenant. Sorry."
"How's it going?" Malone asked, far more cheerfully than he felt.
"Aside from terminal frostbite, you mean?" Payne said. "Did WoInspector Wohl send you to check on me?"
"No. I just thought you might be able to use some help. You're finished, I guess?"
"Yes, sir. McFadden's been helping me. Do you know McFadden, Lieutenant?"
"Yeah, sure. Whaddaya say, McFadden?"
"Lieutenant."
"Well, at least let me buy you fellas a hamburger, or a cheese-steak, something, and a cup of coffee," Malone said, adding mentally,said the last of the big spenders.
"Well, that's very kind, Lieutenant," Payne said. "But not necessary. We're going over to my place and, presuming our fingers thaw, make a nice drawing, drawings, for Inspector Wohl. I thought we'd pick up some ribs on the way."
"It'd be my pleasure," Malone said. "Where do you live?"
"Downtown. Rittenhouse Square."
"I live at 19^th and Arch," Malone said. "We're all headed in the same direction. And I haven't had my dinner. Why don't you let me buy the ribs?"
He looked at Payne and saw suspicion in his eyes.
"Why don't we all go to my place for ribs?" Payne said, finally.
"Where's your car?" Malone asked.
"We're parked over there," McFadden said, and pointed to where Malone had parked behind the Volkswagen.
"I want to find a phone," Malone said. "And call that Porsche in."
"Why?" Payne asked, obviously surprised.
"I have a gut feeling it's wrong," Malone said. "A Porsche like that shouldn't be parked in this neighborhood."
"That's Payne's car, Lieutenant," McFadden said. "Nice, huh?"
Malone thought he saw amusement in McFadden's eyes.
"Very nice," Malone said.
"Lieutenant," Payne said. "You're sure welcome to come with us. I appreciate your coming out here."
"I haven't had my dinner."
"You'd better follow me, otherwise there will be a hassle getting you into the garage," Payne said.
"I'm sorry?" Malone asked.
"The parking lot in my building," Payne said. "There's a rent-a-copit would be easier if we stuck together."
"Okay. Sure," Malone said.
The little convoy stopped twice on the way to Payne's apartment, first in a gas station on Frankford Avenue, where Payne made a telephone call from a pay booth, and then on Chestnut Street in downtown Philadelphia. There Payne walked quickly around the nose of his Porsche and into Ribs Unlimited, an eatery Jack Malone remembered from happier days as a place to which husbands took wives on their birthdays for arguably the best ribs in Philadelphia, and which were priced accordingly.
In a moment Payne came back out, trailed by the manager and two costumed rib-cookers in red chef's hats and white jackets and aprons, bearing large foil-wrapped packages and what looked like a half case of beer.
Payne opened the nose of his Porsche, and everything was loaded inside. Payne reached in his pocket and handed bills to the manager and the two guys in cook's suits. They beamed at him.
Payne closed the nose of his Porsche, got behind the wheel, and the three-car convoy rolled off again.
I didn't know Ribs Unlimited offered takeouts, Malone thought, and then, Jesus Christ, me and my big mouth: When I offer to pay for the ribs, as I have to, I will have to give him a check, because I have maybe nineteen dollars in my pocket. A check that will be drawn against insufficient funds and will bounce, unless I can get to the bank and beg that four-eyed asshole of an assistant manager to hold it until payday.
Five minutes later they were unloading the nose of the Porsche in a basement garage.
Payne's apartment, which they reached after riding an elevator and then walking up a narrow flight of stairs, was something of a disappointment.
It was nicely furnished, but it was very small. Somehow, after the Porsche, and because it was on Rittenhouse Square, he had expected something far more luxurious.
McFadden carried the case of beer into the kitchen, and Malone heard bottles being opened.
"Here you are, Lieutenant," he said. "You ever had any of this? Tuborg. Comes from Holland."
"Denmark," Payne corrected him, tolerantly.
Malone took out his wallet.
"This is my treat, you will recall," he said. "What's the tab?"
"This is my apartment," Payne said with a smile. "You owe us a cheese-steak."
"I insist."
"So do I," Payne said, and put the neck of the Tuborg bottle to his lips.
"Well, okay," Malone said, putting his wallet back in his pocket.
Did he do that because he is a nice guy? Or because he is the last of the big spenders? Or was I just lucky? Or has Wohl had a confidential chat with him about The New Lieutenant, and his problems, financial and otherwise?
"You two eat in the living room," McFadden ordered, "so I can have the table in here."
"Among Officer McFadden's many, many other talents," Payne said cheerfully, "he assures me that he is the product of four years of mechanical drawing in high school. He is going to prepare drawings of that goddamn old building that will absolutely dazzle Inspector Wohl."
McFadden smiled. "My father works for UGI," he said. "My mother wanted me to go to work there as a draftsman." (United Gas Industries, the Philadelphia gas company.)
"My father's a fireman," Malone said. "I was supposed to be a fireman."
"Let's eat, before they get cold," Payne said. "Or do you think I should stick them into the oven on general principles?"
McFadden laid a hand on the aluminum. "They're still hot. Or warm, anyway."
He opened one of the packages. Payne took plates, knives and forks, and a large package of dinner-sized paper napkins from a closet.
"You going to need any help?" he asked McFadden.
"No," McFadden said flatly. "Just leave me something to eat and leave me alone."
"You'd better put an apron on, or you'll get rib goo all over your uniform," Payne said.
"They call that barbecue sauce," McFadden said. "'Rib goo'! Jesus H. Christ!"
Payne handed him an apron with MASTER CHEF painted on it. Then he began to pass out the ribs, coleslaw, baked beans, salad, rolls, and other contents of the aluminum-wrapped packages.
A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Malone picked it up. It was the cash register tape from Ribs Unlimited. Three complete Rib Feasts at $11.95 came to $35.85. They had charged Payne retail price for the BEER, IMPORT, which, at $2.25 a bottle, came to $27.00. With the tax, the bill was nearly seventy dollars.
And Payne had tipped the manager and both cooks. Christ, that's my food budget for two weeks.
"Fuck it," McFadden said. "Eat first, work later. McFadden's Law."
He sat down and picked up a rib and started to gnaw on it.
"That makes sense," Payne said. "Sit down, Lieutenant. They do make a good rib."
"I know. I used to take my wife there," Malone said without thinking.
McFadden silently ate one piece of rib, and then another. He picked up his beer bottle, drank deeply, burped, and then delicately wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.
"Are you going to tell me, Lieutenant, what's going on at half past four tomorrow morning at that school building?" McFadden suddenly asked, "Hewon't tell me."