"I don't need that, thank you."
"It's not a suggestion. It's on orders."
"I still don't want it," he said.
She was standing by the side of the bed. She looked down at it, and grew serious.
"I don't think you're supposed to have that in here."
He followed her eyes, and saw that she was looking at the revolver Wohl had given him, its butt peeking out from a fold in the thin cotton blanket.
He took the revolver and put it inside the box of Kleenex on the bedside table.
"Okay?" he asked.
"No. Not okay. You want to tell me what's going on here?"
"Like what? I'm a cop. Cops have guns."
"They moved you in here, and your name is not Matthews, which is the name on the door."
"I don't suppose you'd believe that I'm really a rock-and-roll star trying to avoid my fans?"
"Do they really think somebody's going to try to-do something to you?"
"No. But better safe than sorry."
"I suppose this is supposed to be exciting," she said. "But what I really feel is that I don't like it at all."
"I'm sorry you saw the gun," he said. "Can we drop it there?"
"You don't want the Demerol because it will make you drowsy, right?"
He met her eyes, but didn't reply.
"This was going to be your last one, anyway," Lari said. "I could get you some aspirin, if you want."
"Please."
"Are you in pain?"
"No."
"If anybody asks, you took it, okay?" she asked. "It would be easier that way."
She went to the bathroom, and in a moment, with a mighty roar, the toilet flushed.
"Thank you," he said when she came out.
"I'll get the aspirin," she said, and went out.
She came back in a minute with a small tin of Bayer aspirin.
"These are mine," she said. "You didn't get them from me. Okay?"
"Thank you."
"There's a security guard at the nurse's station, I guess you know. He's giving everybody who gets off the elevator the once-over. "
"No, I didn't."
"In the morning, they're going to send you a physical therapist, to show you how to use crutches," she said. "When she tells you the more you use your leg, the more quickly it will feel better, trust her."
"Okay."
"I'll see you around, maybe, sometime."
"Not in the morning?"
"No. I won't be coming back here. I'm only filling in."
"I'd really like to see you around, no maybe, sometime. Could I call you?"
"There's a rule against that."
"You don't know what I have in mind, so how can there be a rule against that?"
"I mean, giving your phone number to a patient."
"I'm not just any old patient. I'm Margaret's Prince Charming's buddy. And, anyway, don't you ever do something you're not supposed to?"
"Not very often," she said, "and something tells me this is one of the times I should follow the rules."
She walked out of the room.
Matt watched the door close slowly after her.
"Damn!" he said aloud.
The door swung open again.
"My father is the only Henry Matsi in the phone book," Lari announced, "but I should tell you I'm hardly ever home."
Then she was gone again.
"Henry Matsi, Henry Matsi, Henry Matsi, Henry Matsi," Matt said aloud, to engrave it in his memory.
A minute or so later the door opened again, but it was not Lari. A chubby, determinedly cheerful woman bearing a tray announced, "Here's our supper."
"What are we having?"
"Anice piece of chicken," she said. "Primarily."
She took the gray cover off a plate with a flourish.
"And steamed veggies."
"Wow!" Matt said enthusiastically, "And what do you suppose that gray stuff in the cup is?"
"Custard."
"I was afraid of that."
Five minutes later, as he was trying to scrape the custard off his teeth and the roof of his mouth with his tongue, the door opened again.
A familiar face, to which Matt could not instantly attach a name, appeared.
"Feel up to a couple of visitors?"
"Sure, come on in."
Walter Davis, special agent in charge, Philadelphia Office, FBI, came into the room, trailed by A-SAC (Criminal Affairs) Frank Young.
"We won't stay long, but we wanted to come by and see if there was anything we could do for you," Davis said as Matt finally realized who they were.
You could tell me you just arrested the guy who wants to get me for shooting Charles D. Stevens. That would be nice.
What the hell are they doing here? What do they want?
Mr. Albert J. Monahan was talking with Mr. Phil Katz when Sergeant Jason Washington came through the door of Goldblatt amp; Sons Credit Furniture amp; Appliances, Inc., on South Street. Mr. Monahan smiled and seemed pleased to see Sergeant Washington. Mr. Katz did not.
"Good evening," Washington said.
"How are you, Detective Washington?" Mr. Monahan replied, pumping his hand.
Mr. Katz nodded.
"I guess you heard-" Washington began.
"We heard," Katz said.
"-we have the people who were here locked up," Washington continued. "And I hope Detective Pelosi called to tell you I was coming by?"
"Yes, he did," Monahan said.
"What I thought you meant," Katz said, "was, had we heard about what the Islamic Liberation Army had to say about people 'bearing false witness.'"
"We really don't think they're an army, Mr. Katz."
Katz snorted.
"Do what you think you have to, Albert," Mr. Katz said, and walked away.
"He's a married man, with kids," Al Monahan said, "I understand how he feels."
"Are you about ready, Mr. Monahan?" Washington asked.
"I've just got to get my coat and hat," Monahan replied. "And then I' ll be with you."
Washington watched him walk across the floor toward the rear of the store, and then went to the door and looked out.
Things were exactly as he had set them up. He questioned whether it was really necessary, but Peter Wohl had told him to 'err on the side of caution' and Washington was willing to go along with his concern, not only because, obviously, Wohl was his commanding officer, but also because of all the police brass Washington knew well, Peter Wohl was among the least excitable. He did not, in other words, as Washington thought of it, run around in circles chasing his tail, in the manner of other supervisors of his acquaintance when they were faced with an out-of-the-ordinary situation.
There were three cars parked in front of Goldblatt's. First was the Highway car, then Washington's unmarked car, and finally the unmarked car that carried the two plainclothes officers.
Both Highway cops, one of the plainclothesmen, and the 6^th District beat cop were standing by the fender of Washington's car.
"Okay," Mr. Monahan said in Washington's ear, startling him a little.
Washington smiled at him, and led him to the door.
When they stepped outside, one of the Highway cops and the plainclothesmen stepped beside Mr. Monahan. As Washington got behind the wheel of his car, they walked Monahan between the Highway car and Washington's, and installed him in the front seat.
The beat cop, as the Highway cop and the plainclothesmen got in their cars, stepped into the middle of the street and held up his hand, blocking traffic coming east on South Street, so that the three cars could pull away from the curb together.
The Highway car in front of Washington had almost reached South 8^th Street and had already turned on his turn signal when Washington saw something dropping out of the sky.
He had just time to recognize it as a bottle, whiskey or ginger ale, that big, then as a bottle on fire, at the neck, when it hit the roof of the Highway car and then bounced off, unbroken, onto South Street, where it shattered.