Now I won't soil my clothes, I'll slip on the goddamn ice and break my fucking leg.
Ribs Unlimited, despite the lousy weather, was crowded. There was a line of people waiting for the nod of the head-waiter in the narrow entrance foyer.
Malone stood in the line for a minute or two, and then remembered Wohl had said "in the bar." The headwaiter tried to stop him.
"I'm meeting someone," Malone said, and kept walking. He found an empty stool next to a woman who was desperately trying to appear younger than the calendar made her, and whose perfume filled his nostrils with a scent that reminded him of something else he hadn't been getting much-any-of lately.
When the bartender appeared, he almost automatically said "Ortleib's" but at the last moment changed his mind.
"John Jameson, easy on the ice," he said.
Fuck it, I've been a good boy lately. One little shooter will be good for me. And one I can afford.
Wohl appeared as the bartender served the drink.
"Been waiting long?"
"No, sir, I just got here."
"What is that?"
"Irish."
"I feel Irish," Wohl said to the bartender. "Same way, please. Not too much ice."
A heavyset man appeared, beaming.
"How are you, Inspector?"
"How are you, Charley?" Wohl replied. "Charley, this is Lieutenant Jack Malone. Jack, Charley Meader, our host."
"You work with the inspector, Lieutenant?" Meader said, pumping Malone's hand.
"Yes, sir," Malone said.
"I've got you a table in the back anytime you're ready, Inspector," Meader said.
"I guess we could carry our drinks, right?" Wohl said. "When I get mine, that is."
"Whatever you'd prefer," Meader said, and waited until the bartender served Wohl.
"House account that, Jerry," he said.
"Very kind, thank you," Wohl said.
"My pleasure, Inspector. And anytime, you know that."
He patted Wohl on the shoulder and shook hands with both of them.
"Whenever you're ready, Inspector, your table's available," Meader said. "Good to see you. And to meet you, Lieutenant."
Wohl waited until he was gone, then said, "There was once a Department of Health inspector who led Charley Meader to believe that he would have far less trouble passing his inspections if he handed him an envelope once a week when he came in for a free meal."
"Oh," Malone said.
"Charley belongs to the Jaguar Club," Wohl went on. "You know I have a Jaguar?"
"I've seen it."
"1950 SK-120 Drophead Coupe," Wohl said. "So he came to me after a meeting one night and said he had heard I was a cop, and that he didn' t want to put me on the spot, but did I know an honest sergeant, or maybe even an honest lieutenant. He would go to him, without mentioning my name, and tell him his problem."
"A long time ago?"
"Just before they gave me Special Operations," Wohl said.
"He didn't know you were a staff inspector?"
"No. Not until I testified in court."
"So what happened?"
"The next time the Health Department sleaze-ball came in, I was tending bar and I had a photographer up there." He gestured toward a balcony overlooking the bar and smiled. "I put a microphone in the pretzel bowl. Hanging Harriet gave the Health Department guy three to five," Wohl said.
Hanging Harriet was the Hon. Harriet M. McCandless, a formidable black jurist who passionately believed that civilized society was based upon a civil service whose honesty was above question.
"No wonder he buys you drinks."
"The sad part of the story, Jack, is that Charley really was afraid to go to the cops until he found one he thoughtmight be honest."
Wohl took a swallow of his drink, and then said, "Let's carry these to the table. I've got to get something to eat."
The headwaiter left his padded rope and showed them to a table at the rear of the room. A waiter immediately appeared.
"The El Rancho Special," Wohl ordered. "Hold the beans. French fries."
"What's that?"
"Barbecued beef. Great sauce. You really ought to try it."
"I think I will," Malone said.
"Yes, sir. And can I get you gentlemen a drink?"
"Please. The same thing. Jameson's, isn't it?"
"Jameson's," Malone offered.
"And I don't care what Mr. Meader says, I want the check for this," Wohl said.
The waiter looked uncomfortable.
"You're going to have to talk to Mr. Meader about that, sir."
"All right," Wohl said. He waited until the waiter left, and then said, "Well, you can't say I didn't try to pay for this, can you?"
Malone chuckled.
Wohl reached in the breast pocket of his jacket and came out with several sheets of blue-lined paper and handed them to Malone.
"I'd like to know what you think about that, Jack. I don't have muchpractically no-experience in this sort of thing."
"What is it?"
"How to protect Monahan, the witness in the Goldblatt job, and Matt Payne. Monahan positively identified everybody we arrested, by the way. Washington called me just after I called you."
The protection plan was detailed and precise, even including drawings of Monahan's house, Matt's apartment, and the areas around them. That didn't surprise Malone, for he expected as much from Wohl. His brief association with him had convinced him that he really was as smart as his reputation held him to be.
But he was surprised at the handwriting. He had read somewhere, years before, and come to accept, that a very good clue to a man's character was his handwriting. From what he had seen of Wohl, what he knew about him, there was a certain flamboyance to his character, which, according to the handwriting theory, should have manifested itself in flamboyant, perhaps even careless, writing. But the writing on the sheets of lined paper was quite the opposite. Wohl's characters were small, carefully formed, with dots over the I's, and neatly crossed T' s. Even his abbreviations were followed by periods.
Maybe that's what he's really like, Malone thought. Beneath the fashionable clothing and the anti-establishment public attitude, there really beats the heart of a very careful man, one who doesn't really like to take the chance of being wrong.
"You have three officers at Monahan's house when he's there," Malone said, but it was meant as a question, and Wohl answered it.
"Two two-man Special Operations RPCs," Wohl said. "Four cops. One car and three cops at Monahan's. The fourth officer will be the guy wearing the rent-a-cop uniform in the garage on Rittenhouse Square."
"He'll have the second car with him at Payne's place?" Malone asked.
Wohl nodded, and went on. "I think Monahan's at the greatest risk. There is a real chance that they will try to kill him. And I don't want everybody there just sitting in a car. I want one man, all the time, walking around. It's cold as hell now, so they can split it up any way they want."
"I understand."
"Payne's apartment is really easy to protect. After five-thirty, the main door is locked. There's a pretty good burglar alarm not only on the door, but on the first-, second-, and third-floor windows. There's a key for the elevator from the basement. They haven't been using it, but starting tomorrow, they'll have to."
"Payne gets out of the hospital tomorrow?"
"Right. Before lunch. He'll go to the Roundhouse for the Homicide interviews-Chief Coughlin got Chief Lowenstein to hold off on that, kept them out of Frankford Hospital, but it has to be done-and then he'll go to his apartment. We'll give the officer in the rent-a-cop uniform a shotgun; he can stay inside that little cubicle with it. And, of course, we'll have one of the three guys with Payne around the clock. I don't think that's going to be a problem. Monahan might be."