"And district and Highway cars will make passes by both places all night, right?"
"District, Highway, and Special Operations," Wohl said. "There should be at least one of them going by both places at least once an hour, maybe more often. And if Monahan keeps insisting on going to work, by Goldblatt's during the day."
"I don't want to sound like I'm polishing the apple, Inspector, but I can't think of a thing I'd do differently."
"Good," Wohl said. "Because, until further notice, you're in charge. I told Captain Sabara and Captain Pekach that they are to give you whatever you think you need."
"Yes, sir," Malone said. "I met McFadden, and I've seen Martinez, but I don't know this man Lewis."
"Great big black kid," Wohl said. "He just came on the job, sort of."
"Sort of?"
"He worked Police Radio for four, five years before he came on the job, while he was in college. His father is a cop. He made lieutenant on the list before yours. He used to be a sergeant in the 18^th District."
"Great big guy? Mean as hell, and goes strictly by the book?"
"That's him."
"And the young one's in Highway?"
"No. He's been working as a gofer for Detective Harris. Frankly-don't misunderstand this, he's a nice kid and he'll probably make a very good cop-he's in Special Operations because the mayor made a speech at some black church saying Czernick had assigned him to Special Operations. The same sort of thing that Carlucci did with Payne. Carlucci told the newspapers Payne was my administrative assistant, so I named Payne my administrative assistant. Carlucci told the people at the church that Czernick had assigned this well-educated, highly motivated young black officer to Special Operations, so Czernick assigned him to us-"
The waiter delivered two plates heaped high with food. The smell made Malone's mouth water.
"I'll get your drinks, gentlemen," the waiter said.
"-so not knowing what to do with him," Wohl went on, "I gave him to Harris. He needed a gofer. We still don't have a fucking clue about who shot that young Italian cop, Magnella. That's what Harris is working."
Malone, who had heard the gossip about Detective Tony Harris being on a monumental bender, wondered if Wohl knew.
Wohl started eating.
"The idea, if I didn't make this clear," he said a moment later, "is that with three young cops, in plainclothes, one of whom is actually Payne's buddy, it will look, I hope, that they're just hanging around with him."
"I got that. Instead of a protection detail, you mean?"
"Right. I don't want these scumbags to get the idea that they're worrying us as much as they are."
"How long is this going to go on?"
"So far as Monahan is concerned, I don't know. At least until the end of the trial, and probably a little longer. Stillwell is going to go before the Grand Jury as soon as he can, probably in the next couple of days, and then they're going to put it on the docket as soon as that can be arranged. Giacomo will do his damnedest to get continuances, of course, but with a little bit of luck, we'll have a judge who won't indulge him. As far as Payne is concerned: He's a cop. As soon as he's back for duty, we'll call off official protection. Encourage him to do his drinking and wenching in the FOP."
Malone nodded and chuckled.
"There is also a chance that we'll be able to get our hands on the people who are issuing the press releases. I want the people on Monahan's house to take license numbers, that sort of thing."
"That wasn't in here," Malone said, tapping the lined paper Wohl had given him, "but I thought about it."
"There is also a chance, a very slim one, that we can get some of the other witnesses to agree to testify. Washington's going to talk to them. And I'm sure that Stillwell will probably try too. If we can get more people to come forward-"
"Which is exactly what these scumbags are worried about, what they're trying to prevent," Malone said, and then, really surprising Wohl, said bitterly, "Shit!"
Then, having heard what he said, and seeing the look on Wohl's face, he explained.
"Second table from the headwaiter's table. My wife. Ex-wife."
Wohl looked, saw a not-especially-attractive woman, facing in their direction, across a table from a man with long, silver-gray hair, and then turned to Malone.
"That the lawyer?"
"That's him."
"What I think you should do, Jack," Wohl said, "is smile and act as if you're having a great time. I'm only sorry that I'm not a longlegged blonde with spectacular breastworks."
Malone looked at him for a moment, and then picked up his glass.
"Whoopee!" he said, waving it around. "Ain't we having fun!"
"What do you say, kiddo?" Mickey O'Hara asked as he stuck his head into Matt Payne's room. "Feel up to a couple of visitors?"
"Come on in, Mickey," Matt said. He had been watching an especially dull program on public television hoping that it would put him to sleep; it hadn't. He now knew more of the water problems of Los Angeles than he really wanted to know.
Mickey O'Hara and Eleanor Neal came into the room. O'Hara had a brown bag in his hand, and Eleanor carried a potted plant.
"I hope we're not intruding," Eleanor said, "but Mickey said it would be all right if I came, and I wanted to thank you for saving his life."
"Matt, say hello to Eleanor Neal," Mickey said.
"How do you do?" Matt said, a reflex response, and then: "I didn't save his life."
"Yeah, you did," Mickey said. "But for a moment, in the alley, I thought you had changed your mind."
Matt had a sudden, very clear mental picture of the fear on Mickey's face and in his eyes, right after it had happened, when he had, startled by the flash from Mickey's camera, turned from the man he had shot and pointed his revolver at Mickey O'Hara.
"What does that mean?"
"Not important," Mickey said. He pulled a bottle of John Jameson Irish whiskey from the brown paper bag. "Down payment on what I owe you, Matt."
"Hey, I didn't save your life, okay? You don't owe me a damned thing."
Mickey ignored him. He bent over and took two paper cups from the bedside table, opened the bottle, poured whiskey in each cup, and then looked at Matt.
"You want it straight, or should I pour some water in it?"
"I'm not sure you should be giving him that," Eleanor said.
"He's an Irishman," Mickey said. "It'll do him more good than whatever else they've been giving him in here."
"Put a little water in it, please, Mickey," Matt said.
Mickey poured water from the insulated water carafe into the paper cup and handed it to Matt.
"Here's to you, Matt," he said, raising his glass.
"Cheers," Matt said, and took a swallow.
Maybe the booze will make me sleepy, or at least take the edge off the pain in the goddamn leg.
And then: Does he really think I saved his life, or is that bullshit? Blarney.
"How do you feel, Matt?" Mickey asked.
"I'm all right," Matt said. "I get out of here tomorrow."
"So soon?" Eleanor asked, surprised.
"Current medical wisdom is that the sooner they get you moving around, the better," Matt said.
"You going home?" Mickey said.
"If by 'home,' you mean my apartment, yes, of course."
"I was thinking of-where do your parents live, Wallingford?"
"My apartment."
"You know getting in to see you is like getting to see the gold at Fort Knox?" Mickey asked. Matt nodded. "So you know what these people have been up to?"
Matt nodded again.
"The Molotov cocktail, the press release, the second one? All of it?"