"Well, the bastards got what they wanted, didn't they?" he asked. " The front page of theNews, and we sure look like we're scared of them."
"I don't know aboutyou being scared, white boy," Matt heard himself say, "butwe are."
McFadden looked at him curiously, and after a moment said seriously, "You'll be all right, buddy. You can take that to the bank."
There was a moment's awkward silence, which Jesus finally broke.
"The first thing you have to decide is where you want this end of the intercom."
"How about on the kitchen wall?"
"Why not?"
Matt was impressed with the skill with which Jesus installed the intercom. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing. It reminded him of Charley's mechanical drawing skill, and that made him consider his own practical ineptitude.
Matthew Mark Payne, B.A., Cum Laude, University of Pennsylvania, you don't have one salable skill, something you could find a paying job doing, except being a cop, and, truth to tell, you ain't too good at that.
By half past five, the intercom was installed and tested.
"Anybody else getting hungry?" Matt asked as Jesus-workmanlike, Matt thought-neatly coiled the leftover wire and put the tools back in their boxes.
"I could eat something," Jesus said.
"I'm going to finish hanging your naked lady picture," Charley said, "and then leave. I'm going to have supper with Margaret. I'll be back at midnight and relieve Hay-zus."
"Bring her back here, and her friend Lari too, and we'll send out for food."
"No," Charley said. "For one thing, I wouldn't bring a nice girl like her anyplace where there's a naked lady hanging on the wall."
"You're kidding!"
"Her uncle and aunt are feeding us," Charley said. "We have to go there."
"Don't break your ass on the way to the subway," Jesus said.
"You don't have your car, do you?" Matt asked, and, when Charley shook his head, asked, "where is it, Bustleton and Bowler?"
"Yeah."
"Why don't you leave it there and take the Porsche?"
"I don't know, Matt. I'd hate to tear it up."
"You can't leave a Porsche sit," Matt said. "And I damned sure can't drive it. Where'd you put the keys?"
"Jesus, I forgot!" Charley said, and pulled them from his trouser pocket.
"Take the car. Just try to keep it under a hundred and ten."
"Well, okay," Charley said, trying and failing to give the impression he would drive the Porsche only as a favor to Matt.
Five minutes after Charley left, the intercom was first put to use.
"Let me in, Hay-zus," Charley's voice announced mechanically from the speaker in the kitchen. "It's me."
Jesus went down and unlocked the door and Charley followed him back up the stairs.
"Wouldn't start?" Matt asked.
"The front tires are slashed," McFadden announced. "And they got the hood and doors with a knife or something."
"Jesus H. Christ!" Matt exploded.
"Did you look at the car when we came here?" Charley asked.
"No. Except to see that it was there. My mother's car was there. You couldn't see it clearly."
"Shit!"
The bell rang.
Martinez went into the kitchen.
"Who's there?"
"Peter Wohl."
"Just a minute, Inspector."
Wohl appeared at the head of the stairs carrying a large paper bag.
"I thought the patient might like a beer," he said, and then, when he saw the look on Matt's face, asked, "What's going on?"
"Those fuckers slashed my tires and did a scratch job on my hood and doors," Matt said. "Charley just found it that way."
Wohl walked into the kitchen and started putting the beer into the refrigerator.
"You just found this out, McFadden?"
"Yes, sir. I went down to get the car, and I saw it was down in front."
"And you didn't see any damage to it when they brought Matt here?"
"No, sir."
"We didn't look," Matt said.
"I just walked past it myself," Wohl said, "and didn't see anything out of the ordinary."
Wohl came into the living room and picked up the telephone beside Matt. He dialed a number from memory.
"This is Inspector Wohl," he announced. "Let me speak to the senior supervisor present."
I wonder who he's calling? Matt thought.
"Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant. We have a case of vehicular vandalism. The vehicle in question belongs to Officer Payne. I rather doubt we'll be able to find the vandals, but I want a complete investigation, especially photographs. Even dust the damned car for fingerprints. We may get lucky. It's in the parking lot under the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building on Rittenhouse Square. Payne lives in the topfloor apartment. I'll be here with him."
He put the telephone down.
"Inspector, I'm supposed to meet my girl," Charley said uncomfortably.
"Well, I guess that will have to wait, won't it?" Wohl snapped. " Central Detectives are on their way. Obviously, they'll want to talk to you."
"Yes, sir."
"No. Wait a minute," Wohl said, exhaling audibly. "What exactly did you see, Charley, when you went down to the garage?"
"When I started to unlock the door, I saw the nose was down. So I looked at the tires. And then I saw what they did to the hood and doors with a knife or something."
"You're coming on at midnight, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll tell the detectives what you told me," Wohl said. "Go ahead, Charley. I didn't mean to snap at you like that."
"That's okay, sir."
He hurried down the stairwell as if he was afraid Wohl would change his mind.
Wohl lost his temper, Matt thought. He was nearly as mad as I am about the car. No. That's impossible. Nobody can be nearly as fucking outraged as 1 am.
"Inspector, I was about to send out for supper for Hay-zus and me," Matt said. "Will you have something with us?"
"No pizza."
"Actually, I was thinking of either a London broil or a mixed grill. My father fixed it with the Rittenhouse Club."
"In that case, Officer Payne, I gratefully accept your kind invitation."
TWENTY-TWO
Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., was of two minds concerning Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr. On one hand, it was impossible to feel like anything but a proud father to see one's son and namesake drive up to the house in an unmarked car, wearing a very nice looking blazer, gray flannel slacks, a starched white shirt and a regimentally striped necktie and know that Tiny had a more responsible job after having been on the job less than a year than he had had in his first five years on the job.
But there were two problems with that. The first being that he had hoped-and for a long time believed-that Tiny would spend his life as Foster H. Lewis, M.D. But that hadn't come to pass. Tiny had been placed on Academic Probation by the Temple University Medical School and reacted to that by joining the cops.
And then the Honorable Jerry Carlucci had put his two cents in, in what Foster H. Lewis, Sr., believed to be an understandable, but no less contemptible, ploy to pick up a few more Afro-American voters. The mayor had told a large gathering at the Second Abyssinian Baptist Church that, as one more proof that he was determined to see that the Police Department afforded Afro-Americans equal opportunities within the Department, that he had recommended to Commissioner Czernick that Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr., son of that outstanding Afro-American police Lieutenant, Foster H. Lewis, Sr., be assigned to Special Operations.
It was said that if The Mayor looked as if he might be about to fart, Commissioner Czernick instantly began to look for a dog to blame, and, in case he couldn't find one, pursed his lips to apologize for breaking wind.