Sasha balled her fists and started hitting Xavier Smith on the back and arms. “Don’t touch Grammy, you bastard!”
He stood up and nervously aimed the pistol at Sasha.
“Listen, bitch. Don’t you say a word I was here. You hear me?”
She stared at him, a mixture of deep sadness and hatred in her eyes.
He moved quickly toward the front door and said, “Don’t you forget. I can come here anytime I want. Or find you anywhere. Anytime.”
Then Xavier “Xpress” Smith lived up to his nickname and fled into the dark of night.
[THREE]
705 N. Second Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:59 P.M.
Tony’s and Mickey’s cars, Harris’s city-issued battered unmarked gray Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor and O’Hara’s new black BMW M5 sedan, were parked in front of Liberties Bar.
Inside, Matt Payne saw that the place was not as packed as he’d expected. Along the left wall were wooden tables with booths. A couple were filled, but most looked like they’d recently been vacated. They were still covered with empty and unfinished drinking glasses. Same was true in the middle of the room, where there were more wooden tables and chairs. The busboy was working busily, and would be for some time.
Matt noticed some motion across the room and looked to the century-old, ornately carved oak bar. It ran from the front window almost back to the wooden stairway leading to second-floor seating. The bar was three- quarters full, and at its right end, nearest the front window that looked out onto the street, stood Michael J. “Mickey” O’Hara.
The Irishman exuded an infectious energy, and now used that to enthusiastically wave his right hand high above his very curly red hair.
Standing next to him, wearing his usual well-worn blue blazer and gray slacks, was Tony Harris. He’d noticed Mickey’s manic wave and looked over his shoulder. When Tony saw Matt, he shuffled to the left, making a place for him at the bar. His move gave Matt a clear view of Mickey-more specifically, of what he wore under his tweed jacket: a green T-shirt that had a four-leaf clover and read KISS ME, I’M IRISH.
As Payne approached, O’Hara said, “What the hell took you so long?”
Discretion being the better part of valor, I believe I’ll dodge that one.
“I had to walk her dog,” Matt said.
“Oh?” O’Hara smiled. As he motioned suggestively with his right hand, the middle finger rubbing the top of the index finger, he said, “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
Harris chuckled.
“Screw you, Mickey,” Payne said, but he smiled. He changed the subject. “Nice shirt. But wrong holiday.”
“It’s the closest to a costume I’ve got,” Mickey said. “But don’t be so damned sure of yourself, Matty.”
“What do you mean?” Payne asked.
Tony Harris had a bottle of Hops Haus lager beer to his lips, about to sip, when he nodded and said, “He’s already gotten six kisses, including two long ones from an incredibly cute, quote, angel, unquote, in all white. She rubbed Mickey’s head and said he was her lucky charm.”
Matt laughed, and the bartender walked up and slid two glasses on the bar before him, one with ice cubes in a clear liquid and one with just a dark liquid, both half-filled.
“First round tonight’s on me,” said the bartender, John Sullivan-a hefty forty-year-old, second-generation Irish-American with an ample belly, friendly bright eyes, and a full white beard. “Happy Halloween, Matt.”
“I guess I should’ve said ‘Trick or treat’ to earn my single-malt, huh?” Payne replied, reaching for the glass that he knew held the ice water. He poured it into the glass that contained the dark brown liquor, mixing it fifty-fifty. “Thanks, John.”
The bartender grinned as Payne held up his drink and said, “Cheers, gents,” clinked the glasses and bottle of John the bartender, Tony, and Mickey, then took a healthy sip.
He turned to looked at Harris. “So tell me what the hell that was all about tonight in Old City.”
Harris glanced at Mickey O’Hara. “You want to start?”
O’Hara gestured grandly, After you.
Harris shrugged, then nodded and said, “All off the record, right?”
O’Hara sighed. “You know you’ll see what I put together before I post it online.”
From the look on Tony Harris’s face, it was evident that he was genuinely embarrassed for the slip of tongue. “Sorry, Mickey. Old habits and all.”
[FOUR]
As a rule, cops didn’t much like reporters, and, accordingly, didn’t share with them more than they absolutely had to-and a good deal of the time not even that.
Those who made up the Thin Blue Line were a guarded group. Outsiders simply didn’t understand what it was that they did, what their brotherhood meant, and apparently no amount of education changed that.
You either were a cop-and understood-or you weren’t.
Mickey O’Hara wasn’t a cop. “I couldn’t get on with the police department,” he joked with his cop friends, “because I knew both of my parents and knew that they were married.”
But-as, invariably, rules had exceptions-O’Hara did indeed understand.
He had long ago earned the respect-and in cases like Matt Payne, the friendship-of many on the police department, including more than a few of the white shirts, some of whom even wore stars on their uniforms.
It was said of Mickey O’Hara that he knew more people on the police force than most of the cops did themselves, and certainly more cops recognized him than could identify in a crowd the top cop himself, Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariana.
O’Hara’s history with the police was almost, but not quite, as long as his history with the Bulletin. He’d begun with a paper route at age twelve, throwing the afternoon edition from his bike at the stoops of West Philadelphia row houses every day after school for four years.
By the time he turned sixteen, a series of events had served to dramatically change his career in newspapers.
The series was triggered by his being expelled from West Catholic High School.
Monsignor Dooley had made it clear that gambling would not be tolerated. When he found out that the O’Hara boy had illegal numbers slips that could be traced back to Francesco “Frankie the Gut” Guttermo, and that Mickey would not rat out his co-conspirator-no matter how immoral the Monsignor declared it all to be-the Monsignor said that left him with no choice but to throw Mickey out of school.
Before being caught by the Monsignor and being shown the door, Mickey had heard that the Bulletin had a copyboy position open. He’d never had the time to pursue it-until now. And now he really wanted it, because it offered far more money than throwing papers from a bike, and it was indoor work, so no more riding in the rain or racing away from the snapping maws of those goddamn rabid street dogs.
Mickey actually got the position, but with a ninety-day probation period.
He took his new job seriously, probation or not. And that did not go unnoticed.
After his probation period expired, he came to be mentored by the ink-stained assistant city desk editor, who dumped on Mickey more and more of the research assignments-drudge work that no one else wanted to do. Before Mickey knew it, the research he was turning in was becoming actual articles, albeit short ones, printed under the credit “Staff Roundup.”
Then, late one Friday afternoon-he clearly remembered it as if it had happened yesterday, not nearly two decades earlier-he’d been summoned to the managing editor’s office. The office had a huge glass window
