to call you, Sigmund Freud.”
“I thought that had to be you. Sophomoric humor.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Patricia Payne said.
“He told the receptionist to tell me they were going to repossess my television unless they got paid,” Amy said.
“Matt, you didn’t,” Patricia Payne said, but her face revealed that she found a certain element of humor in the situation.
“I walked into the office, and the receptionist, all embarrassed, whispered in my ear and said that the finance company had called-”
Mrs. Newman laughed out loud.
“I’m going to get you for that, wiseass,” Amy said.
“I put a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator after Denny called,” Patricia Payne said. “Go get your father and we’ll open it. He’s in the living room.”
“Uncle Denny called?” Matt asked.
“We’re invited to the promotion ceremony,” Patricia said. “Denny’s very proud of you. We all are.”
“You, too, Sigmund?” Matt asked.
Dr. Payne gave him the finger.
“And that goes for your boss, too,” she said. “We had dinner Monday night and he didn’t say a goddamn word.”
“All Peter knew was that The List was out. He didn’t know when the promotion would come through, except that it wasn’t going to be anytime soon. That’s probably why he didn’t tell you.”
She snorted.
Matt walked out of the kitchen, down a narrow corridor, and through a door into a rather small, comfortably furnished room with book-lined walls, and the chairs arranged to face a large television screen.
Brewster C. Payne was sitting with his feet up on the matching ottoman of a red leather armchair, one of two. He was a tall, angular, dignified man in his early fifties.
He had a legal brief in his lap and his right hand was wrapped around a glass of whiskey.
“You were on the boob tube,” he said. “You looked distressed. ”
“I was,” Matt said, and then went on: “Amy’s pissed that Uncle Denny told you before I did. For the record, I tried to call just as soon as I found out.”
“That’s not why she’s… somewhat less than enthusiastic, ” Brewster Payne said. “I think she was hoping you’d fail the test and leave the police department.”
“Mother’s got champagne in the fridge,” Matt said, changing the subject. “But I’d rather have a quick one of those.”
Payne pointed at a bottle of scotch, sitting with a silver water pitcher, a silver ice bowl, and several glasses. Matt helped himself, and while he was doing so, Brewster Payne rose from his chair. When Matt raised his glass, his father held out his glass and touched Matt’s.
“It’s what you want, Matt, so I’m happy for you. And proud. Number one!”
“Thank you.”
“You can stay for supper? We bought some shrimp on the road from Wilmington…”
“Sure. I made shrimp last night for Chad and Daffy, but what the hell…”
“We could thaw a steak.”
“Shrimp’s fine. Daffy was playing matchmaker again. I’d already met her. She’s from Los Angeles. She’s handling, I guess is the word, Stan Colt when he comes to town. His real name is Stanley Coleman.”
“I saw it in the paper. Are you involved with that somehow? ”
“Peter sent me to a meeting to see what Dignitary Protection is going to need to protect Super Cop. Monsignor Schneider-who sitteth at the right hand of the Bishop-was there. I think he’s a cop groupie. He knew all about Doylestown. Anyway, he asked for me by name. When Super Cop, aka Colt aka Coleman comes to town, I’ll be temporarily assigned to Dignitary Protection. Terry said he’s interested in very young women. That ought to make it interesting.”
“Is that the young woman’s name, ‘Terry’?”
“Terry Davis. Two ‘r’s and a ‘y.’ She said her father’s a lawyer with movie connections, and he got her the job with GAM. Which stands for Global Artists Management.”
“I think I know him,” Brewster Payne said. “If it’s the same fellow, he masterfully defends, whenever challenged, the motion picture industry’s amazingly imaginative accounting practices.”
“Interesting,” Matt said. “If you happen to bump into him…'”
“I’m getting the impression that you are somewhat taken with this young lady, and therefore not entirely unhappy with the prospect of protecting… what did you call him? ‘Super Cop’?”
“She’s a blonde. Nice legs,” Matt said. “And she knows how to peel shrimp. What more can one ask for?”
“What indeed?” Brewster Payne said.
“Matt,” Patricia Payne said at the door, “I told you I was going to open a bottle of champagne.”
“I needed a little liquid courage to face Sigmund Freud,” Matt said.
She turned without replying, and after a moment, her son and husband followed her into the kitchen.
The three women were standing around the chopping block in the middle of the kitchen. They each held a champagne glass, and there were two more on the chopping block. And something else, wrapped in a handkerchief.
Matt and his father picked up the champagne stems.
“To Sergeant Payne,” Patricia Payne said, and they all touched glasses.
Matt took a sip and set it down.
“I’ve got something for you,” she said. “I wanted the family to be together when I gave it to you.”
She picked up the handkerchief and handed it to him. Even before he unwrapped it, Matt knew what it was. It was a police badge, and he knew whose.
“Your father’s,” she said.
Matt looked at the sergeant’s badge, Number 471, of the Police Department of the City of Philadelphia.
“When Denny called,” Patricia Payne went on, “he said that he could arrange for you to be assigned your father’s number if I wanted. I told him I thought you would like that. And he asked me if I happened to still have it, and I told him I’d have to look. I found it. It was in the attic. And your father’s off-duty gun, the snub-nosed. 38.”
He looked at his mother but didn’t say anything.
“Your father was a good man, Matt,” his mother said. “A good police officer.”
“I have two fathers,” Matt said, his voice breaking. “My other father is a good man, too.”
Brewster Payne looked at him.
“Write this down, Matt. Never reply to a heartfelt compliment. You never can come up with something worth saying.”
He put his arm around Matt’s shoulder, and then embraced him.
“Give that to Denny before the ceremony tomorrow,” Patricia Payne said. “He’ll know how to handle it.”
Matt nodded, and slipped the badge into his pocket.
“Under the circumstances,” Brewster Payne said, picking up his whiskey glass, “barring objections, I think I’ll have another of these.”
“Me, too,” Matt said.
“First, we’ll finish the champagne,” Patricia Payne said. “And then we’ll all have a drink.”
Matt had just turned onto I-476 in Swarthmore to return to Philadelphia when the S-Band radio in the Crown Victoria went off: 'S-Twelve.”
He pulled the microphone from under the center armrest.
“Twelve.”
“Meet the inspector in the 700 block of North Second.”
“Got it. En route. Thank you,” he said.
It was entirely possible that a crime had been committed in the 700 block of North Second Street, requiring
