There had been a tone in his voice that Captain Gaft had picked up on.
'It could be a number of things,' Gaft offered.
'Sir?'
'You know Tony Lucci?' Gaft asked.
'Yes, sir.'
Tony Lucci, as a sergeant, had been Mayor Jerry Carlucci's driver. When he had made lieutenant (four places under Jack Malone on the list), he had been assigned to Special Operations. The word was that he was the mayor's spy in Special Operations.
'He's taking over for you here, and you're replacing him at Bustleton and Bowler. I was told about both transfers, not asked, but it seems possible to me that the mayor may have been interested in seeing that Tony got an assignment that would enhance his career.'
'Oh, it washis career enhancement you were talking about?'
'Maybe Lucci knows when it's best to back off, Jack.'
'Are we talking about Holland here?'
'I'm not. I don't know about you.'
Malone did not reply.
'You're beingtransferred, Jack,' Captain Gaft went on. 'You want a little advice, leave it at that. Maybe it was time. Sometimes people, especially people with personal problems, get too tied up with the job. That sometimes gets people in trouble. That didn't happen to you. Maybe if you weren't being transferred, it would have. Am I getting through to you?'
'Yes, sir.'
He's really a good guy. What I really did was go over his head. If you go over a captain's head, even if you're right, you'd better expect trouble. I went over his head, and nobody thinks I'm right, and it could be a lot worse. There are a lot of assignments for a lieutenant a lot worse than Lucci's old job in Special Operationswhatever Lucci's job was.
Gaft didn't stick it in me, although everybody would have understood it if he had. Or Cohan took care of me again. Or both. More than likely, both. But there is sort of a 'this is your last chance, Malone, to straighten up and fly right' element in this transfer.
'You're expected at Bustleton and Bowler at eight-thirty. In uniform. Maybe it would be a good idea to clear out your desk here today. Any loose ends we can worry about later.'
'Yes, sir,' Malone had said. 'Captain, I enjoyed working for you.'
'Most of the time, Jack, I enjoyed having you work for me. When you get settled out there with the hotshots, call me, and we'll have lunch or something.'
'I'll do that, sir. Thank you.'
'Good luck, Jack.'
Malone had bought only one new uniform when he'd made lieutenant. There had not been, thanks to his lawyer's money-up-front business practice, enough money for more than one. Now he would need at least one-and preferably two-more. But that was his problem, not the Police Department's. He would just have to take the one he had to a two-hour dry cleaners, until, by temporarily giving up unimportant things, like eating, he could come up with the money to buy more. EZ-Credit was something else that had gone with Mrs. John J. Malone.
Malone examined himself in the none-too-clear mirror on the chest of drawers. He did not especially like what he saw. Gone was the trim young cop, replaced by a lieutenant who looked like a lieutenant.
Chubby, Malone thought. Hairline retreating. A little pouchy under the eyes. Is that the beginning of a jowl?
He left his suite and walked down the narrow, dimly lit corridor to the elevator, which, after he pushed the button, announced its arrival with an alarming combination of screeches and groans.
He stopped by the desk, which was manned by a cadaverous white male in a soiled maroon sports coat. 'There's no hot water.'
'I know, they're working on it,' the desk clerk said, without raising his eyes from the PhiladelphiaDaily News.
'If it's not fixed by the time I get home from work, I'll blow up the building,' Malone said.
The desk clerk raised his eyes from theDaily News.
'I didn't know you were a cop,' he said.
'Now you do. Get the hot water fixed.'
Malone found his car, on the roof of which someone had left two beer cans and the remains of a slice of pizza. It was a seven-year-old Ford Mustang. There had once been two cars registered in his name, the other a 1972 Ford station wagon. Ellen now had that.
I should have the station wagon. And I should have the house. She was the one fucking around. She should be living in that goddamned hotel and driving this piece of shit.
Look on the bright side. No alimony. And, what the hell, she needed something to carry Little Jack around in.
He knocked the beer cans and pizza off the roof and got in. He went east to North Broad Street, and then out North Broad to Roosevelt Boulevard. Eight blocks down Roosevelt Boulevard he made a lane change that did not meet the standards of a brother police officer.
There was the growl of a siren, and when he looked in the mirror, he saw a cop waving him over.
A Highway Patrol car. Only Highway RPCs had two cops in them.
He nodded his head to show that he understood the order, and as soon as he could safely do so pulled to the side.
The Highway Patrolman swaggered over to the Mustang, only at the last moment noticing that there was a gold bar on the epaulets of Malone's blue jacket.
'Good morning, sir,' the Highway Patrolman said.
'Good morning.'
'Lieutenant, your turn signal's inoperative. I thought you'd like to know.'
'Yes. Thank you very much. I'll have it checked.'
The Highway Patrolman saluted and walked back to his car.
Malone moved the turn signal lever.
The goddamn thing really is broken. Did I use the sonofabitch, and it didn't work, or was I just weaving through traffic in this rusty piece of shit, and he stopped me for that?
Moot point, Lieutenant. Either today, or tomorrow, or the day after that, one of those two guys is going to see me at Bustleton and Bowler, and I will become universally known as the New Lieutenant Who Drives Not Only Recklessly But in a Real Piece of Shit of an Ancient Mustang.
Malone hadn't been to Highway Patrol Headquarters, at Bustleton and Bowler Streets, not far from the North Philadelphia Airport, in a long time. It had been busy then, he remembered, because it shared the building with the headquarters of the 7^th District, but it had been nothing like it was now.
There were the cars and vans of the 7^th District; the cars and motorcycles of Highway Patrol; a flock of cars, marked and unmarked, that obviously belonged to Special Operations; and even a stakeout van. His hope of finding a parking space reserved for LIEUTENANTS or even OFFICIAL VISITORS had been wishful thinking. He had trouble just driving through the parking lot. The only empty space he saw was marked RESERVED FOR COMMISSIONER.
He drove around the block and tried again. This time a turnkey (an officer assigned to make himself useful in the parking lot) waved him down and pointed out a parking spot reserved for a sergeant.
It was crowded inside too, but finally he managed to give his name to a sergeant at a desk just inside a door marked HEADQUARTERS, SPECIAL
OPERATIONS.
'Welcome to the circus, Lieutenant,' the sergeant said. 'I saw the teletype. The inspector's office is through
