breakfast.
He returned to the kitchen, put a pot of water on the stove to boil, and got eggs and bread from the refrigerator. He decided he would not make coffee, because that would mean having to clean the pot, technically a brewer his mother had given him for Christmas. It made marvelous coffee, but unless it was cleaned almost immediately, it turned the coffee grounds in its works to concrete and required a major overhaul.
When the water boiled, he added vinegar, then, with a wooden spoon, swirled the water around until it formed a whirlpool. Then, expertly, he cracked two eggs with one hand and dropped them into the water. By the time they were done, the toaster had popped up. He took the eggs from the water with a slotted spoon, put them onto the toast, and moved to his small kitchen table. Time elapsed, beginning to end: ten minutes.
'If I only had a cup of coffee,' he announced aloud, 'all would be right in my world.'
Then it occurred to him that if he was to meet with the district attorney, a suit would be in order, not the blazer and slacks he had intended to wear. And if he wore a suit, shoes, not loafers, would be in order.
The whole goddamn shoe-shining business, including the polish-stained left hand, had been a waste of time and effort.
He returned to the sink, and washed his hands with a bar of miracle abrasive soap that was guaranteed to remove all kinds of stain. The manufacturers had apparently never dealt with cordovan shoe polish.
Or, he thought cynically, they knew damned well that very few people would wrap up a fifty-cent bar of soap and mail it off to Dubuque, Iowa, or wherever, for a refund. Particularly since they wouldn't have the address in Iowa, having thrown the wrapping away when they took the soap out.
He took his pale blue shirt off, replaced it with a white one, and put on a dark gray, pin-striped suit.
'Oh, you are a handsome devil, Peter Wohl,' he said as he checked himself in the mirror. 'I wonder why you don't get laid more than you do?'
He arrived downtown at the district attorney's office with five minutes to spare, having exceeded the speed limit over almost all of the route.
As he looked at his watch, he thought the hour was odd. He didn't think the district attorney was usually about the people's business at eight A.M. Had Callis summoned Lowenstein at this time? Probably not. If Callis had wanted to see them, somebody would have called him too. The odds were that Lowenstein had called Callis and told him he had to see him as soon as possible, and then when Callis had agreed, Lowenstein had called him.
Why?
Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein, Detective Joe D'Amata of Homicide, and another man, obviously a detective, were in Callis's outer office when Peter walked in.
'I was getting worried about you,' Lowenstein greeted him.
'Good morning, Chief, I'm not late, am I?'
'Just barely,' Lowenstein said. 'You know Jerry Pelosi, don't you?'
'Sure. How are you, Pelosi?'
They shook hands.
The mystery is over. Pelosi's the Central Detectives guy working the Goldblatt job. This is about that.
There was no chance to ask Chief Lowenstein. A large, silver-haired, ruddy-faced man, the Hon. Thomas J. Callis, district attorney of Philadelphia, swept into his outer office, the door held open for him by Philadelphia County Detective W.H. Mahoney. The district attorney had in effect his own detective bureau. Most of them, like Mahoney, were ex-Philadelphia Police Department officers. A detective bodyguard-driver was one of the perks of being the district attorney.
'Hello, Matt,' Callis said. 'How the hell are you?'
A real pol,Wohl thought. Wohl did not ordinarily like politicians, but he was of mixed emotions about Callis. He had worked closely with him during his investigation In those happy, happy, days when I was just one more staff inspector -of Judge Findermann and his fellow scumbags, and had concluded that Callis was deeply offended by the very notion of a judge on the take, and interested in the prosecution for that reason alone, not simply because it might look good for him in the newspapers.
'And Peter,' Callis went on, 'looking the fashion plate even at this un-godly hour.'
'Good morning, Mr. Callis.'
'Tommy! Tommy! How many times do I have to tell you that?'
'Tommy,' Wohl said obediently.
'Detective D'Amata I know, of course, but I don't think I've had the pleasure-'
'Detective Jerry Pelosi,' Lowenstein offered, 'of Central Detectives.'
'Well, I'm delighted to meet you, Jerry,' Callis said, sounding as if he meant it, and pumping his hand.
Callis turned and faced the others, beaming as if just seeing them gave him great pleasure.
'Well, let's get on with this, whatever it is,' he said. 'Are we all going in, Matt?'
'Why not?' Lowenstein said, after a just perceptible pause. 'Mahoney knows when to keep his mouth shut, don't you, Mahoney?'
'Yes, of course he does,' Callis said. 'Well then, come on in. Anybody want some coffee?'
'I would kill for a cup of coffee,' Wohl said.
'Figuratively speaking, of course, Peter?'
'Don't get between me and the pot,' Wohl replied.
'Black, Inspector?' Mahoney asked.
'Please,' Wohl said.
'My time is your time, Matt, providing this doesn't last more than thirty minutes,' Callis said.
'You heard about the Goldblatt job?' Lowenstein asked.
'You mean the-what was it?-'Islamic Liberation Army'? It was all over the tube. TheLedger even ran a photo of their press release on the front page of the second section. Who the hell are these nuts, Matt?'
'Between Pelosi and D'Amata we have a pretty good idea who they are,' Lowenstein said.
'Good idea or names?'
'Names. On almost all of them, anyway.'
'Witnesses?'
'There were twenty-odd people in Goldblatt's,' Lowenstein replied.
'That's not what I asked.'
'We have onegood witness,' Lowenstein said carefully.
'A Goldblatt employee. Worked like sort of a doorman. Albert J. Monahan. Pelosi showed him pictures and he positively identified all of them.'
'A moment ago you said there were twenty-odd people in Goldblatt's.'
'They don't want to get involved. In other words, they're scared. That press release and the way the press swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker, made things worse.'
'So if you catch these guys, you haveone witness?'
'There's no question of 'if' we catch them, Tommy,' Lowenstein said. 'The question is how, and what we do with them.'
'Let's cut to the chase,' the district attorney said.
'Okay. Two things bug me about this job,' Lowenstein said. 'First, something that's been building up the last couple of years. Witnesses not wanting to get involved. A lot of scumbags are walking around out there because witnesses suddenly have developed trouble with their memories.'
Callis nodded. 'They're afraid. I don't know what to do about it.'
'In a minute, I'll tell you. The second thing is I don't like the idea of a bunch ofschwartzer thugs dressing up like Arabs-'
'Americans of African descent, you mean, of course, Chief?' Callis interrupted softly.
'-and announcing they're not really stick-up artists-in this case, murderers-but soldiers in some liberation army.'
'And blaming the Jews for all their troubles?'
'Yeah. Blamingus Jews for all their troubles,' Lowenstein said. 'That bothers me personally, but I'm here as the chief inspector of Detectives of the City of Philadelphia. Okay?'
'No offense, Matt.'
'I called Jason Washington last night-' Lowenstein said, and then interrupted himself. 'I tried to call you,
