Malone, and John Barleycorn having lasted until after ten, indicated a couple of soft boiled eggs on toast, rather than a restaurant breakfast, when his door buzzer sounded.
Who the hell is that, at quarter to seven?
He got out of bed, put on a bathrobe, and walked barefoot to the door.
'Hello, Hay-zus,' he said. 'How are you? Come on in.'
What the hell do you want? That you couldn't have said on the telephone?
'I brought this back,' Martinez said, thrusting the loose-leaf notebook with BUREAU OF NARCOTICS AND DANGEROUS DRUGS Investigator's Manual FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY stamped on its cover at Wohl.
At seven o 'clock in the goddamned morning?
'Thank you,' Wohl said.
'And I wanted to talk to you,' Martinez said a little uncomfortably. 'I thought it would be better if I came. Instead of calling, I mean.'
'Absolutely. Do you know how to make coffee?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You make the coffee, then, while I catch a quick shower,' Wohl said, and pointed toward his kitchen.
'Yes, sir.'
'What's on your mind, Hay-zus?' Wohl asked, walking into the kitchen buttoning the cuff of his shirt.
'Inspector, the last time I was here: sir, you asked me if I had a gut feeling about anybody, anybody dirty, I mean, and I told you I didn't.'
And now you 're going to tell me, right?
'I remember.'
'I did, but I didn't want to say anything.'
'I understand. What's your gut feeling, Hay-zus?'
'There's a corporal out there, name of Vito Lanza.'
'And you think he's dirty? Why?'
'He just came back from Las Vegas with a lot of money. Enough to buy a new Cadillac.'
'Your pal Matt Payne was just in Vegas and did about the same thing.'
'Payne's different. Payne's got money. He can afford that kind of money to gamble.'
'Is that all you've got to go on, Hay-zus?'
'The day before yesterday, this Lanza had a lot of money, in cash, ninety-four hundred dollars, in his glove compartment.'
Maybe he is onto something. That's a lot of money. Christ knows, I never had ninety-four hundred dollars in cash. But then I never gambled in Las Vegas, either. And how the hell does he know that?
'How do you know that?'
Martinez's face flushed.
The reason he knows that is that he went into this guy's car. My God!
'Forget I asked that question. That way you won't have to lie to me,' Wohl said. 'Anything else?'
'There was also a matchbook from a place in the Poconos, called the Oaks and Pines Lodge,' Martinez said. 'I called a guy I know in Vice and asked him about it, and he said they gamble in the back room of that place.'
'Fortunately, that's no concern of ours, our jurisdiction ending as it does at the city line.'
Why did you do that? This guy is trying, and sarcasm is not in order.
'At two o'clock this morning, Lanza signed a marker for two thousand dollars at this place.'
'How do you know that? What did you do, for Christ's sake, follow him?'
'No, sir. But I got it from a good source.'
'You're supposed to be undercover, Martinez. That means you don't talk to people about what you're doing. Who's your source?'
'I don't want to get him in trouble, Inspector.'
'Cut the crap, Martinez. Who's your source?'
'Well, I knew I never could get in this place. And even if I did, Lanza would recognize me. I had to find out.'
'Once again, Martinez, cut the crap. Let's have it.'
'Payne went up there, Inspector.'
'You asked Payne to follow this guy?' Wohl asked incredulously.
'I asked him if he would, if I found out Lanza was going up there.'
'And you heard he was going up there?'
'No. Payne went up there on his own. Last night. And he called me about five this morning and told me he saw Lanza sign a marker for two thousand dollars.'
'How did he know who Lanza was?'
'He was carrying, and Payne made him as a cop, and then Lanza recognized Payne…'
'Lanza made Payne?'
'Not as a cop. He recognized him from Las Vegas, or something like that. But Payne said he was sure Lanza did not make him as a cop.'
I don't need this. A bonafide lunatic is trying to disintegrate the Vice President of the United States, and we have no idea who he is or where he is, and I don't need to be distracted by a possibly dirty cop at the airport, or another proof that Matt Payne has a dangerous tendency to charge off doing something stupid.
'What we have here is a lucky gambler. The only law we know he's broken is to gamble in the Poconos. We wouldn't have a police department if every cop who gambles got fired.'
'This guy is dirty, Inspector. I know it,' Martinez said.
On the other hand we have here a guy who gambles big time in Las Vegas, had almost ten thousand dollars in cash in his glove compartment yesterday, and yet was signing a marker for two thousand in a joint in the Poconos. Which means, unless he used the ten thousand to pay off his mortgage or something, that he lost it, and signed a marker for more. The money bothers me. Cops do not have that kind of money. Honest cops don't.
And Martinez is not Matt Payne. He had two years undercover in Narcotics, and was damned good at it. He's had the time to develop the intuition. And he's not going off half-cocked, either, strictly on intuition. The last time he was here, he wouldn't give me this guy's name.
Wohl got up from the table and went into his bedroom. He took a small notebook from his bedside table, looked up a number, and dialed it.
'Chief Marchessi, this is Peter Wohl. Sorry to disturb you at home, sir. I think our man has come up with something. Have you got time in your schedule this morning to talk to us, sir?'
There was a pause.
'Thank you, Chief. We'll be there.'
He hung up and went back in the kitchen.
'At half past eight, Hay-zus, we're going to see Chief Inspector Marchessi at Internal Affairs. You know where it is?'
'Yes, sir. At Third and Race.'
'Be there.'
'Yes, sir.'
When Martinez had gone, Wohl went to the phone on the coffee table in his living room and dialed another number, this one from memory.
There was no answer on Detective Payne's line, and his answering machine did not kick in, although Wohl let it ring a long time.
Finally, he hung up and looked at his watch.
Christ, 1 won't get any breakfast at all!
