and a regular little hundred-dollar-a-week present just to remind you that being a good guy, doing what’s right, sometimes gets you a little extra money. Nothing wrong with that, right?”
“Not the way you put it,” Officer Crater said. “It bothered-”
“Wrong, you stupid shit!” Lieutenant Meyer snarled.
“Excuse me?”
“I explained to you, Crater, that Harriet Osadchy is personally pocketing at least seventeen thousand, seventeen thousand tax-free, by the way, each and every week, and you really pull her fucking chestnuts out of the fire, really save her ass, really save her big bucks, and she throws a lousy two hundred bucks at you? And figures she’s buying you for a hundred a week? That’s fucking insulting, Crater, can’t you see that?”
Officer Crater did not reply.
“She’s paying, as her cost of doing business, and happy to do it, some lawyer maybe a thousand a week, and some doctor another thousand , and slipping the mob probably ten percent of however the fuck much she takes in, and she slips you a lousy, what, a total of maybe five hundred, and you’re not insulted?”
“I guess I never really thought about it,” Officer Crater confessed.
“Right. You’re goddamned right you didn’t think about it,” Meyer said.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Lieutenant,” Crater said.
“You don’t say anything, that’s what I want you to say. We’ll all be better off if you never open your mouth again. I will tell you what’s going to happen, Crater. Your friend Marianne, the next time you see her, is going to give you another envelope. This one will have a thousand dollars in it. You will take two hundred for your trouble and give the rest to Bill. And every week the same goddamned thing. Am I getting through to you?”
“What do I have to do?”
“I already told you. Keep your mouth shut. That’s all. And remember, if you’re as stupid as I’m beginning to think you are, that if you start thinking about maybe going to Internal Affairs or something, it’d be your word against mine and Bill’s. Not only would we deny this conversation ever took place, but Internal Affairs would have your ass for not coming to them the first time your friend Marianne gave you money.”
Lieutenant Meyer took his arm off the back of the seat and faced forward and turned the ignition.
“Tell whatsisname he’d better get out of the car now, Bill,” he said. “Unless he wants to go with us.”
Staff Inspector Mike Weisbach turned off Frankford Avenue onto Castor and then drove into the parking lot of the Special Operations Division. He saw a parking slot against the wall of the turn-of-the-century school building marked RESERVED FOR INSPECTORS and steered his unmarked Plymouth into it.
I usually go on the job looking forward to what the day will bring , he thought as he got out of the car, but today is different; today, I suspect, I am not going to like at all what the day will bring, and I don’t mean because I’m not used to getting up before seven o’clock to go to work.
He entered the building through the nearest door, above which “BOYS” had been carved in the granite, and found himself in what had been, and was now, a locker room. The difference was that the boys were now all uniformed officers, mostly Highway Patrolmen, and the room was liberally decorated with photographs of young women torn from Playboy, Hustler, and other literary magazines.
“How do I find Inspector Wohl’s office?” Mike addressed a burly Highway Patrolman sitting on a wooden bench in his undershirt, scrubbing at a spot on his uniform shirt.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here, sir,” the Highway Patrolman said, using the word as he would use it to a civilian he had just stopped for driving twenty-five miles over the speed limit the wrong way down a one-way street. “Visitors is supposed to use the front door.”
The Highway Patrolman examined him carefully.
“I know you?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. My name is Mike Weisbach.”
The Highway Patrolman stood up.
“Sorry, Inspector,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you. There’s stairs over there. First floor. Used to be the principal’s office.”
“Thank you,” Mike said, and then smiled and said, “Your face is familiar, too. What did you say your name was?”
“Lomax, sir. Charley Lomax.”
“Yeah, sure,” Mike said, and put out his hand. “Good to see you, Charley. It’s been a while.”
“Yes, sir. It has,” Lomax said.
When he reached the outer office of the Commanding Officer of the Special Operations Division, Weisbach identified himself as Staff Inspector Weisbach to the young officer in plain clothes behind the desk.
“I know he’s expecting you, Inspector. I’ll see if he’s free,” the young officer said, and got up and walked to a door marked INSPECTOR WOHL, knocked, and went inside.
Mike’s memory, which had drawn a blank vis-a-vis Officer Lomax, now kicked in about Wohl’s administrative assistant.
His name is O’Mara, Paul Thomas. His father is Captain Aloysious O’Mara, who commands the Seventeenth District. His brother is Sergeant John F. O’Mara of Civil Affairs. His grandfather had retired from the Philadelphia Police Department. His transfer to Special Operations had been arranged because Special Operations was considered a desirable assignment for a young officer with the proper nepotistic connections .
That’s not why I’m here. Lowenstein didn’t arrange this transfer for me to enhance my career. I’m here to help Jerry Carlucci get reelected.
Peter Wohl, without a jacket, his sleeves rolled up and his tie pulled down, appeared at the door.
“Come on in, Mike,” he said. “Can I have Paul get you a cup of coffee?”
“Please,” Mike said.
“Three, Paul, please,” Wohl ordered, and held the door open for Weisbach.
“Morning, Mike,” Mickey O’Hara called as Weisbach entered the office.
He was sitting on a couch. On the coffee table in front of him was a tape recorder and a heavy manila paper envelope.
“What’s good about it, Mick?” Weisbach asked.
“Peter’s been telling me that the forces of virtue are about to triumph over the forces of evil,” O’Hara replied. “I get an exclusive showing a dirty district captain and a dirty lieutenant on their way to the Central Cellroom. I like that, professionally and personally. So far as I’m concerned, that’s not a bad way to start my day.”
“Mick,” Wohl asked, “how would you feel about going with Mike Sabara when he picks up Paulo Cassandro?”
“Instead of staying here, you mean?” O’Hara replied, and then went on without giving Wohl a chance to reply. “For one thing, Peter, the arrest of second- or third-level gangsters is not what gets on the front page. The arrest of a police captain, a district commander, is. And please don’t tell him I said so, but Mike Sabara is not what you could call photogenic.”
“It’s your call, Mickey.”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Peter,” Mickey said. “Keep a picture of a dirty captain getting arrested out of the papers. But it won’t work. That’s news, Peter.”
“And you’re here with Carlucci’s blessing, right?”
“Yeah, I am, Peter. Sorry.”
“OK. Let’s talk about what’s going to happen. Chief Coughlin will be here any minute. Inspector Sawyer and the others no later than eight. Sawyer comes in here. Coughlin plays the tape of Meyer and Cassandro for him-”
Wohl pointed to the tape machine.
“Coughlin’s going to play the tape for him?” Mickey interrupted, sounding surprised.
“That was my father’s idea. He and Coughlin choreographed this for me last night. The tape is damned incriminating. That should, I was told, keep Sawyer from loyally defending his men. And, Mickey, Carlucci’s blessing or not, you are not going to be here when that happens.”
“OK. Do I get to hear the tape?”
“Can you live with taking my word that it’s incriminating?”
“Can I listen to it out of school?”
“OK. Why not?”
