Did he just spot me? Or was he looking for me?
“Well, aren’t we in luck?” Charley McFadden said as he slid into the booth beside Sonny. “Timothy Francis Boyle himself, in the flesh!”
“How are you, Charley?” Sonny asked, and smilingly offered his hand. “Nice threads.”
“Thanks,” Charley said. “Sonny, say hello to my friend Matt Payne.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sonny said. He gave the other guy his hand, and was surprised that he wasn’t able to give it a real squeeze the way he wanted to. This Payne guy was stronger than he looked like.
“How do you do, Mr. Boyle?” Matt said.
Main Line, Sonny decided. If he talks like that-like he keeps his teeth together when he talks-and dresses like that, he’s from some place like Merion or Bala Cynwyd. I wonder what the fuck he’s doing with McFadden.
“Long time no see,” Sonny said. “What brings you down this way?”
Charley put two fingers in his mouth, causing a shrill whistle which attracted the waitress’s attention. “Two coffees, darling,” he called out. “Put them on Sonny’s bill.”
“On my bill, my ass,” Sonny said.
“For old times’ sake, Sonny, right? Besides, I’ve told Matt you’re a successful businessman.”
“You did?”
“I told him you are one of the neighborhood’s most successful numbers runners and part-time bookies.”
“Jesus Christ, Charley, that’s not funny.”
“Don’t be bashful,” McFadden said. “He’s always been a little bashful, Matt.”
“Has he really?” Matt said.
“Yeah. What do you expect, with a name like Francis? That’s a girl’s name.”
“When its a girl, they spell it with an e,” Sonny said. “Damn it, you know that.” He looked at Matt Payne. “Charley and me go back a long ways. He’s always pulling my leg.”
Who the fuck is this guy? What the hell is this all about?
One of Sonny’s runners-Pat O’Hallihan, a bright, red-headed eighteen-year-old who worked hard, was honest, and for whom Sonny saw a bright future came into Lou’s Crab House, carrying a small canvas zipper bag with his morning’s receipts. He stopped when he saw that Sonny was not alone in the booth. Sonny made what he hoped was a discreet gesture telling him to cool it.
It was not discreet enough.
“Turn around, Matthew,” McFadden said. “The kid in the red hair? Three to five he’s one of Sonny’s runners.”
Matt turned and looked.
“Is he really?” he asked.
“Charley, you are not funny,” Sonny said.
“Who’s trying to be funny?” McFadden said. “I was just filling Detective Payne in on the local scumbags.”
“ Detective” Payne? Is he telling me this Main Line asshole in the three-hundred-fifty-dollar jacket and the fifty-dollar tie is a cop?
“You’re a cop?” Sonny’s mouth ran away with him.
“Show him your badge, Matthew,” McFadden said. “Sonny-I suppose in his line of work, it’s natural-don’t trust anybody.”
The Main Line asshole reached into the inside breast pocket of his three-hundred-fifty-dollar Harris tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and came out with a small folder. He opened it and extended it to Sonny, which afforded Sonny the opportunity to see a Philadelphia Police Department detective’s badge and accompanying photo identification.
“You don’t look like a cop,” Sonny said.
“Don’t I really?” Matt asked.
“Detective Payne is with Special Operations,” Charley said. “You familiar with Special Operations, Sonny?”
“Sure.”
What the fuck is Special Operations? Oh, yeah. That new hotshot outfit. They’re over Highway Patrol.
“You know what Detective Payne said when I told him what line of work you’re in, Sonny?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Detective Payne said, Bookmaking and numbers running is a violation of the law. I think we should find your friend and throw his ass in jail.’ Isn’t that what you said, Matt?”
“Hmmmm,” Matt said thoughtfully. “Yes, that is essentially what I said.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” Matt said. “I was not speaking in jest.”
“I’m getting out of here,” Sonny said. “And just for the hell of it, wiseass, you can’t search me without a reason, and even if you did, you wouldn’t find a thing on me.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Sonny,” McFadden said, and his voice was no longer pleasant. “Until I tell you you can.”
“I’ll bet, Charles,” Matt said, “that if I was to show that young man with the red hair my badge, and ask if he would be kind enough to open his bag for me…” He interrupted himself, jumped to his feet, and walked quickly to the redhead.
“I want you to put that bag on that table,” he said, showing him his badge. “In sight. And I want you to sit in that booth with your hands flat on the table until I tell you to move. You understand me?”
The redhead followed Matt’s pointing, to the last booth in the line.
“Am I busted?” the redhead asked, very nervously.
“If you mean arrested,’ not yet. And perhaps that can be avoided. It depends on Mr. Boyle.”
He waited until the redhead had done what he had ordered him to do, then walked back to the booth and sat down.
“Excuse me, Detective McFadden,” he said politely. “Please continue.”
“So you bust him, so what?” Sonny said.
“I hope that won’t be necessary,” Matt said. “But in that unhappy happenstance, you would lose the morning’s receipts. That would provide sufficient justification, I would think, Mr. Boyle, for Special Operations to assign whatever police personnel proved to be necessary to save the innocent citizens of this area from gambling czars such as yourself. And I think there is a good possibility that after we have his mother and his parish priest talk to that young man in Central Lockup, he might be willing, to save his soul from eternal damnation, ninety days in prison, and the first entry on his criminal record, to tell us who had given him his present employment, and precisely where and with whom he plied his trade.”
“Speaking of which,” Charley McFadden said. “The minute the word gets out that the cops have your receipts, you’re going to have a lot of winners, Sonny. They’re not too smart, but they’re smart enough to know if they claim they won, you’re either going to have to have a receipt proving they didn’t, or pay off. That could be very expensive, Sonny.”
“Interesting thought, Detective McFadden,” Matt said.
“Thank you, Detective Payne”
Sonny, now visibly nervous, looked between Matt and Charley.
“OK, McFadden,” Sonny said. “What do you want?”
“Now that we have you in the right frame of mind, Mr. Boyle,” Matt said, “Detective McFadden wishes to probe your presumably extensive knowledge of Philadelphia’s criminal community.”
“Huh?”
“Tell us about Frankie Foley, Sonny,” Charley said.
Oh, shit! I didn’t even think about him. What the fuck has Foley done now? Christ, did he hit the Narcotics cop?
“Never heard of him,” Sonny said.
“Think hard,” Charley said. Sonny shrugged helplessly.
“Never heard of him, Charley,” Sonny said. “I swear to God!”
“You were apparently wrong, Charles,” Matt said. “Mr. Boyle will not be cooperative. Mr. Boyle, you are under arrest for violating the laws of the City of Philadelphia and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vis-a-vis gambling and participating in an organized gambling enterprise. You have the right to an attorney…”
“Jesus Christ, Charley!” Sonny said. “Now wait a minute.”
“Remember who he is now, Sonny?” Charley asked.
“…and if you cannot afford an attorney,” Matt went on, “one will be appointed for you.” He paused. “I don’t seem to have my handcuffs, Charles. Might I borrow yours?”
“Charley, can we talk? Private?” Sonny asked.