"Peter Wohl, Jack," his caller said. "Am I interrupting anything?"
"No, sir."
"Sorry to bother you at home, but I want to talk to you about something."
"Yes, sir?"
"Have you had dinner?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you mind watching me eat? I've got to get something in my stomach."
"Not at all."
"You know Ribs Unlimited on Chestnut Street?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you meet me there in-thirty, thirty-five minutes?"
"Yes, sir, I'll be there."
"At the bar, Jack. Thank you," Wohl said, and hung up.
What the fuck does Wohl want? Is this going to be one of those heartto-heart talks better held in an informal atmosphere? Has word finally got to him that I was watching Holland's body shop?
"Malone, you disappoint me. A word to the wise should have been sufficient. Get Bob Holland out of your mind. In other words, get off his case."
Malone pushed himself out of bed and started to dress. He really hated to wear anything but blue jeans and a sweater and a nylon jacket,because sure as Christ made little apples, if I put on a suit and shirt, I will get something -slush or barbecue sauce, something-on them and have to take them to the cleaners.
"But on the other hand," he said aloud as he took a tweed sports coat and a pair of cavalry twill trousers from the closet, "one must look one's best when one is about to socialize with one's superior officer. Clothes indeed do make the man."
When he got outside the hotel, he saw that the temperature had dropped, and frozen the slush. He decided to walk. It wasn't really that close, but if he drove, he might not be able to find a place to park when he came back, and he had plenty of time. Wohl had said thirty, thirty-five minutes.
Now I won't soil my clothes, I'll slip on the goddamn ice and break my fucking leg.
Ribs Unlimited, despite the lousy weather, was crowded. There was a line of people waiting for the nod of the head-waiter in the narrow entrance foyer.
Malone stood in the line for a minute or two, and then remembered Wohl had said "in the bar." The headwaiter tried to stop him.
"I'm meeting someone," Malone said, and kept walking. He found an empty stool next to a woman who was desperately trying to appear younger than the calendar made her, and whose perfume filled his nostrils with a scent that reminded him of something else he hadn't been getting much-any-of lately.
When the bartender appeared, he almost automatically said "Ortleib's" but at the last moment changed his mind.
"John Jameson, easy on the ice," he said.
Fuck it, I've been a good boy lately. One little shooter will be good for me. And one I can afford.
Wohl appeared as the bartender served the drink.
"Been waiting long?"
"No, sir, I just got here."
"What is that?"
"Irish."
"I feel Irish," Wohl said to the bartender. "Same way, please. Not too much ice."
A heavyset man appeared, beaming.
"How are you, Inspector?"
"How are you, Charley?" Wohl replied. "Charley, this is Lieutenant Jack Malone. Jack, Charley Meader, our host."
"You work with the inspector, Lieutenant?" Meader said, pumping Malone's hand.
"Yes, sir," Malone said.
"I've got you a table in the back anytime you're ready, Inspector," Meader said.
"I guess we could carry our drinks, right?" Wohl said. "When I get mine, that is."
"Whatever you'd prefer," Meader said, and waited until the bartender served Wohl.
"House account that, Jerry," he said.
"Very kind, thank you," Wohl said.
"My pleasure, Inspector. And anytime, you know that."
He patted Wohl on the shoulder and shook hands with both of them.
"Whenever you're ready, Inspector, your table's available," Meader said. "Good to see you. And to meet you, Lieutenant."
Wohl waited until he was gone, then said, "There was once a Department of Health inspector who led Charley Meader to believe that he would have far less trouble passing his inspections if he handed him an envelope once a week when he came in for a free meal."
"Oh," Malone said.
"Charley belongs to the Jaguar Club," Wohl went on. "You know I have a Jaguar?"
"I've seen it."
"1950 SK-120 Drophead Coupe," Wohl said. "So he came to me after a meeting one night and said he had heard I was a cop, and that he didn' t want to put me on the spot, but did I know an honest sergeant, or maybe even an honest lieutenant. He would go to him, without mentioning my name, and tell him his problem."
"A long time ago?"
"Just before they gave me Special Operations," Wohl said.
"He didn't know you were a staff inspector?"
"No. Not until I testified in court."
"So what happened?"
"The next time the Health Department sleaze-ball came in, I was tending bar and I had a photographer up there." He gestured toward a balcony overlooking the bar and smiled. "I put a microphone in the pretzel bowl. Hanging Harriet gave the Health Department guy three to five," Wohl said.
Hanging Harriet was the Hon. Harriet M. McCandless, a formidable black jurist who passionately believed that civilized society was based upon a civil service whose honesty was above question.
"No wonder he buys you drinks."
"The sad part of the story, Jack, is that Charley really was afraid to go to the cops until he found one he thoughtmight be honest."
Wohl took a swallow of his drink, and then said, "Let's carry these to the table. I've got to get something to eat."
The headwaiter left his padded rope and showed them to a table at the rear of the room. A waiter immediately appeared.
"The El Rancho Special," Wohl ordered. "Hold the beans. French fries."
"What's that?"
"Barbecued beef. Great sauce. You really ought to try it."
"I think I will," Malone said.
"Yes, sir. And can I get you gentlemen a drink?"
"Please. The same thing. Jameson's, isn't it?"
"Jameson's," Malone offered.
"And I don't care what Mr. Meader says, I want the check for this," Wohl said.
The waiter looked uncomfortable.
"You're going to have to talk to Mr. Meader about that, sir."
"All right," Wohl said. He waited until the waiter left, and then said, "Well, you can't say I didn't try to pay for this, can you?"
Malone chuckled.
Wohl reached in the breast pocket of his jacket and came out with several sheets of blue-lined paper and handed them to Malone.
"I'd like to know what you think about that, Jack. I don't have muchpractically no-experience in this sort of thing."
"What is it?"
"How to protect Monahan, the witness in the Goldblatt job, and Matt Payne. Monahan positively identified everybody we arrested, by the way. Washington called me just after I called you."
The protection plan was detailed and precise, even including drawings of Monahan's house, Matt's apartment, and the areas around them. That didn't surprise Malone, for he expected as much from Wohl. His brief association with him had convinced him that he really was as smart as his reputation held him to be.
But he was surprised at the handwriting. He had read somewhere, years before, and come to accept, that a very good clue to a man's character was his handwriting. From what he had seen of Wohl, what he knew about him, there was a certain flamboyance to his character, which, according to the handwriting theory, should have manifested itself in flamboyant, perhaps even careless, writing. But the writing on the sheets of lined paper was quite the opposite. Wohl's characters were small, carefully formed, with dots over the I's, and neatly crossed T' s. Even his abbreviations were followed by periods.
Maybe that's what he's really like, Malone thought. Beneath the fashionable clothing and the anti-establishment public attitude, there really beats the heart of a very careful man, one who doesn't really like to take the chance of being wrong.