Jack was back in just over a year, medically retired as a staff sergeant for wounds received in the vicinity of Hangun-Ri, North Korea, where he also earned the Silver Star. He went back to work in the West Detective Division; Denny Coughlin was then in the Central Detective Division.
But things weren't the same between them, primarily because of Patricia Stevens, whom Jack had met when she went with the girls from Saint Agnes's to entertain the boys in the navy hospital. Denny was best man at their wedding, and Patty used to have him to supper a lot, and she helped the both of them prepare for the sergeant's examination.
A month after Jack Moffitt died of gunshot wounds suffered in the line of duty, a month before Matt was born, Denny Coughlin had made a rare visit to his parish rectory, for a private conversation with Monsignor Finn. It took some time before Finn realized what Denny Coughlin really wanted to talk about, and it was not his immortal soul.
"You don't want to marry the girl, Denny," Monsignor Finn said, " because you feel sorry for her, or because she's your friend's wife; nor even to take care of the baby when it comes. And you sure don't want her to marry you because she needs someone to support her and the baby. Now you'll notice that I didn't say you don't want to marry the girl. What I'm saying to you is, have a little patience. Time heals. And it wouldn't surprise me at all if Patty Moffitt saw in you the same things she saw in Jack, God rest his soul. But you want to be sure, son. Marriage is forever. You don't want to be jumping into it. What I'm saying is just keep being what you are, a good friend, until Patty gets over both her grief and the baby. Then if you still feel the same way…"
Dennis V. Coughlin had still felt the same way six months later, and a year later, but before he could bring himself to say anything, Patty Moffitt had gone to work, trying to work her way up to be a legal secretary, and then she'd taken Matt for a walk in his stroller, and she'd run into Brewster Cortland Payne II taking his motherless kids for a walk, and then it had been too late.
Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin had been at Dutch Moffitt's wake at the Marshutz amp; Sons Funeral Home for about an hour when he saw Matt Payne, standing alone, and called him over. He shook his hand, and then put his arm around his shoulders.
"I'd like you to meet these fellows, Matt," he said. "Gentlemen, this is Matt Payne, Dutch's nephew."
Matt was introduced to two chief inspectors, three inspectors, two captains, and a corporal who had gone through the academy with Dutch Moffitt and was being tolerated by the brass for being a little drunk, and just a shade too friendly.
"When you get a moment, Uncle Denny, could I talk to you?"
"You bet you can," Denny Coughlin said. "Excuse us, fellows." He took Matt's arm and led him far down a wide corridor in the funeral home. Finally, they found an empty corner.
"I joined the police department," Matt announced.
"How's that again?"
"I said I'm going to be a policeman," Matt repeated.
"And when did this happen?"
"Today."
"I'll be damned," Dennis V. Coughlin said. "Let me get adjusted to that, Matt."
"So far only my dad knows," Matt said.
"Your dad is dead," Coughlin said, and was immediately contrite. "Ah, Christ, why did I say that? I'm proud to claim Brewster Payne as a friend, and you couldn't have had a better father."
"I understand," Matt said. "I have trouble with my real father, too. Keeping them separate, I mean."
"Matt, I'm going to say something to you and I don't want you to take offense, son, but I have to say it-"
"I flunked the marine corps physical," Matt said. "I was thinking about becoming a cop before Uncle Dick was killed."
"If you flunked the marine corps physical, what makes you think you can pass the police department physical?"
"I passed it," Matt said. "And I even had a talk with the shrink. Today."
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What's your mother going to say?"
"Why am I getting the feeling that you're a long way from yelling' Whoopee, good for you!'?"
"Because I'm not entirely sure it's a good idea, for you, or the department," Coughlin said, evenly.
"Why not?"
"I don't know," Coughlin said. "Gut feeling, maybe. Or maybe because I buried your father, and we're about to bury your uncle. Or maybe I'm afraid your mother will think I talked you into it."
"My father, myadoptive father, understands," Matt said.
"Then he's one up on me," Coughlin said. "Matt, you're not doing this because of what you think the police are like, from watching them on TV, are you?"
"No, I'm not," Matt said, simply.
"But you will admit that you have no idea what you're getting into?"
"I was going into the marines, and I had no idea what I was getting into there, either."
Sergeant Tom Lenihan and Staff Inspector George Kegley appeared in the corridor, waiting for Coughlin's attention. Coughlin saw them, and motioned them over.
"You met Sergeant Lenihan yesterday," Coughlin said. "And this is Staff Inspector Kegley. George, this is Matt Payne. He's Dutch's nephew."
They all shook hands.
"What have you got, George?" Coughlin asked.
Kegley seemed momentarily surprised that Coughlin was asking for a report to be delivered before what he thought of as a "civilian relative," but he delivered a concise, but thorough report of what had transpired at the Bridge amp; Pratt Streets Terminal, including the details of Gerald Vincent Gallagher's death and dismemberment.
"Did they get in touch with Peter Wohl?" Coughlin asked. "Matt Lowenstein said they wanted him to get an identification of Gallagher as the man in the diner from that TV woman."
"Nobody seems to know where either of them are, Chief," Kegley said.
Coughlin snorted, and then his face stiffened in thought.
"Thank you, George," Coughlin said. "I appreciate this. Tom, get the car, we're going for a ride."
"Yes, sir," Sergeant Lenihan said.
"You're coming," Dennis Coughlin said to Matt Payne.
"Are you all right, Matthew?" Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin asked when Sergeant Tom Lenihan had eased the Oldsmobile up on the curb before the row house on Fitzgerald Street in South Philadelphia.
Matt had thrown up at the medical examiner's, not when Coughlin expected him to, when they pulled the sheet off the remains of Gerald Vincent Gallagher, but several minutes later, outside, just before they got back into the Oldsmobile. Tom Lenihan had disappeared at that point for a couple of minutes, and Coughlin wasn't sure if he had done that to spare Matt embarrassment, or whether Lenihan had gone behind a row of cars to throw up himself.
"I'm all right," Matt said.
His face was white.
"Sure?"
"I'm fine, thank you," Matt said, firmly.
"You want me to come along, Chief?" Lenihan asked.
"I think maybe you better," Coughlin said, and opened the door.
The door to the McFadden house had a doorbell, an old-fashioned, cast-iron device mounted in the center of the door. You twisted it, and it rang. Coughlin remembered one just like it on the door of the row house where he had grown up. Somebody, he thought, had probably made a million making those bells; there was one on just about every row house in Philly.
Agnes McFadden opened the door, and looked at them in surprise as Coughlin whipped off his snap-brimmed straw hat.
" 'Evening, ma'am," he said. "I'm Chief Inspector Coughlin. I'd like to see Officer McFadden, if that would be convenient."
"What?" Agnes McFadden said.
"We'd like to see Charley, if we can," Lenihan said. "I'm Sergeant Lenihan and this is Chief Inspector Coughlin."
"He's in the kitchen, with his lieutenant," she said. "Lieutenant Pekach. And Mr. McFadden."
"Could we see him, do you think?" Coughlin asked.
"Sure, of course, I don't know what I was thinking of, please come in."
They followed her down a dark corridor to the kitchen, where the three men sat at the kitchen table. There was a bottle of Seagram's 7Crown and quart bottles of Coke and beer on the table.
Pekach's eyes widened when he saw them. He started to get up.
"Keep your seat, David," Coughlin said. Officer Charley McFadden, who was sitting slumped straight out in the chair, supporting a Kraft cheese glass of liquor on his stomach, finally realized that something was happening. He looked at the three strangers in his kitchen without recognition.
Coughlin crossed the small room to him with his hand extended.
"McFadden, I apologize for barging into your home like this, but I wanted to congratulate you personally on a job well done. I'm sure your parents are very proud of you. The police department is."
Matt saw that McFadden had no idea who was shaking his hand.
Charley's father put that in words. "Who're you?" he asked.
"Mr. McFadden," Lieutenant Pekach said, "this is Chief Inspector Coughlin. And that's Sergeant Lenihan. I'm afraid I don't know the other gentleman."
"My name is Matthew Payne," Matt said, putting out his hand.
"Matt is… Captain Moffitt was Matt's uncle," Coughlin said.
"I'm sorry about your uncle," Charley McFadden said. Then he realized that he should be standing, and got up. He looked at Coughlin. "You're Chief Inspector Coughlin," he said, but there was a question, or disbelief, in his voice.
"That's right," Coughlin said.
"Could I offer you gentlemen a little something to drink?" Mrs. McFadden asked.
"All I got, I'm afraid, is the Seagram's Seven," Mr. McFadden said.
"Well, we're all off duty," Coughlin said. "I think a little Seagram' s Seven would go down very nicely."
More cheese glasses were produced, and filled three-quarters full of whiskey..
"I'm afraid the house is a terrible mess," Agnes McFadden said.
"Looks fine to me," Dennis Coughlin said. He raised his glass. "To Officer McFadden, of whom we're all very proud."
"I didn't want that to happen to him," Charley McFadden said, very slowly. "Jesus Christ, that shouldn't happen to anybody."
"Charley," Coughlin said, firmly. "What happened to Gallagher, he brought on himself."
Charley looked at him, and finally said, "Yes, sir."
"Lieutenant Pekach, may I see you a moment?" Coughlin said, and signaled Matt to come along.
They went to the vestibule.
"Where's his partner?" Coughlin asked.
"He was here, Chief. His doctor gave him something to calm him down, and it didn't mix with the booze. I sent him home."
"McFadden on anything?"
"No, sir." Pekach said. "He's got a thing about pills. He won't even take an aspirin."
"How long are you going to stay?"
"As long as necessary," Pekach said. "The booze will get to him, sooner or later."
"Had you planned to write him up?"
"A commendation?" Pekach asked. "I hadn't thought about that. But yes, sure."
"Not only 'at great risk to his life,' " Coughlin said. "But ' exercising great restraint,' et cetera, et cetera. You follow me?"
"Yes, sir."
"This is going to be all over the papers," Coughlin said. "George Kegley tells me that Mickey O'Hara was even up on the elevated tracks. What's that going to do to McFadden on the streets?"
"Well, he won't be much use, not what he's been doing," Pekach said.
"I'll find something else for him to do." Coughlin said. "When you're that age, working plainclothes, and they put you back in a uniform, you think you did something wrong. I don't want that to happen."
"I'll find something for him, Chief," Pekach said.
When they went back in the kitchen, Officer McFadden was being nauseous in the sink. Coughlin put out his hand and stopped Matt from going in, then gestured for Sergeant Lenihan to come along with them.
When they were in the car, moving north on South Broad Street, Coughlin reached forward and touched Matt Payne's shoulder. Matt turned and looked at him.
"Still think you want to be a cop, Matt?" he asked.
"I was just wondering how I would react in a situation like that," Matt said, softly.
"And?"
"I don't know," Matt said. "I was wondering. But to answer your question, yes, I still want to be a cop."
Coughlin made a grunting noise.
"Tom," he ordered, "when you get to a phone, call Pekach and tell him I want that boy and his partner at the funeral tomorrow. And then find out who's in charge of the seating arrangements and make sure they have seats in Saint Dominic's."
"Uniform or plainclothes?"
Coughlin thought that over a moment. "Uniforms," he said. "I think uniforms. Tell Pekach to make sure they get haircuts and are cleaned up."
"I've got to check my machine," Peter said, when he and Louise had returned from dinner and put the Jaguar into the garage. "It won't take a minute."
"I'll go with you," she said, and caught his hand and held it as they walked up the stairs. Inside the apartment, as he snapped on the lights, he saw that she was standing very close, looking at him.
She wants to be kissed, he realized. Jesus, that's nice.
But when he put his arms around her, and she pressed her body against his, and he tried to kiss her, she averted her face.
"I've got some Lavoris," Peter said.
She chuckled.
"No," she said. "That's not it. But I'll be on the air at eleven, and I don't want everybody in the Delaware Valley thinking, 'That dame looks like she just got out of bed."'
"You really think it shows?" he asked, smelling her hair.
"Once might not," she said. "But we seem to have a certain tendency to keep going back for seconds."
"God, you feel good," Peter said, giving in to an urge to hug her tightly.
"Duty calls," Louise said, freeing herself. "Yours and mine. See what your machine says."
There were a number of messages. Barbara Crowley had called.
"Peter, your mother called and asked me if I was going to the wake. I told her that I expected to hear from you. Please call me. I'll go over there with you, if you want me to."
And Detective Jason Washington had called:
"This is Jason Washington, Inspector," his recorded voice reported tinnily. "It's five-thirty. In a manner of speaking, we have Gerald Vincent Gallagher. McFadden, the kid from Narcotics who identified the girl, went looking for him, and found him at the Bridge Street Terminal. The reason I say 'in a manner of speaking' is that Gallagher got himself run over by a subway train. After he hit the third rail. Hell of a mess. McFadden knew Gallagher, of course, and so did a couple of guys from the Fifteenth District. But under the circumstances, I think, and so does Lieutenant Natali, that they'll probably want Miss Dutton to identify the body as that of the man she saw in the Waikiki. They just took the body to the medical examiner's. Do you think you could get in touch with her, and take her down there around seven, seven-thirty? I'd appreciate it if you could call me. I' ll either be here at the office, or at the M.E.'s, or maybe home. Thank you."
And Lieutenant Louis Natali had called:
"Inspector, this is Lou Natali. Jason Washington said he called and left a message on your machine about an hour ago. It's now quarter to seven. Anyway, it's now official. Captain Quaire requests that you get in touch with Miss Dutton, and bring her by the M.E.'s to identify Gallagher as the guy she saw in the diner. You better warn her he's in pieces. The wheels cut his head off, intact, I mean. I'll try to have them cover the rest of him with a sheet, but it's pretty rough. And would you call me, please, when you get this? Thank you."
And Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein had called:
"Peter, what the hell is going on? I need that woman to identify Gallagher. Nobody seems to know where you are, so I called the TV station. I was going to very politely ask her if I could take her to the M.E.'s myself, and they tell me they don't know where she is, only that she left there with you. Jesus, it's half past eight, and I've got to get over to Marshutz amp; Sons for the damned wake."
That message ended abruptly. Peter was quite sure that Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein had glanced at his watch toward the end, seen the time, thought out loud, and then slammed the phone down.
The machine reached the end of the recorded messages and started to rewind.
"What was that all about?" Louise asked.
"Well, apparently an undercover cop spotted-"
"Who was she?" Louise interrupted.
It took him a moment to frame his reply.
"Three days ago, I would have said she was my girl friend," he said.
"Nice girl?"
"Very nice," he said. "Her name is Barbara Crowley, and she's a psychiatric nurse."
"That must come in handy," Louise said.
"Everybody who knows us, except one, thinks that Barbara and I make a lovely couple and should get married," Peter said.
"Who's the dissenter? Her father?"
"Me," Peter said. "She's a nice girl, but I don't love her."
"As of when?"
"As of always," Peter said. "I never felt that way about her."
"What way is that?"
"The way I feel about you," Peter said.
"I suppose it has occurred to you that about the only thing we have going for us is that we screw good?"
"That's a good starting place," Peter said. "We can build on that."
She met his eyes for a long moment, then said: "I'm not going to go look at a headless corpse tonight."
"Okay," he said. "But you will have to eventually."
"What if I just refuse?"
"You don't want to do that," Peter said.
"What if I do?"
"They'll get a court order. If you refuse the order, they'll hold you in contempt, put you in the House of Correction until you change your mind. You wouldn't like it in the House of Correction. They're really not your kind of people."
She just looked at him.
"I'll call Jason Washington and tell him to meet us at the medical examiner's tomorrow morning. Say, eight o'clock," Peter said.
"I've got to work in the morning," she said.
"We'll go there before you go to work," Peter said, and then added: " I thought you told me you went to work at two o'clock?"
"I usually do," she said. "But tomorrow, I've got to cover a funeral."
"You didn't tell me that," he said.
"It's my story," she said. "I was there when it started, remember?"
He nodded. They looked at each other without speaking for a moment.
"Why are you looking at me that way?" Louise asked. "What are you thinking?"
"That you are incredibly beautiful, and that I love you," Peter said.
"I know," she said. "I mean, that you love me. And I think that scares me more than going to go look at a headless body… or a bodyless head."
"Why does it scare you?"
"I'm afraid I'll wake up," she said. "Or, maybe, that I won't."
"I don't think I follow that," he said.
"I think we better get out of here," she said. "Before we wind up in the playroom again."
"Let me call Washington," Peter said.
"Call him from my apartment," she said. "What we're going to do is go there, whereupon I will pick up my car and go to work. You will go to my apartment."
"Is that what Iwill do?" he asked, smiling.
"Uh-huh," she said. "Where you will do the dishes, and dust, and then make yourself pretty for me when I come home tired from work."
"If you're going to be tired, you can do your own dishes."
"I won't be that tired, Peter, if that's what you're thinking, and I' m sure you are."
"I don't mind waiting around the studio for you," he said.
"But I do. I saw you looking at Sharon's boobs. And, although I know I shouldn't tell you this, I saw the way she was looking at you."
"That sounds jealous, I hope."
"Let's go, Peter," she said, and walked to the door.
Mickey O'Hara sat at the bar in the Holiday Inn at Fourth and Arch streets, sipping on his third John Jamison's.
It had happened to him often enough for him to recognize what was happening. He was doing something a reporter should not do any more than a doctor or a lawyer, letting the troubles of people he was dealing with professionally get to him personally. And it had happened to him often enough for him to know that he was dealing with it in exactly the worst possible way, with a double John Jamison's straight up and a beer on the side.
He had started out feeling sorry for the young undercover Narcotics cop, Charley McFadden. The McFadden kid had gone out to play the Lone Ranger, even to the faithful brown companion Hay-zus whateverthefuck his name was, at his side. He was going to bring the bad man to justice. Then he would kiss his horse and ride off into the sunset.
But it hadn't happened that way. He had not been able to get the bad man to repent and come quietly by shooting a pistol out of his hand with a silver bullet.
The bad man had first been fried and then chopped into pieces, and at that point he had stopped being a bad man and become another guy from Philadelphia, one of the kids down the block, another Charley McFadden. Gerald Vincent Gallagher had died with his eyes open, and when his head had finished rolling around between the tracks it had come to rest against a tie, looking upward. When Charley McFadden looked down at the tracks, Gerald Vincent Gallagher had looked right back at him.
There hadn't been much blood. The stainless steel wheels of subway cars get so hot that as they roll over throats and limbs, severing them neatly, they also cauterize them. What Charley McFadden saw was Gerald Vincent Gallagher's head, and parts of his arms and legs and his torso, as if they were parts of some enormous plastic doll somebody had pulled apart and then had thrown down between the tracks.
And then as Charley McFadden was shamed before God, his parish priests, and all the good priests at Bishop Newman High School, and his mother, of course, for violating the "thou shalt not kill" commandment, the cavalry came riding up, late as usual, and he was shamed before them.
Big strong tough 225-pound plainclothes Narc tossing his cookies like a fucking fourteen-year-old because he did what all the other cops would have loved to do, fry the fucking cop killer, and saving the city the expense of a trial in the process.
By the time he ordered his third double John Jamison's with a beer on the side, Mickey O'Hara had begun to consider the tragedy of the life of Gerald Vincent Gallagher, deceased. How did a nice Irish Catholic boy wind up a junkie, on the run after a bungled stickup? What abouthis poor, heartbroken, good, mass-every-morning mother? What had she done to deserve, or produce, a miserable shit like Gerald Vincent Gallagher?
Mickey O'Hara was deep in his fourth double John Jamison's with a beer on the side and even deeper into a philosophical exploration of the injustice of life and man's inhumanity to man when he sensed someone slipping onto the stool beside him at the bar, and turned to look, and found himself faced with Lieutenant Edward M. DelRaye of the Homicide Division of the Philadelphia Police Department.
"Well, as I live and breathe," Lieutenant DelRaye said, "if it isn't Mrs. O'Hara's little boy Mickey."
"Hello, DelRaye," Mickey said.
Lieutenant DelRaye was not one of Mickey O'Hara's favorite police officers.
"Give my friend another of what he's having," DelRaye said to the bartender.
Mickey O'Hara had his first unkind thought: I could be the last of the big spenders myself, if I put the drinks I bought people on a tab I had no intention of paying.
"And what have you been up to, dressed to kill as you are?" Mickey asked.
"I was to the wake," DelRaye said. "I'm surprised you're not there."
"I paid my respects," Mickey said. "I liked Dutch."
"You heard we got the turd who got away from the diner?"
Mickey O'Hara nodded. And had his second unkind thought: We? We got the turd? In a pig's ass, we did. A nice lad named Charley McFadden got him, and is sick about getting him, and you didn't have a fucking thing to do with it, Ed DelRaye. Not that it's out of character for you to take credit for something the boys on the street did.
"So I heard," Mickey replied. "You were in on that, were you?"
"I made my little contribution," DelRaye said.
"Is that so?"
"A plainclothesman from Narcotics actually ran him down; I'm trying to think of his name-"
"How are you doing with the Nelson murder?" Mickey O'Hara asked, as his John Jamison's with beer on the side was delivered.
"You wouldn't believe how many nigger faggots there are in Philly," DelRaye said.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Off the record, Mickey?" DelRaye asked.
"No," Mickey said. "Let's keep this on the record, Ed. Or change the subject."
"I think we better change the subject, then," DelRaye said. He raised his glass. "Mud in your eye."
"I'm working on that story, is what it is," Mickey said. "And if we go off the record, and you tell me something, and then I find it out on my own and use it, then you would be pissed, and I wouldn't blame you. You understand?"
"Sure, I understand perfectly. I was just trying to be helpful."
"I know that, and I appreciate it," Mickey said. "And I know what kind of pressure there must be on you to come up with something, his father being who he is and all."
"You better believe it," DelRaye said.
"What can you tell me about Nelson and the TV lady?" Mickey asked. " On the record, Ed."
"Well, she came home from work, half in the bag, and walked in and found him," DelRaye said.
"She was his girl friend?"
DelRaye snorted derisively.
"I take it that's a no?"
"That's neither a no or anything else, if we're still on the record," DelRaye said.
"I could, I suppose, call you an 'unnamed senior police Officer involved in the investigation,' " Mickey offered.
"I wouldn't want you quoting me as saying Nelson was a faggot," DelRaye said. "Because I didn't say that."
"Jesus Christ, was he?"
"If we're still on the record, no comment," DelRaye said. "We're still on the record?"
"Yeah. Sorry," Mickey O'Hara said, and then went for the jugular. "If I asked you, on the record, but as an 'unnamed senior police officer involved in the investigation' if you are looking for a Negro homosexual for questioning in the Nelson murder investigation, what would you say?"
"You're not going to use my name?"
"Scout's honor."
"Then I would say 'that's true.' "
"And if I asked you how come you can't find him, what would you say?"
"There are a number of suspects, and we believe that the name we have, Pierre St. Maury-"
"Who's he?"
"He's the one we want to question most. He lived with Nelson. We don' t think that's his real name."
"Colored guy?"
"Big black guy. That description fits a lot of people in Philadelphia. It fits a lot of people who call themselves 'gay.' But we'll get him."
"But he's not the only one you're looking for?"
"There are others who meet the same description. The rent-a-cops on Stockton Place told us that Nelson had a lot of large black men friends."
"And you think one of them did it?"
"When people like that do each other in, they usually do it with a vengeance," DelRaye said.
"The way Nelson was done in, you mean?"
DelRaye did not reply. He suspected that he had gone too far.
"Mickey," he said, "I'm getting a little uncomfortable with this. Let's get off it, huh?"
"Sure," Mickey O'Hara said. "I got to get out of here anyway."
Ten minutes later, Mickey O'Hara walked back into the city room, walked with elaborate erectness to his desk, where he sat down at his computer terminal, belched, and pushed the COMPOSE button.
SLUG: Fairy Axman?
By Michael J. O'Hara
According to a senior police officer involved in the investigation of the brutal murder of Jerome Nelson, a "large black male," in his twenties, going by the name of Pierre St.Maury, and who reportedly shared the luxurious apartment at 6 Stockton Place, is being sought for questioning.
The police official, who spoke with this reporter only on condition of anonymity, said that it was believed the name Pierre St.Maury was assumed, and suggested this was common practice among what he described as Philadelphia's "large 'gay' black community."
Mickey stopped typing, found a cigarette and lit it, and then read what he had written.
Then he typed, "Do you have the balls to run this, or am I wasting my time?"
Then he moved the cursor to the top of the story and enteredFLASH FLASH. This would cause a red light to blink on the city editor's monitor, informing him there was a story, either from the wire services, or from a reporter in the newsroom, that he considered important enough to demand the city editor's immediate attention. Then he pushed the SEND key.
Less than a minute later, the city editor crossed the city room to Mickey's desk.
"Jesus, Mickey," he said.
"Yes, or no?"
"I don't suppose you want to tell me who the cop who gave you this is?"
"I always protect my sources," Mickey said, and burped.
"It's for real?"
"The gentleman in question is a horse's ass, but he knows what he's talking about."
"The cops will know who talked to you," the city editor said.
"That thought had run through my mind," Mickey O'Hara said.
"You're going to put his ass in a crack," the city editor said.
"I have the strength of ten because in my heart, I'm pure," Mickey O' Hara said. "I made it perfectly clear that we were on the record."
"It will be tough on Mr. Nelson," the city editor said.
"Would we give a shit if he didn't own theLedger?" Mickey countered.
The city editor exhaled audibly.
"This'll give you two by-lines on the front page," he said.
"Modesty is not my strong suit," Mickey said. "Yes, or no?"
"Go ahead, O'Hara," the city editor said.