“Positive.”
Miss Travers didn’t seem to think anything was wrong with his car, but Mickey managed to drop into their conversation that he was about to get a new one, that he was thinking of either a Mercury or Buick.
More importantly, she told him her first name was Mary, and that she would love to have dinner with him, but it would probably be hard to arrange it, because she was stuck on the seven-to-three-in-the-morning shift—it was determined by seniority—and that made any kind of a normal social life nearly impossible.
“I know,” Mickey said. “The Bulletin goes to bed at half-past two.”
“You mean that’s when you quit for the day?”
He nodded and she smiled at him, and he thought, We already have something in common.
Forty minutes later, when he steered the battered Chevrolet Impala off North Broad Street and into the parking lot behind the Thirty-fifth District Station, where he stopped in a space marked INSPECTOR PARKING ONLY, Mickey still wasn’t sure he really believed what had happened.
I’ve got a date with Mary Travis. Tonight. Tomorrow morning. At five minutes after three, at the front door of the Bellevue-Stratford.
And that wasn’t all that had happened.
I’m making as much dough as the fucking Police Commissioner, for Christ’s sake!
He sat there for a moment, then lit a cigarette. Then he got out of the car, entered the building through a door marked POLICE USE ONLY and went inside. He waved at the uniformed cops in the ground-floor squad room, then climbed the stairs to the second floor, which housed the Northwest Detectives Division.
On the landing at the top of the stairs were several vending machines, a garbage can, and two battered chairs. A concrete block wall with a wide open window counter and a door separated the landing from the squad room of Northwest Detectives. A sign beneath the window counter read POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT, and just inside the door the desk man, a detective, sat at a battered desk.
Mickey walked through the door, waved at the desk man, and exchanged casual greetings, a nod of the head, or a smile, with the half dozen detectives working at their own battered desks, then took a quick, practiced glance at the large, yellow legal pad on the desk man’s desk. On it, the desk man would have written the names of any citizens brought into the squad room for “interviews” on the shift. It was an informal record, intended primarily to remind the desk man who had hauled in who, and was responsible for the critter. If a citizen got as far as the detective squad room, the odds were the “interview” would be followed by an arrest.
Mickey found nothing that looked particularly interesting, so he walked across the squad room to a small alcove at the rear, which held a coffee machine. He helped himself to a cup, black, then tucked a dollar bill in the coffee kitty can.
When he came out of the alcove, he looked into the window of the small office used by the Lieutenants of Northwest Detectives. Lieutenant Teddy Spanner, who had the watch, and Lieutenant Louis Natali of Homicide were inside. That was unusual; you rarely saw a Homicide Lieutenant in one of the Detective District Squad Rooms, unless something important was going down.
Lou Natali, a slight, olive-skinned man who was losing his hair, was leaning on the glass wall. Behind the desk, Spanner, a very large fair-skinned man in his shirtsleeves, waved at Mickey, calling him inside.
“How goes it, Mickey?” Spanner said, as Mickey leaned over the desk to shake his hand.
“Can’t complain,” Mickey said, and turned to Lou Natali. “What do you say, Lou?”
“Haven’t seen you around lately, Mick,” Natali said. “You been sick or something?”
“I took a couple of weeks off,” Mickey said.
“You go down to the shore?” Spanner asked.
“The shore?” Mickey asked.
“You told me, Mick, the last time I saw you, that what you needed was to go lay on the beach.”
“I just hung around the house and watched the wallpaper peel,” Mickey said.
“So what’s new, Mick?” Natali asked, chuckling.
What’s new? I’m now making a thousand bucks a week, less a hundred for the Bull, plus a Buick Super, Mercury Monterey, or equivalent automobile. And I just met a really interesting girl. That’s what’s new.
“Nothing much,” Mickey said. “You tell me.”
Both police officers shrugged their shoulders.
Mickey was disappointed. He had had a gut feeling when he saw Lou Natali that something was up. Mickey knew both of them well enough not to press the question. Probably nothing was. If there was, either Spanner or Natali would have told him, maybe prefacing it with “Off the record, Mick” but they would have told him.
“Tell me about the naked lady in Fairmount Park,” Mickey said. “I heard the call last night.”