“Fish, fowl, or good red meat?”
“Clams and a lobster comes to mind,” Coughlin said.
“Bookbinder’s?”
“That’s close,” Mickey said.
“Too far to walk,” Coughlin said. “Where’s your car?”
“In the No Parking zone by the door,” Mickey said. “I’ll bring you back here, if you like.”
Michael J. O’Hara’s Buick was indeed parked in the area immediately outside the rear door of the police administration building, in an area bounded by signs reading “No Parking At Any Time.”
The joke went that there were only two people in th
e City of Philadelphia who would not get a parking ticket no matter where they left their cars, one being the Hon. Jerome H. Carlucci, the mayor, and the other being Mickey O’Hara.
That wasn’t exactly true, Coughlin thought as he got into O’Hara’s car. But on the other hand, it was close. He himself didn’t dare leave his car parked where Mickey had parked the Buick, confident he would not find a parking ticket stuck under his wiper blade when he returned for it.
Mickey enjoyed a special relationship with the Police Department of the City of Philadelphia shared by no other member of the press. Coughlin had often wondered why this was so, and had decided, finally, that while some of it was because he was a familiar sight at funerals, weddings, promotion parties, and meetings of the Emerald Society (and, for that matter, at gatherings of the German, black, and Jewish police social organizations as well), it was basically because he was trusted by everybody from the guy walking a beat to Jerry Carlucci.
He never broke a confidence, and he never published anything bad about a cop until he gave the cop a chance to tell his side of the story.
And while he did not fill his columns with puff pieces about the Philadelphia Police Department, he very often found space to make sure the public learned of some unusual act of kindness, or heroism, or dedication to duty of ordinary cops walking beats.
And that was probably, Denny Coughlin thought, because Mickey O’Hara, in his heart, thought of himself as a cop.
Not that Mickey ever forgot he was a journalist. Denny Coughlin had thought of Mickey as a personal friend for years, and he was sure the reverse was true. But he also understood that the reason Mickey had appeared at his office to offer to take him to dinner was less that they were friends than that Mickey had questions he hoped he could get Coughlin to answer.
The door chimes sounded, playing “Be It Ever So Humble, There’s No Place Like Home.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Inspector Peter Wohl wondered aloud, in annoyance that approached rage.
Amelia Alice Payne, M.D., who had been lying with her head on his chest, raised her head and looked down at him.
“Oh, my goodness! Are we going to have to wash our naughty little mouth out with soap?” she inquired.
“Sorry,” Wohl said, genuinely contrite. “I was just thinking how nice it is to go to sleep with you like this. And then that goddamned chime!”
Amy was not sure whether he meant naked in each other’s arms, or sexually sated, but in either case she agreed.
She kissed his cheek, tenderly, and then, eyes mischievous, said innocently, “I wonder who the fuck it could possibly be?”
“What am I doing? Teaching you bad habits?” Peter asked, chuckling.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
She pushed herself off him and got out of bed, then walked on tiptoes to peer out through the venetian blinds on the bedroom window.
There was enough light, somehow, for him to be able to see her clearly.
“My God, it’s Uncle Denny!” Amy said.
What the hell does Denny Coughlin want this time of night?
“We had the foresight, you will recall,” Peter said, chuckling, “to hide your car in my garage.”
“You think he wants to come in?” Amy asked, very nervously.