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!”