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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?”
