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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 entered FLASH 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 the Ledger?” 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.
FIFTEEN
It had been the intention of Lieutenant Robert McGrory, commanding officer of Troop G (Atlantic City) of the New Jersey State Police, to take off early, say a little after eight, which would have put him in Philly a little after nine-thirty, in plenty of time to go by the Marshutz & Sons Funeral Home for Dutch Moffitt’s wake.
But that hadn’t proved possible. One of his troopers, in pursuit of a speeder on U.S. 9, had blown a tire and slammed into a culvert. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been; he could have killed himself, and the way the car looked it was really surprising he hadn’t. But all he had was a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder, and some bad cuts on his face. But by the time he had that all sorted out (the trooper’s wife was eight-and-a-half months gone, and had gotten hysterical when he went by the house to tell her and to take her to the hospital, and he had been afraid that she was going to have the kid right there and then) it was almost nine.
By then, the other senior officers going to Captain Dutch Moffitt’s funeral had not elected to wait for him; a major and two captains could not be expected to wait for a lieutenant. Major Bill Knotts left word at the barracks for Lieutenant McGrory that Sergeant Alfred Mant (who was coming from Troop D, in Toms River, bringing people from there a
nd further north) had been directed to swing by Atlantic City and wait at the Troop G Barracks for McGrory, however long it took for him to get free.
The senior state police officers in Knotts’s car were all large men. They all had small suitcases; and they were, of course, in uniform, with all the regalia. The trunk of Knotts’s Ford carried the usual assortment of special equipment, and there was no room in it for two of the three suitcases; they had to be carried in the backseat. When they were all finally in it, the Ford was crowded and sat low on its springs.
“I think you’d probably make better time on Three Twenty-two,” Knotts said, as he settled into the front seat, beside Captain Gerry Kozniski, who was driving.
“Whatever you say, Major,” Captain Kozniski said, aware that he had just been given authority, within reason, to “make good time” between Atlantic City and Philadelphia. There were two major routes, 322 and 30, between the two cities. U.S. 30 was four-laned nearly all the way, from Atlantic City to Interstate 295, just outside Camden. Only some sections of U.S. 322 were four-laned. Consequently, 30 got most of the traffic; there would be little traffic on 322 and it would be safer to drive faster on that road.
Captain Kozniski hit sixty-five, and then seventy, and then seventy-five. The Ford seemed to find its cruising speed just under eighty. They would still be late, but unless something happened, they could still at least put in an appearance at the wake.
“Word is,” Captain Kozniski said, “that Bob McGrory’s going to be a pallbearer.”
“Yeah. Mrs. Moffitt asked for him,” Knotts said.
