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"No," he said finally. "There are other ways to embarrass Mr. Savarese."
"You want to tell me how?"
"You sure you want to know?"
Washington considered that a moment.
"Yeah, I want to know," he said. "Maybe I can help."
****
"So what you were telling me before," Martha said to Dave, interrupting herself to reach down on the bed and pull a sheet modestly over her, "is that although it's really not Inspector Wohl's fault, he looks very bad?"
"Goddamn shame. He's a hell of a cop. I really admire him."
"And those gangsters are just going to get away with shooting the other gangster?"
"That happens all the time," Pekach said. "It's not like in the movies." He tucked his shirt in his trousers and pulled up his zipper. "Even if we somehow found those two, they would have alibis. They'll never wind up in court, is what I mean."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Sometimes some things happen," Pekach said.
"Precious, what in the world are you talking about?"
"Nothing," he said. "What makes Wohl look bad is the shot cop. We don't have a damn thing on that. And that's bad. It makes the Department look incompetent, stupid, if we can't get people who murder cops in cold blood. And it makes Peter Wohl look bad, because the mayor gave him the job."
"I understand," she said. "And there's nothing that he can do?"
"There's nothing anybody can do that isn't already being done. Unless we can find somebody who saw something-"
"What about offering a reward? Don't you do that?"
"Rewards come from people who are injured," Dave explained. "I mean, somebody knocks off the manager of an A amp;P supermarket, A amp;P would offer a reward. The Department doesn't have money for something like that, and even if there was a reward, we'd look silly, wouldn't we, offering it? It would be the same thing as admitting that we can't do the job the taxpayers are paying us to do."
"Idon't think so," Martha said.
He fini
shed dressing and examined himself in the mirror.
His pants are baggy in the seat, Martha thought. And that shirt doesn't fit the way it should. I wonder if that Italian tailor Evans has found on Chestnut Street could make him up something a little better? He has a marvelous physique, and it just doesn't show. Daddy always said that clothes make the man. I never really knew what he meant before.
Pekach walked to the bed and leaned down and kissed Martha gently on the lips.
"Gotta go, baby," he said.
"Would you like to ride out to New Hope and have dinner along the canal?" Martha asked. "You always like that. It would cheer you up. Or I could have Evans get some steaks?"
"Uh," Pekach said, "baby, Mike Sabara and I thought that we'd try to get Wohl to go out for a couple of drinks after work."
"I thought Captain Sabara wasn't much of a drinking man," Martha said, and then: "Oh, I see. Of course. Can you come over later?"
"I think I might be able to squeeze that into my busy schedule," Pekach said, and kissed her again.
When he left the bedroom, Martha got out of bed and went to the window and watched the driveway until she saw Pekach 's unmarked car go down it and through the gate.
She leaned against the window frame thoughtfully for a moment, then caught her reflection in the mirrors of her vanity table.
