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“Somebody wrote those press releases,” Matt argued. “For their purpose—getting themselves in the newspapers and on TV—they were, by definition, effective. At least one of them can write. And plan things, like the gasoline bomb.”
“What do you mean, ‘plan the gasoline bomb’? Anybody knows how to make one of those. That I would expect from these people.”
“When and where to throw it,” Matt said. “They had to be watching Goldbatt’s. One man, just standing around, would have been suspicious. So they had a half a dozen of them, plus of course the guy on the roof who threw it.”
O’Hara grunted.
“Unless, of course, Matty, they have somebody inside the cops, inside Special Operations, who just called them and told them when Washington was going to pick up Monahan. That suggests an operation run by people who know what they’re doing.”
“You really think that’s possible?” Matt asked, genuinely shocked. “That they have somebody inside?”
O’Hara never got the chance to reply. The door opened again and Mr. and Mrs. Brewster C. Payne walked in.
“Hi!” Matt said.
“How are you, honey?” Patricia Payne asked.
“Just fine,” Matt said. “Mother, you didn’t have to come back. I’m getting out of here tomorrow.”
She held up her arm, around which was folded a hang-up bag.
“In your underwear?”
“It’s the cocktail hour, I see,” Brewster C. Payne said.
“Dad, do you know Mickey O’Hara?”
“Only by reputation. How are you, Mr. O’Hara?”
“Are you allowed to have that?” Patricia Payne asked.
“Probably not, but I can’t see where it will do any harm,” Brewster Payne said. He smiled at Eleanor. “I’m Brewster Payne, and this is my wife.”
“I’m Eleanor Neal.”
“How do you do?” Patricia Payne said.
“Can I offer you a little taste, Mr. Payne?” Mickey asked.
“Is there a glass?”
“How do you know they aren’t giving you some medicine that will react with that?” Patricia Payne asked.
“All I’m taking is aspirin,” Matt replied.
Mickey made drinks for the Paynes.
Patricia Payne nodded her thanks, sipped hers, and said, “I have this terrible premonition that some two-hundred-pound nurse is going to storm in here, find the party in progress, yell for the guards, and I will win the Terrible Mother of the Year award.”
“I thought bringing Matt a little taste was the least I could do for what he did, saving my life, for me.”
Thank you, Mickey O’Hara.
“It was very kind of you, Mr. O’Hara,” Brewster Payne said.
And thank you, Dad, for cutting off the colorful story of my courage in the face of death.
“Call me Mickey, please.”
