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“Yes, sir,” Malone had said. “Captain, I enjoyed working for you.”
“Most of the time, Jack, I enjoyed having you work for me. When you get settled out there with the hotshots, call me, and we’ll have lunch or something.”
“I’ll do that, sir. Thank you.”
“Good luck, Jack.”
Malone had bought only one new uniform when he’d made lieutenant. There had not been, thanks to his lawyer’s money-up-front business practice, enough money for more than one. Now he would need at least one—and preferably two—more. But that was his problem, not the Police Department’s. He would just have to take the one he had to a two-hour dry cleaners, until, by temporarily giving up unimportant things, like eating, he could come up with the money to buy more. EZ-Credit was something else that had gone with Mrs. John J. Malone.
Malone examined himself in the none-too-clear mirror on the chest of drawers. He did not especially like what he saw. Gone was the trim young cop, replaced by a lieutenant who looked like a lieutenant.
Chubby, Malone thought. Hairline retreating. A little pouchy under the eyes. Is that the beginning of a jowl?
He left his suite and walked down the narrow, dimly lit corridor to the elevator, which, after he pushed the button, announced its arrival with an alarming combination of screeches and groans.
/> He stopped by the desk, which was manned by a cadaverous white male in a soiled maroon sports coat.
“There’s no hot water.”
“I know, they’re working on it,” the desk clerk said, without raising his eyes from the Philadelphia Daily News.
“If it’s not fixed by the time I get home from work, I’ll blow up the building,” Malone said.
The desk clerk raised his eyes from the Daily News.
“I didn’t know you were a cop,” he said.
“Now you do. Get the hot water fixed.”
Malone found his car, on the roof of which someone had left two beer cans and the remains of a slice of pizza. It was a seven-year-old Ford Mustang. There had once been two cars registered in his name, the other a 1972 Ford station wagon. Ellen now had that.
I should have the station wagon. And I should have the house. She was the one fucking around. She should be living in that goddamned hotel and driving this piece of shit.
Look on the bright side. No alimony. And, what the hell, she needed something to carry Little Jack around in.
He knocked the beer cans and pizza off the roof and got in. He went east to North Broad Street, and then out North Broad to Roosevelt Boulevard. Eight blocks down Roosevelt Boulevard he made a lane change that did not meet the standards of a brother police officer.
There was the growl of a siren, and when he looked in the mirror, he saw a cop waving him over.
A Highway Patrol car. Only Highway RPCs had two cops in them.
He nodded his head to show that he understood the order, and as soon as he could safely do so pulled to the side.
The Highway Patrolman swaggered over to the Mustang, only at the last moment noticing that there was a gold bar on the epaulets of Malone’s blue jacket.
“Good morning, sir,” the Highway Patrolman said.
“Good morning.”
“Lieutenant, your turn signal’s inoperative. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Yes. Thank you very much. I’ll have it checked.”
The Highway Patrolman saluted and walked back to his car.
Malone moved the turn signal lever.
The goddamn thing really is broken. Did I use the sonofabitch, and it didn’t work, or was I just weaving through traffic in this rusty piece of shit, and he stopped me for that?
