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With the machine reconnected, it was possible to hear the caller’s message.
It was a variation of the previous calls, no more scatologically obscene than the others, but enough, because of Patricia Payne—whom McFadden thought of as Matt’s Mother—to cause McFadden to blush with embarrassment and his face to tighten in anger.
“I can rig that thing so we don’t have to listen to that crap—sorry, Mrs. Payne,” he said.
“That might be a good idea,” she said. “But I’m leaving anyway, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“I’d like to get my hands on that guy,” McFadden said.
“So would I,” she said. “But don’t you see, Charley, that’s what they’re trying to do, make us angry?”
“They’re succeeding,” Charley said.
She put her hat and coat on, and then went and stood before Matt, who was sprawled in an overstuffed leather armchair, his bad leg resting on a pillow sitting on the matching ottoman.
“After I leave, maybe you can get Charley to hang your art work,” she said.
“What?” Matt asked, and then understood. “Oh, that. How did it get here?”
“Your dad and I brought it from the hospital,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Now, there’s plenty of food there for breakfast and sandwiches, and I’ll bring more when I come tomorrow. But for dinner, your father called the Rittenhouse Club, and they’ll bring you anything you want to eat.”
“I don’t like Rittenhouse Club food in the Rittenhouse Club,” Matt said. “Why should I have them haul it over here?” He saw the hurt look in her eyes and added, “I’m in a lousy mood, sorry, Mother.”
“Are you in pain?”
He shook his head no.
“They do a very nice mixed grill, and you like their London broil, I know you do, and besides, beggars can’t be choosers.” She leaned over and kissed him.
“Ignore him,” Patricia Payne said to Charley and Jesus. “Make him feed you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Charley said. “I will.”
When he came back up the stairs after locking the door after her, McFadden asked, “What art work is she talking about?”
“There’s a great big picture of a naked woman in his bedroom,” Jesus said.
“No shit?”
“It was a gift from Mrs. Washington,” Matt said. “Mrs. Washington and I think of it as a splendid example of Victorian art.”
“I gotta see this,” Charley said, and went into the bedroom.
He returned carrying the oil painting.
“Over the fireplace, right?”
“Why not?” Charley said.
McFadden went to the fireplace, leaned the picture against it, and then took something from the mantelpiece. He walked to Matt with a snub-nosed revolver in the palm of each hand.
“Maybe you’d better keep these—one of them, anyway—with you. What are you doing with two?”
“One of them belongs to Wohl. He loaned it to me in the hospital. The shooting team took mine away from me. I just got it back.”
