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“For obvious reasons,” Captain Pekach announced solemnly, “I think I should remind all of you that Departmental regulations require that the keys to motorcycles be removed when they are left unattended.”
The second rider now raised his mask and removed his helmet.
“Anyone who willingly gets on one of those things,” Staff Inspector Peter Wohl announced, “is obviously not playing with a full deck.”
Then he and Captain Pekach walked into the building.
Captain Sabara had turned to the sergeant who had reported the missing wheels to him.
“Did I ever tell you, Sergeant, that when I first came to Highway the sergeant I replaced was Inspector Wohl?”
Then he turned and walked into the building.
Malone thought it was a great story. But it was more than that. Wohl knew how to deal with people. After the wheelie demonstration, and after the word had spread that Wohl had been the youngest sergeant ever in Highway, there had been no more bitching that he didn’t understand how things were in Highway.
And, Malone thought, it had been a nice touch for Wohl to come out of his office himself to apologize for being tied up. Most division commanders wouldn’t have done that; they would have told their driver to have the newcomer wait.
And what Payne had said, “you’ll be right at home around here,” was interesting too.
Maybe this Special Operations assignment will turn out all right after all.
FOUR
At five minutes past one that afternoon, Abu Ben Mohammed pushed open one of the double doors giving access to the business premises of Goldblatt & Sons Credit Furniture & Appliances, Inc., which occupied all of a three-story building on the north side of South Street, between South 8th and South 9th Streets in South Philadelphia.
Abu Ben Mohammed, according to police records, had been born, as Charles David Stevens, at the Temple University Hospital, in North Philadelphia, twenty-four years, six months, and eleven days earlier. On the occasion of his most recent arrest, he had been described as a Negro Male, five feet nine inches tall, weighing approximately 165 pounds, and with no particular deformities or scars.
Goldblatt & Sons had a doorman, Albert J. Monahan, who was fifty-six. Red Monahan had been with Goldblatt & Sons for thirty-eight years. He went way back to when it had been Samuel Goldblatt Fine Furniture, when Mr. Joshua Goldblatt (now treasurer) and Mr. Harold Goldblatt (now secretary) had been in short pants, and Mr. Samuel Goldblatt, Jr., (now president) then known as “Little Sammy,” had been just another muscular eighteen-year-old working one of the trucks delivering merchandise alongside Red.
Before he’d had his heart attack, three years before, Red Monahan had worked his way up to warehouse supervisor. In addition to the portions of the third floor and of the basement of the building on South Street used to warehouse, there was a five-story warehouse building on Washington Avenue two blocks away.
Red had been responsible for checking merchandise as it came in, filling orders from the store to be loaded on trucks, and in moving merchandise back and forth between the store and the warehouse.
Old Mr. Goldblatt had still been alive when Red had his heart attack, although he was getting pretty fragile. But he insisted on being taken to the hospital to see Red, and Young Mr. Sam had, nervously, loaded him into his Buick and taken him.
Old Mr. Goldblatt had told Red that he was too mean an Irishman to die, or even to stay sick for very long, and anyway not to worry. The store had good hospital insurance and what that didn’t pay, the store would. And he could consider himself retired, at full pay, from that moment. Anyone with thirty-five years with the store was entitled to take it easy when the time came.
Red told Old Mr. Goldblatt that he didn’t want to retire; everybody he knew who retired was dead in a year or eighteen months. And what the hell would he do, anyway, sit around the house all day?
Old Mr. Goldblatt told Red that there would be a job for him at the store as long as he wanted one, and then when he was back in the Buick he told Young Mr. Sam that he was to figure out something for Red to do that wouldn’t be a strain on him, but that would also keep him busy.
“No make work. Red’s got pride.”
“Jesus Christ, Pop!”
“Just do it, Sammy. Let me know what you come up with.”
What Young Mr. Sam came up with was what he called “floor walker.” When he was a kid, there had been floor walkers in Strawbridge & Clothier, John Wanamaker’s, and other top-class department stores. What they did was literally walk the floor, keeping an eye on customers, stock, and employees.
Goldblatt & Sons had never had such people, but once he thought of it, it struck Young Mr. Sam as a pretty good idea. For one thing, Red was a genial Irishman, charming, silver-haired. People liked him. For another, nobody knew more about the stock than Red did. If when people came through the door, Red could be there to greet them with a smile and find out whether they were interested in a bedroom suite, or a refrigerator, or a rug, or whatever, then he could point them in the right direction. “Appliances are on the second floor, right up the stairs.” “Carpets are on the third floor, you’ll find the elevator right over there.”
The first problem was to think of a new term to describe what he would be doing. Young Mr. Sam didn’t think Red would like to be a floor walker. He finally came up with “merchandise counselor.” Red’s face stiffened when he heard that, but he heard Young Mr. Sam out, listening to Sam explain what would be expected of him.
“You mean like a doorman, Sam, right? To make sure the customers don’t get away?”
“Yeah.”
“That sounds like a pretty good idea,” Red had said.
