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That meant that in addition to the lousy coffee served by the concessionaire in the stairwell, they would have to eat lunch in some crowded greasy spoon restaurant nearby.
They went back to Courtroom 636 a few minutes before two. The assistant district attorney told them they would not be needed. By the time they had gone back downstairs and checked out through Court Attendance, it was a few minutes after two.
They went out and found their car. Quinn got behind the wheel and cranked the battered Chevrolet. The radio warmed almost immediately, and came to life:
“BEEP BEEP BEEP. 800 South Street. Assist officer. Holdup in progress. Report of shooting and hospital case.
“BEEP BEEP BEEP. 800 South Street. Assist officer. Holdup in
progress. Report of shooting and hospital case.”
Quinn had the siren howling and the lights flashing even before McFadden could pick up the microphone.
When he had it in his hand, he said, “Highway Twenty-Two in on that.”
Mrs. Janet Grosse’s—Police Radio’s—second call about the robbery of Goldblatt & Sons Credit Furniture & Appliances, Inc.—
Beep Beep Beep. 800 South Street. Assist officer. Holdup in progress. Report of shooting and hospital case.
—was also picked up by one of the several police frequency radios in an antennae-festooned Buick, a new one, registered to one Michael J. O’Hara of the 2100 block of South Shields Street in West Philadelphia.
Mr. O’Hara had just a moment before entered the Buick after having taken luncheon (a cheese-steak sandwich, a large side order of french fries, and three bottles of Ortleib’s beer) at Beato’s on Parrish Street, in the company of Sergeant Max Feldman, of the 9th District.
When the call came, Mr. O’Hara was filling out a small printed document that he would, on Friday, turn into the administrative office of the Philadelphia Bulletin, the newspaper by which he was employed. It would state that in the course of business he had entertained Sergeant Feldman at luncheon at a cost of $23.50, plus a $3.75 tip, for a total of $27.25. In due course, a check would be issued to reimburse Mr. O’Hara for this business expense.
Actually, Mr. O’Hara had not paid for the lunch, and indeed had no idea what it had cost. Sergeant Feldman’s money was no good at Beato’s, and the management had picked up Mr. O’Hara’s tab as a further courtesy to Sergeant Feldman.
But several months before, Casimir J. Bolinski, LLD, had renegotiated Mr. O’Hara’s contract for the provision of his professional services to the Bulletin. Among other stipulations, the new contract required the Bulletin to reimburse Mr. O’Hara for whatever expenses he incurred in carrying out his professional duties, specifically including the entertainment of individuals who, in Mr. O’Hara’s sole judgment, might prove useful to him professionally.
Since Casimir had gone to all that trouble for him, it seemed to Mr. O’Hara that it would be ungrateful of him not to turn in luncheon expense vouchers whether or not cash had actually changed hands. Anyway, Mr. O’Hara reasoned, if Beato’s hadn’t grabbed the tab, he would have paid it.
Mr. O’Hara’s profession was journalism. Specifically, he was the Bulletin’s top crime reporter. Arguably, he was the best crime reporter in Philadelphia or, for that matter, between Boston and Washington.
Dr. Bolinski had enjoyed a certain fame—some said “notoriety”—as a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers professional football team before hanging up the suit and joining the bar and entering the legal specialization field of representing professional athletes.
Bull Bolinski had surprised a lot of people, including Mickey O’Hara, who had known him since they were in the third grade at Saint Stephen’s Parochial School at 10th and Butler, with his near-instant success at big-dollar contract negotiations.
“What it is, Michael,” The Bull had once explained to him over a beer, “is that the fuckers think I’m just a dumb fucking jock. That gives me a leg up on the bastards.”
The Bull was the only person in the world except Mickey’s mother who called Mr. O’Hara “Michael.” Mickey, similarly, was the only person in the world save Mrs. Bolinski who called The Bull “Casimir.” The Bull’s mother didn’t even call him Casimir; usually it was Sonny, but often she called him “Bull” too.
That went back to Saint Stephen’s too, where Sister Mary Magdalene, the principal, had a thing about Christian names. You either used the name you got when you were baptized, or you took a crack across the hand, bottom, or a stab into the ribs from Sister Mary Magdalene’s eighteen-inch steel-reinforced ruler.
Casimir had been in town eight months before and had been deeply shocked to learn how little Michael was being compensated for his services by the Bulletin.
“Jesus, Michael, you got a fucking Pulitzer Prize, and that’s all those cheap bastards are paying you? That’s fucking outrageous!”
“Casimir, you may have been a hot shit ball player, and you may be a hot shit lawyer now, but you don’t know your ass from left field about newspapers.”
“Trust me, Michael,” The Bull had said confidently. “I can handle those bastards.”
Somewhat uneasily, Mr. O’Hara had placed the financial aspects of his career into Dr. Bolinski’s hands. To his genuine surprise, the Bulletin was now paying him more money than he had ever expected to make, and there were fringe benefits like the Buick (previously he had driven his own car and been reimbursed at a dime a mile) and the expense account.
While it would not be fair to say that Mickey O’Hara was happy to hear that someone had been illegally deprived of their property at gunpoint, or that somebody had gotten themselves shot, neither would it be honest to say that he was beside himself with vicarious sorrow.
It had been a damned dull week, so far, and so far the line of type reading, “By Michael J. O’Hara, Bulletin Staff Writer” had not appeared on the front page of the Bulletin. A good shooting would probably fix that.
Mickey finished filling out the expense account chit, shoved the pad of forms back into the glove compartment, and got the Buick moving.
