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“Yes, of course,” Davis said uncomfortably.
“With a name like Frankie Perri, the FBI figures you have to be in the Mafia,” Wohl said.
“Kiss my ass, Peter,” Frankie Perri said, punching Wohl affectionately on the arm. “I’m going to burn your goddamn veal.”
He put out his hand to Davis, and nodded at Matt.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Davis. Come back. Both of you.”
“Thank you,” Davis said, and then when he was gone, he said, “What do you call that, Peter, community relations?”
“What’s on your mind, Walter?”
“The government is going to try Clifford Wallis and Delmore Travis for murder/kidnapping under the Lindbergh Act.”
“Who?” Matt Payne asked.
Wohl glanced at him, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.
“New Jersey’s got them,” Wohl said, “with a lot of evidence, on a murder one. They might plea bargain that down to manslaughter one, but no further. That’s good for twenty-to-life, anyway. Why?”
“They violated federal law, Peter.”
“Come on.”
“Let us say there is considerable interest in this case rather high up in the Justice Department.”
“You mean that Arthur Nelson wants them prosecuted,” Wohl said.
Davis, who had been sitting back in his chair with his left hand against his cheek, moved the hand momentarily away from his face, a tacit agreement with Wohl’s statement.
“Why?” Wohl asked, visibly thinking aloud.
“People get paroled on a state twenty-to-life conviction after what, seven years?” Davis said.
“And he wants to make sure they do more than seven years for the murder of his son. You got enough to try them?”
“We have enough for a Grand Jury indictment.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I grant, it’s pretty circumstantial,” Davis said. “That’s why I’m turning to you for help, Peter.”
“Would you think me cynical to suspect that someone’s leaning on you about this, Walter?”
“Yes,” Davis said, smiling. “But they called me to Washington yesterday, and both of the telephone calls that delayed this little luncheon of ours concerned this case.”
The waitress with the beehive hairdo delivered three large plates with sliced tomatoes and onions just about covering them.
When she had gone, Wohl took a forkful, chewed it slowly, and then asked, “So how can I help, Walter? More than the established, official routine for cooperation with the FBI would be helpful?”
“I need what you have as soon as I can get it, and I want everything you have, not just what a normal request for information would produce.”
The waitress delivered three round water glasses, now scarred nearly gray by a thousand trips through the dishwasher. She half filled them, from a battered stainless-steel water pitcher, with a red liquid.
“Frankie said his grandfather made it over in Jersey,” the waitress said.
Wohl picked up his glass, then stood up, called “Frankie,” and, when he had his attention, called “Salud!” and then sat down again.
