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“Yes, sir.”
Pekach turned and went back into the office he shared with Captain Mike Sabara. Then he turned again, remembering two things: first, that he had not said “So long” or something to McFadden; and second that McFadden and his partner had answered the call on the shooting at Goldblatt’s furniture.
He reentered the outer office just in time to hear the sergeant snarl, “What do you want?” at McFadden.
“Officer McFadden, Sergeant,” Pekach said, “for the good of the Department, you understand, was kind enough to be standing by to answer the telephone. Since, you see, there was no one else out here.”
The sergeant flushed.
“Come on in a minute, Charley,” Pekach said. “You got a minute?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pekach held the door open for Charley and then followed him into the office.
Captain Michael J. Sabara, a short, muscular, swarthy-skinned man whose acne-scarred face, dark eyes, and mustache made him appear far more menacing than was the case, looked up curiously at McFadden.
“You know Charley, don’t you, Mike?” Pekach asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Sabara said, offering his hand. “How are you, McFadden?”
At least this one, he thought, looks like a Highway Patrolman.
The other one, in Captain Sabara’s mind, was Officer Jesus Martinez; the other of the first two probationary Highway Patrolmen. Jesus Martinez was just barely over Departmental height and weight minimums. It wasn’t his fault, but he just didn’t look like a Highway Patrolman. He looked, in Captain Sabara’s opinion, like a small-sized spic dressed up in a cut-down Highway Patrol uniform.
“Charley, you went in on that shots fired, hospital case at Goldblatt’s, didn’t you?” Pekach asked.
“Yes, sir. Quinn and I were at City Hall when we heard it.”
“What did you find?”
“Nothing. They were long gone—they had stashed a van out in back—when we got there.”
“You hear anything on the scene about the doers?”
“Spades in bathrobes,” McFadden said, “Is what we heard. Dumb spades. They—Goldblatt’s—don’t keep any real money in the store.”
“What do you think about this?” Captain Sabara said, and handed him a photocopy of the press release that had been sent to Mickey O’Hara at the Bulletin.
“What the hell is it?” McFadden asked.
“What do you think it is, Charley?” Pekach asked.
“I think it’s bullshit. If this thing is real, and they’re going to have a war with the Jews, how come the guy they shot was an Irishman?”
“Good question,” Pekach said. “If you had to guess, Charley, what would you say?”
“Jesus, Captain, I don’t know. I don’t think this Liberation Army is for real—is it?”
“That seems to be the question of the day, Charley,” Pekach said, and then changed the subject. “I don’t seem to see you much anymore. How do you like Highway?”
“It’s all right, I guess,” Charley replied. “But sometimes, Captain, I sort of miss Narcotics.”
“Narcotics or undercover?” Pekach pursued.
“Both, I guess.”
“If you don’t catch up with Payne tonight, I’ll tell him you were looking for him,” Pekach said.
