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At five minutes to four, when his eight-to-four tour would be over, Detective Payne became aware that someone was standing behind him. He turned from the typewriter and looked over his shoulder. Sergeant Aloysius J. Sutton, a ruddy-faced, red-haired, stocky man in his late thirties, his boss, was smiling at him.
"I wish I could type that fast," Sergeant Sutton said admiringly.
"You should see me on a typewriter built after 1929," Payne replied.
Sutton chuckled. "You got time for a beer when we quit?"
"Sure."
The invitation surprised him. Having a beer with his newest rookie detective did not seem to be Sutton's style. But it was obviously a command performance. Rookie detectives did not refuse an invitation from their sergeant.
"Tom amp; Frieda's, you know it?"
Matt Payne nodded. It was a bar at Lee and Westmoreland, fifty yards from East Detectives.
"See you there."
Sergeant Sutton walked away, back to his desk just outside Captain Eames's office, and started cleaning up the stuff on the desk.
What the hell is this all about? Jesus Christ, have I fucked up somehow? Broken some unwritten rule? It has to be something like that. I am about to get a word-to-the-wise. But what about?
****
At five past four, Matt Payne left the squad room of East Detectives and walked down the street to Tom amp; Frieda's. Sergeant Sutton was not in the bar and grill when he got there, and for a moment, Matt was afraid that he had been there, grown tired of waiting, and left. Left more than a little annoyed with Detective Payne.
But then Sutton, who had apparently been in the gentlemen's rest facility, touched his arm.
"I'm sorry I'm late, Sergeant."
"In here, you can call me Al. We're…more or less…off duty."
"Okay. Thank you."
"Ortlieb's from the tap all right?"
"Fine."
"What you have to do is find a bar where they sell a lot of beer, so what they give you is fresh. Most draft beer tastes like horse piss because it's been sitting around forever."
He is making conversation. He did not bring me here because he likes me, or to deliver a lecture on the merits of fresh beer on draft. I wish to hell he would get to it.
"You got anything going that won't hold for three days?" Sergeant Al Sutton asked as he signaled the bartender.
Matt thought that over briefly. "No."
"Good. As of tomorrow, you're on three days special assignment at the Roundhouse. Report to Sergeant McElroy in Chief Lowenstein's office."
Matt looked at Sutton for amplification. None came.
"Can you tell me what this is all about?" Matt asked.
Sutton looked at him carefully. "I thought maybe you could tell me," he said, finally.
Matt shook his head from side to side.
"I'll tell you what I know," Sutton said. "Harry McElroy…you know who he is?"
"I know him."
