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“Why me, dear Lord, why me?”
“Because you can type,” Wohl said. “Where did you get that?” he asked, pointing to the dictating apparatus Payne was using.
“There’s a place on Market Street, across from Reading Terminal,” Payne said.
“You bought it?”
“It was either buy it or suffer terminal index finger using that thing,” Payne said, pointing to a tape recorder, and miming—jabbing his index finger—as he added, “ahead three seconds, rewind three seconds, ahead three seconds. I was wearing out my finger.”
“What did it cost?”
“Don’t ask.”
Wohl chuckled.
“How’s it coming?”
“There are thirteen tapes. I am on number three.”
“We still on for tomorrow?”
“Yes, indeed, sir. I wish to play for ten dollars a stroke, plus side bets. It would please me greatly to have you pay for this electronic marvel.”
“Merion at twelve, right?”
“Bring your checkbook.”
The relationship between Inspector Wohl and Detective Payne was unusual. Generally, it was believed that Wohl had elected to become Payne’s rabbi, which was to say he had seen in the younger man the intelligence and character traits that would, down the pike, make him a fine senior police officer, and had chosen to be his mentor. That was true, but the best explanation of their relationship Peter had ever heard had come from his mother, who had said Matt was the little brother he had never had.
Wohl turned and walked out of the room, pausing before Washington’s desk.
“If he shows any signs of slowing up—much less trying to leave—use your whip,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Washington said.
Detective Payne replaced the headset, then held his hand, middle finger extended, in a very disrespectful gesture, over his head.
Wohl went down the corridor, got into his official unmarked car, and headed downtown for his meeting with Chief Inspector Lowenstein.
Five minutes later, the telephone in the Investigations Section rang. Sergeant Washington answered it, called out “Matt!” and when there was no answer, got up and walked to Payne’s desk, tapped him on the shoulder, and then pointed to the telephone.
Payne took his earphones off, punched an illuminated button on the telephone on the desk, and picked it up.
“Payne,” he said.
“Would you hold please for Mr. Nesbitt?” a female voice said.
“No,” Payne said.
“Excuse me?”
“You tell Mr. Nesbitt when he finally learns how to dial a telephone himself, I’ll be glad to talk to him,” Payne said, and hung up.
He looked over at Washington.
“That pisses me off,” he announced.
“What, specifically, causes you to have an uncontrollable impulse to pass water?” Washington asked.
