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“Goddamn movie actor!”
“Actually, he’s not really such a bad sort,” Matt said. “He sort of grows on you.”
FIFTEEN
I may have had more of these than I remember,” Mickey O’Hara said, interrupting Washington, and holding up his Old Bushmills on the rocks, "because the guy in the door looks just like Stan Colt.”
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” Washington agreed.
Mr. Colt, smiling, his hand extended, marched up to them.
“Hi,” he said. “You’re Matt’s boss, aren’t you? Lieutenant Washington?”
“Yes, I am,” Washington said. “And unless I err, you are Mr. Stan Colt?”
“Right!”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Colt,” Washington said, adding: “This is Mr. Michael J. O’Hara, of the Bulletin.”
“No shit!” Mr. Colt exclaimed. “You’re Mickey O’Hara? Goddamn! You’re a goddamn legend!”
He enthusiastically pumped Mickey’s hand.
“Mr. O’Hara is indeed one of our more prominent journalists, ” Washington said, as Wohl, trailed by Matt, came into the bar.
“When you and Bull Bolinski got caught running numbers for Frankie the Gut, you took the fall for him, got expelled, and the Bull got to graduate, got to be All-American… you know. The Bull told me all about you.”
“You know Casimir?” Mickey asked.
“Hell, yeah, I know the Bull. We West Catholic guys got to stick together, you know. He always stays with me when he’s on the Coast.”
“I’ll be damned,” Mickey said. “I heard you were in town, raising money for West Catholic, but I didn’t know you went there.”
“You probably wouldn’t remember me. I used to be Stanley Coleman, I was a freshman and you and the Bull were juniors when you got shit-canned, but I sure remember you.”
“I’ll be damned,” Mickey said, and now returned Mr. Colt’s enthusiastic hand-pumping.
Wohl wa
lked up, smiling a little lamely.
“Well, I see you’ve met Mr. O’Hara, Mr. Colt,” he said.
“Met him, shit! We go way back; we both got kicked out of West Catholic. Jesus, I’m glad you brought me in here!”
“Me, too,” Mickey said.
“Hey, bartender,” Mr. Colt called, and when he had his attention, made a circling motion with his hand, which the bartender correctly interpreted to mean that he should bring liquid refreshment to one and all.
“The usual, Inspector?” the bartender asked.
Wohl nodded.
“Detective?”
“Hey, he’s a sergeant,” Mr. Colt corrected him. “Give us both one of those Irish martinis.”
“And if I don’t want an Irish martini?” Matt asked, smiling.
