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“Get it over with, Daffy,” he said.
“Get what over with?”
“Whatever you’re going to say next in the mistaken belief that it will either be clever or terribly amusing.”
“Hey, Matt, she’s being nice,” Chad said.
“That’s what worries me,” Matt said.
“Hello, again,” Terry said.
“Again?” Daffy asked.
“We met this morning,” Terry said.
“I’d tell Daffy we had breakfast together, but she would read something into that,” Matt said, smiling at Terry.
“Now who’s being clever and terribly amusing, you prick?” Daffy snapped.
“Daffy, please, try to control your vulgarity in front of my goddaughter,” Matt said, unctuously.
Terry Davis laughed.
“Is she really?” she asked. “Your goddaughter?”
“Yeah,” Matt said.
“She’s adorable.”
“Yeah.”
“What do you mean you had breakfast?” Daffy asked.
“At the Ritz-Carlton, no less,” Matt said.
“Anybody for a drink?” Chad asked.
“You got any champagne?” Matt asked.
“You hate champagne,” Daffy said.
“Not on those days on which I get promoted, I don’t,” Matt said. “But I’ll settle for scotch.”
“Promoted to what?” Daffy asked.
“To sergeant, thank you for asking.”
“No shit! Hey, good for you, Matt!” Chad said. He went behind a wet bar and came up with a bottle of champagne. “I knew there was one in here.”
“Terry,” Daffy said, “Matt is a police officer.”
“I know. ‘One of Philadelphia’s finest,’ ” Terry said.
“Who said that?” Daffy asked in disbelief.
“The monsignor. What was his name?”
“Schneider,” Matt said. “I think he’s a closet cop groupie.”
