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“That would make a good yarn,” Mickey O’Hara said. “ ‘New Sergeant Gets Hero Father’s Badge.’ ”
“Which you won’t write, right?” Lowenstein said.
“Okay,” Mickey said, shrugging his shoulders and reaching for the bottle of Old Bushmills.
“I loved Jack like a brother,” Coughlin said. “And he had a lot of balls. But he wasn’t a hero. His big balls got him killed. He answered a silent alarm without backup…”
“I remember,” Lowenstein said. “I had North Detectives when it happened.”
“Jack knew better,” Coughlin said. “He could still be walking around if he’d done what he was trained-ordered-to do.”
“Dennis, how would you judge Dutch Moffitt’s behavior?” Jason Washington’s sonorous voice asked.
Coughlin looked at him, obviously annoyed at the question.
“Was that an excess of male ego-‘I’m Dutch Moffitt of Highway Patrol. I can handle this punk by myself’?” Washington pursued. “Or a professional assessment of the situation in which he found himself, with the same result?”
Coughlin looked at him for a long moment before deciding if and what to answer.
“Dutch said, ‘Lay the gun on the counter, son. I don’t want to have to kill you. I’m a police officer.’ Was that the right thing to do? I think so. I would like to think that’s what I would have done. I would also like to think I would have looked around for a second doer. Dutch didn’t, and the junkie girlfriend shot him.”
“I worked with Dutch,” Peter Wohl said. “I can’t believe he didn’t look for a second doer. He had trouble keeping his pecker in his pocket, but he was a very good street cop.”
“Your mother never told you, ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead,’ Peter?” Coughlin said. “Especially in front of the deceased’s nephew?”
Wohl shrugged, unrepentant. Coughlin had another thought.
“Your grandmother’s going to be in the mayor’s office tomorrow, Matty. I thought she had a right to be.”
“Oh, shit!” Matt blurted.
Coughlin glared angrily at him.
“I was going to tell her later,” Matt said, somewhat lamely. “Maybe even go by.”
“She’s your grandmother, Matt,” Coughlin said, on the edge of anger.
“I don’t like the way she treats my mother,” Matt said.
“Don’t tell me she’s still pissed that Jack’s widow married Payne?” Lowenstein asked.
“It’s a religious thing, Matt,” Coughlin said. “Patricia raised Matt as an Episcopal after Payne adopted him.”
“You Christians do have your problems, don’t you?” Lowenstein asked. “How many angels can fit on the head of a pin?”
Coughlin gave him the finger.
“I don’t agree with her, Matty,” Coughlin said. “You know that. But she’s still your grandmother.”
“Does my mother know she’s coming?”
“If your mother knew, she would, being the lady she is, not go.”
“Jesus-”
“Before you two continue with what is sure to be an indeterminable discussion of Mother Moffitt,” Washington interrupted, “may I finish with my profound observation?”
Matt realized-wondering why it had taken him so long-that while no one at the table was drunk, it was also obvious that no one was on their first-or third-drink, either. He looked at the bottles. The Chivas Regal was half empty; the Jack Daniel’s and the Old Bushmills were almost dry.
