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—
Now, Payne thought, the lesson learned here is: Don’t piss off an Irishman.
O’Hara is not afraid of Five-Eff.
Or the cartels.
—
Tony Harris was behind the wheel of the unmarked Crown Victoria waiting at the curb. He had his cell phone to his ear.
Payne pulled open the front passenger door.
“Okay, Dick, we will see you in a few,” Harris said as Payne settled in the seat.
Harris broke off the call and placed the phone in the dashboard mount.
“I’m starved, Matt. You hungry?”
“What the hell?” He pointed at Harris’s phone. “Wasn’t that just McCrory? What did he say about him—us—meeting Pookie?”
“There’s no rush.”
“Why?”
“Pookie’s instead gone to meet his maker.”
Payne slowly shook his head.
Harris went on: “Got whacked about a half hour ago. Dick’s at the scene waiting for the M.E. to arrive. Happened right down the street from where Dante got whacked.”
Payne stared out the windshield.
“Shit,” he said, then sighed.
After a long moment, Payne then looked at Harris, raised his eyebrows, and said, “It’s a bit out of the way, but I could really go for a Dalessandro’s cheesesteak. I’ll even let you buy.”
Harris smirked, and dropped the gear selector into drive.
“You’re the best, Marshal Earp.”
XI
[ ONE ]
Clementine and F Streets
Kensington, Philadelphia
Sunday, December 16, 2:35 P.M.
Matt Payne shoved the last bite of his cheesesteak sandwich into his mouth as Tony Harris turned onto Clementine, wound his way around various vehicles belonging to the news media, and then parked the Crown Victoria with two right tires up on the sidewalk.
“Try not to rub your greasy fingers all over,” Harris said, taking a drink of his coffee as he handed Payne a small stack of paper napkins, then put the gearshift in park. “You’ve already ruined one set of clothes this weekend. And you’ll want to look your best for the media when you give them the silent treatment.”
“What would I do without you, Detective Harris?”
As Payne wiped his hands, he looked out the windshield.
