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Coughlin made a sour face.
“‘Ghetto birds’?” he parroted. “So now we have heard from the peanut gallery. Thank you for your colorful input, Sergeant Payne.”
Payne grinned.
“My pleasure, Uncle Denny.”
“For being Public Enemy Number One, you certainly seem terribly cheery,” Coughlin added. “And your use of that term suggests to me that you might actually be spending some time walking the beat.”
Payne shrugged. “A little.”
“Community policing,” Washington said. “Winning one heart and mind at a time?”
“Something like that.”
“Speaking of which, Matty,” Coughlin said. “Is there any truth that there’s some new mentoring program—an underground program—in Kensington?”
“Rumor has it,” Washington added, “that there’s a certain Homicide sergeant who’s quietly funding it.”
“Really?” Payne said. “Well, you know what President Truman said, ‘It’s amazing what you can get done if you don’t care who gets the credit.’”
Washington’s eyes looked warm and thoughtful as he nodded. He’s always up to something, living by the motto It’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission he thought, and was reminded of the previous week, when he went with Payne to the Executive Command Center.
And some things he’s up to play out better than others . . .
—
When Washington and Payne had entered the ECC, Kerry Rapier had greeted them, then pulled off his jacket.
“Thanks for the shirt, Marshal,” Rapier told Payne.
“They came!” Payne said, then looked at Washington to explain. “I had T-shirts made with this on the back . . .”
Washington looked at the bold print on the shirt. It read There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it never care for anything else thereafter.
“I saw the quote when we took a tour of Hemingway’s house in Key West. Apparently ol’ Ernie wrote that in a magazine essay in 1936.”
Payne motioned again for Rapier to turn, and when he had, Payne pointed and said, “And had that printed on the front.”
Over the left breast was the silhouette of a grim reaper shouldering a scythe and, circling it, the words PHILLY PD HOMICIDE UNIT—OUR DAY BEGINS WHEN YOURS ENDS.
Washington met Payne’s eyes.
“Matthew, pray tell, when you have your wild ideas, is there any type of filtering process that occurs before you act? Some method of vetting that, perhaps, evaluates the pros and cons? Or is it simply the result of a stream of consciousness?” He paused, made a thin smile, then added, “Not that that query is to mean that I am suggesting anything . . .”
“Do I detect a modicum of dissatisfaction?” Payne said, his tone mock-indignant. “Stream of consciousness—as I would expect one known respectfully as the Black Buddha to recognize—is given credence in the earliest Buddhist scriptures, notably Theravada, ones dating back to long before the birth of Christ. It was passed down the ages with the scriptures, first orally then as written text in the Pali language. Personally, I feel anything that survives that long must have its merits. So, yes, I do indeed embrace stream of consciousness.”
“Here’s more of that stream of consciousness,” Rapier then said, reaching under the desk and producing a cardboard shipping box. “This also came for you while you were gone.”
“This what I think it is?” Payne said, looking at the mailing label. “It is!”
He pulled out a tactical folding knife from where he had it clipped inside the right front pocket of his pants. Then, in rapid fluid motions, he flipped open the knife’s blade with his thumb, slit the packing tape, then closed the knife and clipped it back in his pocket. He opened the box flaps and removed a half-dozen cellophane-wrapped decks of playing cards.
He handed one pack to Washington.
“There,” Payne said, smiling. “Now the Black Buddha cannot say I never gave him anything. And perhaps this will allow you to look favorably, if only a little, at my unfiltered wild ideas.”
Washington looked at the pack for a moment. On the front of the box was the logotype of the Philadelphia Police Department, and under that: HOMICIDE UNIT COLD CASES.
