Mr. Baltazari told Mr. Clark, unnecessarily, that he would pass the progress report along to their mutual friend, who wasn’t going to like it one fucking bit.
“He’s going to want to know, Anthony, if you didn’t have somebody reliable to do this favor for him, why you didn’t do it yourself. ”
“Accidents happen, Ricco, for Christ’s sake!”
“Yeah,” Mr. Baltazari said, and hung up.
He looked at his watch. It was quarter to twelve. He thought that although it wasn’t his fault, Mr. S. was going to be pissed to hear that the goddamned markers were still somewhere the other side of Doylestown.
Somewhat reluctantly, he dialed Mr. S.’s number.
TWENTY-ONE
Chief Marchessi had ordered surveillance of Corporal Vito Lanza “starting right now.” Captain Swede Olsen had done his best to comply with his orders, but Internal Affairs does not have a room full of investigators just sitting around with nothing else to do until summoned to duty, so it was twenty minutes after eleven before a nondescript four-year-old Pontiac turned down the 400 block of Ritner Street in South Philadelphia.
“There it is,” Officer Howard Hansen said, pointing to Corporal Lanza’s residence. “With the plumber’s truck in front.”
“Where the hell am I going to park?” Sergeant Bill Sanders responded. “Jesus, South Philly is unbelievable.”
Officer Hansen and Sergeant Sanders were in civilian clothing. Hansen, who had been handling complaints from the public about police misbehavior, was wearing a suit and tie, and Sanders, who had been investigating a no-harm-done discharge of firearms involving two police officers and a married lady who had promised absolute fidelity to both of them, was wearing a cotton jacket and a plaid, tieless shirt.
“Go around the block, maybe something’ll open up,” Hansen said.
“I don’t see a new Cadillac, either.”
“If you had a new Cadillac, would you want to park it around here?”
“We don’t even know if he’s here,” Sanders said as he drove slowly and carefully down Ritner Street, where cars were parked, half on the sidewalk, along both sides.
Suddenly he stopped.
“Go in the bar,” he ordered, pointing. “See if you can get a seat where you can see his house. I’ll find someplace to park.”
Hansen got quickly out of the car and walked in the bar. He saw that if he sat at the end of the bar by the entrance, he could see over the curtain on the plate-glass window, and would have a view of most of the block, including the doorway to Lanza’s house.
He ordered a beer and a piece of pickled sausage.
Sergeant Sanders walked in ten minutes later.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Long time no see!”
They shook hands.
“Let me buy you a beer,” Hansen said.
“I accept. Schaefers,” he said to the bartender, and then to Hansen: “I got to make a call.”
The bartender pointed to a phone, and then drew his beer.
Sanders consulted the inside of a matchbook, then dropped a coin in the slot and dialed a number.
On the fourth ring, a somewhat snappy female voice picked up.
“Hello?”
“Is Vito there, Mrs. Lanza?”
“Who’s this?”
“Jerry, Mrs. Lanza. Can I talk to Vito?”
“If you can find him, you can talk to him. I don’t know where he is. Nobody is here but me and the plumbers.”
“I’ll try him later, Mrs. Lanza, thank you.”
“You see him, you tell him he’s got to come home and talk to these plumbers.”
“I’ll do that, Mrs. Lanza,” Sanders said, and hung up.
He walked back to the bar.
“His mother doesn’t know where he is. She’s all alone with the plumbers.”
Hansen nodded, and took a small sip of his beer.
“Is there anything on the TV?” he called to the bartender.
“What do you want?”
“Anything but the soap opera. I have enough trouble with my own love life; I don’t have to watch somebody else’s trouble.”
The bartender started flipping through the channels.
At five minutes to twelve, Marion Claude Wheatley left his office in the First Pennsylvania Bank & Trust Company, rode down in the elevator, and walked north on South Broad Street to the City Hall, and then east on Market Street toward the Delaware River.
He returned to the Super Drugstore on the corner of 11th Street where he had previously purchased the Souvenir of Asbury Park, N.J. AWOL bag, and bought two more of them, another Souvenir of Asbury Park, N.J. and one with the same fish jumping out of the waves, but marked Souvenir of Panama City Beach, Fla. He thought it would be interesting to know just how many different places were stamped on AWOL