meet them on the H Band. That was the special radio frequency assigned for the use of detectives, but available for other purposes as well.
Officer Prasko then took a pair of binoculars and a walkie-talkie from the floor of the backseat of the Mercury and went up the stairs to the second-floor balcony of the first building. He stationed himself between a Coke machine and an ice machine in an alcove, from where he could see the rental Chevy and the door to 138.
He had a good view of both the door and the car, especially the car and the girl in it.
She was a looker. And she was nervous. She lit a cigarette and took only a couple of puffs before putting it out and turning to look at the door, which made her breasts stretch the thin material of her blouse. Then she lit another cigarette.
A little after that, she put her hand in her blouse and adjusted her bra, which Prasko found exciting.
What the hell was Ketcham thinking, bringing a girl like that along on a meet like this? Amos Williams was a mean son of a bitch, and the first thing he was likely to do if something went wrong was grab the girl. By the time Ketcham fixed whatever Williams didn’t like, Christ only knew what Williams and his goons would do with a white girl like that, a real looker.
“Six?” the radio went off. Too loud.
He recognized the voice. It was that of Officer Joe Grider. More important, it wasn’t Dolan’s, which was a good thing, meaning they could put Plan B into operation.
Officer Prasko adjusted the volume and the squelch before putting the microphone to his lips.
“Six,” he said.
“He still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s the room?”
“Around in the back. Middle. Ground floor.”
“Any sign of his friends?”
“No.”
“We’re about there. I’m going to park up the street and see who shows up.”
“What are you in?”
“The van.”
The van was not standard, but a 1971 Dodge panel truck, also formerly the property of someone who had been apprehended while illegally trafficking in controlled substances. After the forfeited vehicle had been turned over to Five Squad for undercover work, they had chipped in and had it painted in the color scheme used by—and with the logotype of—Philadelphia Gas Works.
“Who’s the super?”
“I am. Plan B,” Officer Grider replied.
“Just the van?”
“One car.”
“One of you block the Chevy.”
“You got it.”
Officer Prasko picked up his binoculars again. The curtains were drawn across the picture window of 138—Why the fuck do you suppose they put in picture windows? Nobody ever looks out of a motel room, and if you did, all you would see is the other part of the motel—and there was no sign of activity. The blonde in the front seat of the Hertz Chevy was lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old one.
Three minutes later, the radio went off again. He couldn’t hear what was being said.
“Repeat,” he ordered.
“Turn the goddamn volume up!”
“I just did.”
“Bingo, here comes our friends. Light blue new Olds 98. Tell me when he gets inside, and we’ll come in halfway.”
Officer Prasko scurried across the balcony, keeping low so that he wouldn’t be seen.
He saw the Blue Olds 98—well enough to recognize Amos Williams sitting beside the driver—enter the motel area and drive toward the rear. And stop.
“He stopped halfway to the back,” Prasko reported.
“Being careful,” Officer Grider replied.
Mr. Williams was careful for three minutes, which seemed like much longer, and then the driver’s-side rear door of the Olds 98 opened and Marcus C. aka “Baby” Brownlee, black male, thirty-six, six-one, 240 pounds, thirty-two previous arrests, got out, looked around, and walked very quickly toward room 138.
“Baby Brownlee going to the room,” Officer Prasko reported.
He dropped his binoculars to the Chevy. The blonde was not in sight.
Probably dropped onto the seat. I would if I was a good-looking piece like that and saw that mean-looking dinge walking my way.
“Knocking on the door,” Officer Prasko reported, and added a moment later, “He’s in.”
“Wait,” Officer Grider replied.
Baby Brownlee was in room 138 for two minutes forty seconds, which seemed like much longer.
“Door opening,” Officer Prasko reported. “Baby’s coming out. Moving toward car.”
“Five?”
“Ready.”
Five was officer Timothy J. Calhoun, and he was apparently driving the unmarked police car.
“At the car,” Officer Prasko reported. “Getting in.”
Baby Brownlee was in the Olds 98 for fifty seconds, which seemed like much longer.
The blonde’s head appeared in the Chevy. She took a look around and then dropped from sight again.
Christ, I’d like to jump