“What are you being sent to Harrisburg for?” Chad asked.
“They are having a crime wave, and require the services of a big-city detective to solve it.”
“Bullshit.”
“You remember reading about the lieutenant the Department threw in the slammer for protecting the call girl ring?”
“Yeah.”
“Not for publication, I’m tying up some loose ends on that,” Matt said.
“A call girl ring?” Daffy said. “Right down your alley. You should love that.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“You really should call her,” Daffy said.
“Call who? Any call girl? Or do you have a specific one in mind?”
“Susan, you ass.”
“Your pal Susan shot me down in flames, you will recall.”
“If at first you don’t succeed,” Daffy said.
“I have her phone number,” Matt said. “You gave it to me.”
“Call her. If nothing else, it’ll keep you out of trouble with the call girls,” Daffy said.
“I don’t know,” Matt said doubtfully.
“Call her, damn you. She’s a very nice girl.”
A very nice girl, Matt thought, who is aiding and abetting four murdering lunatics.
“Are you going to be talking to her?” Matt asked.
“I don’t know,” Daffy replied. “I can. Why?”
“I don’t suppose you would be willing to tell her you were only kidding when you told her what an all-around son of a bitch I am?”
“I wasn’t kidding. But, okay, I’ll call her and put in a good word for you. If you promise to call her when you’re there.”
“If I can find the time,” Matt said.
“Find the time,” Chad said.
“She’s really a very nice girl,” Daffy said.
Now, if you call our Susan and tell her, or let surmise, that my calling her was your and Chad’s idea, and I’m not thrilled about it, that just may allay her suspicions that I might have a professional interest in her activities, and this charade will not have been in vain.
“Ah,” Matt said. “Here comes the shrimp. Can we change the subject, please?”
“Take her to the Hotel Hershey,” Daffy said. “That’s romantic as hell.”
“All I want to do with her, Daffy,” Matt said, sounding serious, “is get her in bed. I didn’t say a word about . . .”
“You bastard!” Daffy said, smiling at him. “Now I will call her. Susan may be just the girl to bring you under control.”
Philip Chason, a slightly built fifty-five-year-old who walked with a limp, turned his three-year-old Ford sedan off Essington Avenue—sometimes called “Automobile Row”—and onto the lot of Fiorello’s Fine Cars.
It was one of the larger lots; Chason figured there must be 150 cars on display, ranging from year-old Cadillacs and Buicks down to junkers one step away from the crusher.
Chason was not in the market for a car. And if he was going shopping for one, he wouldn’t have come here. Joe Fiorello was somehow tied to the mob. Chason didn’t know exactly what the connection was, but he knew there was one. And Chason had a thing about the mob; he didn’t like the idea of them getting any of his money.
Chason had spent twenty-six years of his life as a Philadelphia policeman, and eighteen of the twenty-six years as a detective, before a drunk had run a red light and slammed into the side of his unmarked car. That had put him in the hospital for six weeks, given him a gimp leg that hurt whenever it rained, and gotten him a line-of-duty-injury pension.
After sitting around for four months watching the grass grow, Phil Chason had got himself a private investigator’s license, made a little office in the basement of his house, put in another telephone and an answering machine, and took out an ad in the phone book’s yellow pages: “Philip Chason, Confidential Investigations. (Retired Detective, Philadelphia P.D.).”
It was not a quick way to get rich in any case, and it had been tough getting started at all. But gradually jobs started coming his way. Too many of them were sleaze, like following some guy whose wife suspected he was getting a little on the side, or some dame whose husband figured she was.
He got some seasonal work, like at Christmas at John Wanamaker’s Department Store, helping their security people keep an eye on shoplifters and seasonal employees. And Wachenhut called him every once in a while to work, for example, ritzy parties at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, or a big reception at one of the hotels, keeping scumbags