again, then reached down and unlocked one of the handcuffs. He then motioned Ketcham to get to his feet.
“This is really the mature way to deal with this situation,” Ketcham said, extending the wrist that still had a handcuff attached, obviously expecting Prasko to free him of that cuff, too.
Instead, Prasko firmly took Ketcham’s arm and led him into the bathroom, where he ordered him to sit on the floor beside the toilet. Then he attached the free end of his handcuff to the pipes running to the flushing mechanism of the toilet.
“What are you doing?” Ketcham asked.
Prasko ignored him, went out of room 138 to the car, and tried the passenger-side door. It was locked.
“Come out of there, honey,” he ordered.
He saw the blonde looking up from the floor with horror in her eyes.
“Open up,” Prasko ordered.
The blonde tried to move away as far as she could.
Prasko unholstered his revolver and used the butt as a hammer to shatter the window. Then he reached inside and unlocked the door.
“You can come out,” he said, “or I can drag you out.”
She scurried across the floor to the open door, which caused her skirt to rise even higher.
Peggene had legs like that when I first met her. Now her legs look like shit.
He took the girl’s arm and led her into room 138 and closed and locked the door without letting go of her arm.
When she saw Ketcham handcuffed to the crapper, she sucked in her breath.
“What you are, honey,” Prasko said, “is an accessory to a felony, possession of controlled substances with the intent to distribute.”
“Ronny?” the girl asked, looking into the bathroom.
“We’re working something out, Cynthia,” Ketcham said. “Just take it easy.”
The girl looked at Prasko defiantly.
Prasko walked to the bathroom door and closed it. “He had some money,” he said to the girl. “I may let him go. What have you got to trade?”
“I’ve got a little money,” she said.
“He had twenty thousand. You got that much?”
“No!”
“Then I guess you’re both going to jail.”
“I could probably get you some money,” the girl said.
“Twenty thousand? That kind of money?”
She shook her head, no.
“How about five minutes of your time?” Prasko asked.
“Five minutes of my time? I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, you understand,” Prasko said.
“Oh, my God!”
“That’s probably what your mother’ll say when you call her from Central Lockup and tell her you need bailing out, and for what.”
The girl started to whimper.
“You gonna start taking your clothes off, or not?” Prasko said. “I don’t have all night.”
Sobbing now, the girl unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged out of it, then unfastened her skirt and let it fall to the floor.
“All of it, all of it,” Prasko said.
The girl unfastened her brassiere and then, now moving quickly, pushed her white underpants down off her hips. Then she backed up to the bed and lay down on it, her legs spread, her face to one side, so she didn’t have to look at Prasko.
Officer Prasko dropped his trousers and then his shorts and moved to the bed.
When he was done, he went into the bathroom and struck Ketcham in the face with his revolver, hard enough to draw blood and daze him. Then he unlocked the handcuffs.
“Stay where you are for five minutes or I’ll come back and blow your fucking brains out,” Prasko said.
Then he went into the bedroom, glanced quickly at the naked, whimpering girl on the bed, took the twenty thousand dollars from the table, and left room 138.
As soon as Ketcham heard the sound of the car starting, and then driving away, he got off the bathroom floor and went into the bedroom and tried to put his arms around the girl.
She pushed him away and shrieked.
“Cynthia,” he said, trying to sound comforting, and again tried to put his arms around her.
Cynthia shrieked again.
THREE
The District Attorney of Philadelphia, the Hon. Thomas J. “Tony” Callis—a large, silver-haired, ruddy-faced, well-tailored man in his early fifties—looked up from his desk, and saw Harrison J. Hormel, Esq.—a some what rumpled-looking forty-six-year-old—standing in the door, waiting to be noticed.
Harry Hormel was arguably the most competent of all the assistant district attorneys Callis supervised. And he had another characteristic Callis liked. Hormel was apolitical. He had no political ambitions of his own, and owed no allegiance to any politician, except the current incumbent of the Office of the District Attorney.
“Come in, Harry,” Mr. Callis called.
Hormel slipped into one of the two comfortable green leather armchairs facing Callis’s desk.