Mickey O'Hara had just gone to work when he heard the call,"man with a gun at the El terminal at Frankford and Pratt." That is to say, he had just left Mulvaney's Tap Room at Tabor and Rising Sun avenues, where he had had two beers and nobly refused the offer of a third, and gotten in his car to drive downtown, where he planned to begin the day by dropping by the Ninth District police station.

Almost immediately, there were other calls. Another Fifteenth District car was ordered to the Margaret-Orthodox Station, which was the next station, headed downtown, from Bridge and Pratt Streets, and then right after that came an"assist officer" call, and then a warning that plainclothes officers were on the scene. Finally, there was a call for the rescue squad and the fire department.

Mickey O'Hara decided that whatever was happening between the Pratt amp; Bridge Streets Terminal and the Margaret-Orthodox Station might be worthy of his professional attention.

He went down to Roosevelt Boulevard, turned left, and entered the center lane. He drove fast, but not recklessly, weaving skillfully through traffic, cursing and being cursed in turn by the drivers of more slowly moving vehicles. He went around the bend at Friends' Hospital, slipped into the outside lane, and made a right turn, through a red light, onto Bridge Street.

When Mickey O'Hara got to the Bridge amp; Pratt Streets Terminal, he found a crowd of people who were being kept from going up the stairs to the El station by four or five cops under the supervision of a sergeant.

He caught the eye of the sergeant, winked, and shrugged his shoulders in a "what's up?" gesture.

A moment later, the sergeant shouldered his way through the crowd.

"Undercover Narcotics guy spotted the kid who shot Dutch Moffitt," the sergeant said instead of a greeting when they shook hands. "He took off down the tracks, with the undercover chasing him, and fell off the walkway, fried himself on the third rail, and then got himself run over by a train."

"Jesus!" Mickey O'Hara said.

"They're still up there," the sergeant said.

"Is there anyway I can get up there?" Mickey asked

"Watch out for the third rail, Mick," the sergeant said

THIRTEEN

Ward V. Fengler, who had three months before been named a partner of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester (there were seventeen partners, in addition to the five senior partners), pushed open the glass door from the Butler Aviation waiting room at Philadelphia International Airport and walked onto the tarmac as the Bell Ranger helicopter touched down.

Fengler was very tall and very thin and, at thirty-two, already evidencing male pattern baldness. He had spent most of the day, from ten o'clock onward, waiting around the airport for Mr. Wells.

Stanford Fortner Wells III got out of the helicopter, and then turned to reach for his luggage. He was a small man, intense, graying, superbly tailored. The temple piece of a set of horn-rimmed glasses hung outside the pocket of his glen plaid suit.

"Mr. Wells, I'm Ward Fengler of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and Lester," Fengler said. "Colonel Mawson asked me to meet you."

Wells examined him quickly but carefully and put out his hand.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting like this," he said. "First, we had to land in Newfoundland, and then when we got to New York, the goddamned airport, I suppose predictably, was stacked to heaven's basement."

"I hope you had a good flight," Fengler said.

"I hate airplanes," Wells said, matter-of-factly.

"We have a car," Fengler said. "And Colonel Mawson has put you up in the Warwick. I hope that's all right."

"Fine," Wells said. "Has Mawson talked to Kruger?"

"I don't know, sir."

"The reason I asked is that someone is to meet me at the Warwick."

"I don't know anything about that, sir."

"Then maybe something is finally breaking right," Wells said. "The Warwick's fine."

The only thing Stanford Fortner Wells III said on the ride downtown was to make the announcement that he used to come to Philadelphia when he was at Princeton.

"And I went from Philadelphia to Princeton," Fengler said.

Wells grunted, and smiled.

When they reached the hotel, Wells got quickly out of the limousine and hurried across the sidewalk, up the stairs, and through the door to the lobby. Fengler scurried after him.

There was a television monitor mounted on the wall above the receptionist's desk at WCBL-TV when Peter Wohl walked in. "Nine's News" at six was on, and Louise Dutton was looking right into the camera.

My God, she's good-looking!

"May I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"My name is Wohl," Peter said. "I'm here to see Miss Dutton."

The receptionist smiled at him, and picked up a light blue telephone.

"Sharon," she said. "Inspector Wohl is here." Then she looked at Wohl. "She'll be right with you, Inspector."

Sharon turned out to be a startlingly good-looking young woman, with dark eyes and long dark hair, and a marvelous set of knockers. Her smile was dazzling.

"Right this way, Inspector," she said, offering her hand. "I'm Sharon Feldman."

She led him into the building, down a corridor, and through a door marked STUDIO C. It was crowded with people and cameras, and what he supposed were sets, one of which was used for "Nine's News." He was surprised when Louise saw him and waved happily at him, understanding only after a moment that she was not at the moment being telecast, or televised, or whatever they called it.

Sharon Feldman led him through another door, and he found himself in a control room.

"There's coffee, Inspector," Sharon Feldman said. "Help yourself. See you!"

"Roll the Wonder Bread," an intense young woman in horn-rimmed glasses, sitting in the rear of two rows of chairs behind a control console said; and Peter saw, on one of a dozen monitors, one marked AIR, the beginning of a Wonder Bread commercial.

"Funny," a man said to Peter Wohl, "you don't look like a cop."

Peter looked at him icily.

"Leonard Cohen," the man said. "I'm the news director."

"Good for you," Peter said.

"No offense, Wohl," Cohen said. "But you really don't, you know, look like what the word 'cop' calls to mind."

"You don't look much like Walter Cronkite yourself," Peter said.

"I don't make as much money, either," Cohen said, disarmingly.

"Neither, I suppose, does the president of the United States," Wohl said.

"At least that we know about," Cohen said. "Did you catch the guy who got away from the Waikiki Diner?"

"Not as far as I know," Peter said.

"But you will?"

"I think so," Peter said. "It's a question of time."

"What about the party or parties unknown who hacked up the fairy?"

"What fairy is that?"

"Come on," Cohen said. "Nelson."

"Was he a fairy?" Peter asked, innocently.

"Wasn't he?"

"I didn't know him that well," Peter said. "Did you?"

Cohen smiled at Wohl approvingly.

"Maybe the princess has met her match," he said. "I knew there had to be some kind of an attraction."

"Leonard, for Christ's sake, will you shut up?" the intense young woman snapped, and then, "Two, you're out of focus, for Christ's sake!"

Cohen shrugged.

"Good night, Louise," Barton Ellison said to Louise Dutton.

"See you at eleven, Barton," Louise said, "when we should have film of the fire at the Navy Yard."

"It should be spectacular," Barton Ellison replied. "A real fouralarm blaze."

"Roll the logo," the intense young woman said.

Through the plate-glass window, Peter saw a man step behind Louise. She took something from her ear and handed it to him, and then stood up. Then she unclipped what he realized after a moment must be a microphone, and tugged at a cord, pulling it down and out of her sleeve.