"We really don't think they're an army, Mr. Katz."

Katz snorted.

"Do what you think you have to, Albert," Mr. Katz said, and walked away.

"He's a married man, with kids," Al Monahan said, "I understand how he feels."

"Are you about ready, Mr. Monahan?" Washington asked.

"I've just got to get my coat and hat," Monahan replied. "And then I' ll be with you."

Washington watched him walk across the floor toward the rear of the store, and then went to the door and looked out.

Things were exactly as he had set them up. He questioned whether it was really necessary, but Peter Wohl had told him to 'err on the side of caution' and Washington was willing to go along with his concern, not only because, obviously, Wohl was his commanding officer, but also because of all the police brass Washington knew well, Peter Wohl was among the least excitable. He did not, in other words, as Washington thought of it, run around in circles chasing his tail, in the manner of other supervisors of his acquaintance when they were faced with an out-of-the-ordinary situation.

There were three cars parked in front of Goldblatt's. First was the Highway car, then Washington's unmarked car, and finally the unmarked car that carried the two plainclothes officers.

Both Highway cops, one of the plainclothesmen, and the 6^th District beat cop were standing by the fender of Washington's car.

"Okay," Mr. Monahan said in Washington's ear, startling him a little.

Washington smiled at him, and led him to the door.

When they stepped outside, one of the Highway cops and the plainclothesmen stepped beside Mr. Monahan. As Washington got behind the wheel of his car, they walked Monahan between the Highway car and Washington's, and installed him in the front seat.

The beat cop, as the Highway cop and the plainclothesmen got in their cars, stepped into the middle of the street and held up his hand, blocking traffic coming east on South Street, so that the three cars could pull away from the curb together.

The Highway car in front of Washington had almost reached South 8^th Street and had already turned on his turn signal when Washington saw something dropping out of the sky.

He had just time to recognize it as a bottle, whiskey or ginger ale, that big, then as a bottle on fire, at the neck, when it hit the roof of the Highway car and then bounced off, unbroken, onto South Street, where it shattered.

The Highway car slammed on his brakes, and Washington almost ran into him. As he jammed his hand on the horn, the unmarked car behind him slammed into his bumper.

Washington signaled furiously for the Highway car to get moving. It began to move again the instant there was a sound like a blown-up paper bag being ruptured, and then a puff of orange flame.

Those dirty rotten sonsofbitches!

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Mr. Monahan said.

Washington's hand found his microphone.

"Keep moving!" he ordered. "The beat cop'll call it in. Go to the Roundhouse."

Washington looked in his mirror. The unmarked car behind him was still moving, already through the puddle of burning gasoline.

"What the hell was it, a fucking Molotov cocktail?" an incredulous voice, probably, Washington thought, one of the Highway guys, came over the radio.

"Can you see, Mr. Monahan, if the car behind us is all right?" he asked.

"It looks okay."

Washington picked up the microphone again.

"Okay. Everything's under control," he said.

In a porcine rectum, he thought, everything's under control. What the hell is going on here? This is Philadelphia, not Saigon!

SEVENTEEN

The tall, trim, simply dressed woman who looked a good deal younger than her years stood for a moment in the door to the lounge of the Union League Club, running her eyes over the people in the room, now crowded with the after-work-before-catching-the-train crowd.

Finally, with a small, triumphant smile, she pointed her finger at a table across the room against the wall.

"There," she announced to her companion.

"I see them," he replied.

She walked to the table, with her companion trailing behind her, and announced her presence by reaching down and picking a squat whiskey glass up from the table.

"I really hope this is not one of those times when you're drinking something chic," she said, taking a healthy swallow.

Mr. Brewster Cortland Payne, who had just set the drink (his third) down after taking a first sip, looked up at his wife and, smiling, got to his feet.

Patricia Payne sat down in one of the heavy wooden chairs.

"I needed that," she said. "Denny has been trying to convince me, with not much success, that we don't have anything to worry about. Has Inspector Wohl been more successful than he has?"

"I hope so," Peter Wohl said. "Good evening, Mrs. Payne. Chief."

"Peter," Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said. "Brewster. "

Brewster C. Payne raised his hand, index finger extended, above his shoulders. The gesture was unnecessary, for a white-jacketed waiter, who provided service based on his own assessment of who really mattered around the place, now that they were letting every Tom, Dick, and Harry in, was already headed for the table.

"Mrs. Payne, what can I get for you?"

"You can get Mr. Payne whatever he was drinking, thank you, Homer," she said. "I just stole his."

"Yes, ma'am," the waiter said with a broad smile. "And you, sir?"

"The same please," Coughlin said.

"To answer your question, Pat," Brewster C. Payne said, "Yes. Peter has been very reassuring."

"Did he reassure you before or after you heard about the Molotov cocktail?" Patricia Payne asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I was in the bar of the Bellevue-Stratford, being reassured by Denny," she said, "when Tom Lenihan came running in and said, if I quote him accurately, 'Jesus Christ, Chief, you're not going to believe this. They just threw a Molotov cocktail at the cars guarding Monahan.'"

"My God!" Payne said.

"At that point, I thought I had better get myself reassured byyou, darling, so I called the office and they said you had come here. So Denny brought me. So how wasyour day?"

Both Wohl and Payne looked at Chief Coughlin, and both shared the same thought, that they had never seen Coughlin looking quite so unhappy.

"Oh, Denny, I'm sorry," Patricia Payne said, laying her hand on his. "That sounded as if I don't trust you, or am blaming you. I didn't mean that!"

"From what I know now," Coughlin said, "what happened was that when Washington picked up Monahan at Goldblatt's to take him to the Roundhouse, somebody tossed a bottle full of gasoline down from a roof, or out of a window. It bounced off the Highway car, broke when it hit the street, and then caught fire."

"Anyone hurt?" Wohl asked.

"No. The burning gas flowed under a car on South Street and set it on fire."

"Monahan?"

"I got Washington on the radio. He said Monahan was riding with him. They were behind the Highway car, and one of your unmarked cars was behind them. Monahan is all right. He's at the Roundhouse right now. The lineups at the Detention Center will go on as scheduled, as soon as they finish at the Roundhouse."

"What are they doing over there?" Wohl asked.

"I suppose Washington thought that was the best place to go; Central Detectives will want to get some statements, put it all together. And the lab probably wants a look at the Highway car they hit with the bottle. Maybe pick up another car or two to escort them to the Detention Center."

If you were thinking clearly, Peter Wohl, you would not have had to ask that dumb question.

"I think I'd better get over there," Wohl said.

Coughlin nodded.

"Peter, I called Mike Sabara and told him I thought it would be a good idea if he sent a Highway car over to Frankford Hospital. I hope that's all right with you."