"No pizza."

"Actually, I was thinking of either a London broil or a mixed grill. My father fixed it with the Rittenhouse Club."

"In that case, Officer Payne, I gratefully accept your kind invitation."

TWENTY-TWO

Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., was of two minds concerning Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr. On one hand, it was impossible to feel like anything but a proud father to see one's son and namesake drive up to the house in an unmarked car, wearing a very nice looking blazer, gray flannel slacks, a starched white shirt and a regimentally striped necktie and know that Tiny had a more responsible job after having been on the job less than a year than he had had in his first five years on the job.

But there were two problems with that. The first being that he had hoped-and for a long time believed-that Tiny would spend his life as Foster H. Lewis, M.D. But that hadn't come to pass. Tiny had been placed on Academic Probation by the Temple University Medical School and reacted to that by joining the cops.

And then the Honorable Jerry Carlucci had put his two cents in, in what Foster H. Lewis, Sr., believed to be an understandable, but no less contemptible, ploy to pick up a few more Afro-American voters. The mayor had told a large gathering at the Second Abyssinian Baptist Church that, as one more proof that he was determined to see that the Police Department afforded Afro-Americans equal opportunities within the Department, that he had recommended to Commissioner Czernick that Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr., son of that outstanding Afro-American police Lieutenant, Foster H. Lewis, Sr., be assigned to Special Operations.

It was said that if The Mayor looked as if he might be about to fart, Commissioner Czernick instantly began to look for a dog to blame, and, in case he couldn't find one, pursed his lips to apologize for breaking wind.

Lieutenant Lewis thought that Special Operations was a good idea, and he would have been proud and delighted to see Tiny assigned thereafter he'd done a couple of years in a district, working a van, walking a foot beat, riding around in an RPC, learning what being a cop was all about. Sending Tiny over there before he'd found all the little inspection stickers on his new uniform was really-unless, of course, you were interested in Afro-American votes-a lousy idea.

And then Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, for whom Lieutenant Lewis had previously had a great deal of respect, had compounded the idiocy. Instead of sending Tiny out to work with experienced Special Operations uniformed officers, from whom he could have learned at least some of what he would have to know, he had put him in plain clothes and given him to Detective Tony Harris for use as a go-fer.

At the time, Harris had been working on two important jobs, the Northwest Philadelphia Serial Rapist, and the murder of Officer Magnella near Temple University. It could be argued that Harris needed someone to run errands, and to relieve him of time-consuming chores, thus freeing his time for investigation. And certainly, working under a really first class homicide detective would give Tiny experience he could get nowhere else.

But only as a temporary thing. It now looked as if it was becoming permanent. The serial rapist had been shot to death by another young, college-educated, Special Operations plainclothesman. Harris was now devoting his full time to the Officer Magnella job.

And in Lieutenant Lewis's judgment, that was becoming a dead end. In his opinion, if those responsible for Magnella's murder were ever apprehended, it would not be because of brilliant police work, or even dull and plodding police work, but either because of the reward offered, or simple dumb luck: Someone would come forward and point a finger.

Tiny Lewis rang the door buzzer, as he had been doing to his father's undiminished annoyance since he was fourteeen, to the rhythm ofShaveAnd-A-Haircut-Two Bits, and Lieutenant Lewis walked from the window to the door to let him in.

"Hi ya, Pop."

"Come in."

"Hi ya, Mom?" Tony said, considerably louder.

The men shook hands.

"I'm in the kitchen, honey."

"Nice blazer," Lieutenant Lewis said. "New?"

"Yeah. It is nice, isn't it?"

Tiny walked past his father into the kitchen, put his arms around his mother, who weighed almost exactly one-half as much as he did, and lifted her off the floor.

"Put me down!" she said, and turned to face him. "Don't you look nice!"

"Thank you, ma'am," he said. "It's new."

She fingered the material."Very nice."

"What are we eating?"

"Roast pork."

"Pork goes nicely, he said, apropos of nothing whatever, with beer."

"Help yourself," she laughed. "You know where it is."

"You're driving a department car," Lieutenant Lewis said.

"Yes, I am."

"You know what it would do to your record if you had an accident and had been drinking," Lieutenant Lewis said, and immediately regretted it.

"Well, then, I guess I better not have an accident. You want a beer, Dad?"

"Yes, please."

"I saw your boss earlier this evening," Lieutenant Lewis said.

"Sergeant Washington? "

"I meant Inspector Wohl," Lieutenant Lewis said. "Do you consider Jason Washington your boss?"

"They formed a Special Investigations Section. He's in charge. I'm in it."

"Doing what?"

"Baby-sitting honkies," Tiny said, with a smile.

"And what does that mean?" Lieutenant Lewis snapped.

"You know a Highway sergeant named Carter?"

Lieutenant Lewis nodded.

"That's what he said, that I was 'baby-sitting honkies.'"

"Foster, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You heard about these screwballs calling themselves the Islamic Liberation Army threatening to get Matt Payne for blowing away one of them?"

Lewis nodded.

"Well, Wohl's got some people sitting on him-"

"You might well form the habit, Foster, of referring to Inspector Wohl as Inspector Wohl," Lewis said.

He received a look of tolerance from his son, who went on, "-and I was supposed to be one of them. But thenSergeant Washington went toInspector Wohl and said he'd rather I stick withDetective Harris, andInspector Wohl said okay, he'd get somebody else, andSergeant Carter-"

"Your sarcasm is becoming offensive."

"-heard about it, apparently. Anyway, he struck up a conversation with me, said he'd heard I was going to be one of the guys-the other two are McFadden and Martinez, the ex-Narcs who ran down the junkie who shot Captain Moffitt?"

He waited to see understanding on his father's face, and then went on:

"-sitting on Payne, and then that I wasn't, and how come? And I said, mine not reason why, mine but to do what the Great Black Buddha orders-"

"Is that what you call Jason Washington?" Mrs. Lewis interrupted. " That's terrible! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

"Think about it, Mom," Tiny said, unrepentant.

She did, and laughed, but repeated, "That's terrible."

"And?" Lieutenant Lewis prompted.

"And Carter said, 'I don't suppose it matters, in either case, what you're doing is baby-sitting a honky.' "

"Which means what?"

"How the hell do I know, Pop?"

"Watch your tone of voice, please."

"Sorry, Dad."

"I don't ordinarily listen to gossip-"

"Watch your father's nose grow, honey."

"-but the word is that Harris is having a problem with liquor. Is that what Carter meant about baby-sitting?"

"I guess so. He's been on a bender. Washington's taking care of him."

"How, taking care of him?"

"I keep him out of bars during the day, and at night he's staying with the Washingtons."

"Martha must love that," Mrs. Lewis said.

"Jason and Tony Harris have been close for years," Lieutenant Foster said, thoughtfully. "Is that how you feel about it, Foster? That you' re baby-sitting a honky?"