Peter saw that Carlucci, J., an ex officio member, was not in the club. Giacomo, A., was. So was Mawson, J., of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, who competed with Giacomo, A., for being the best (which translated to mean most expensive) criminal lawyer in the city. Payne, B., Mawson, J.’s, law partner, was not.

And neither, Wohl noticed with interest, was Payne, M.

I didn’t know Matt was a member. That’s new.

Possibly, he thought, Detweiler, H., had suggested to Payne, B., that they have a word with the Membership Committee. Since their offspring were about to be married, it was time that Payne, M., should be put up for membership. Young Nesbitt, C. IV, had become a member shortly before his marriage to the daughter of Browne, S.

Wohl had heard that the Rittenhouse Club initiation fee was something like the old saw about how much a yacht cost: If you had to ask what it cost, you couldn’t afford it.

The porter returned.

“Mr. Giacomo is in the bar, Mr. Wohl. You know the way?”

“Yes, thank you,” Peter said, and led Weisbach into the club bar, a quiet, deeply carpeted, wood-paneled room, furnished with twenty or so small tables, at each of which were rather small leather-upholstered armchairs. The tables were spaced so that a soft conversation could not be heard at the tables adjacent to it.

Armando C. Giacomo rose, smiling, from one of the chairs when he saw Wohl and Weisbach, and waved them over.

Wohl thought Giacomo was an interesting man. His family had been in Philadelphia from the time of the Revolution. He was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and the Yale School of Law. He had flown Corsairs as a Naval Aviator in the Korean War. He could have had a law practice much like Brewster Cortland Payne’s, with clientele drawn from banks and insurance companies and familial connections.

He had elected, instead, to become a criminal lawyer, and was known (somewhat unfairly, Wohl thought) as the Mob’s Lawyer, which suggested that he himself was involved in criminal activity. So far as Wohl knew, Giacomo’s personal ethics were impeccable. He represented those criminals who could afford his services when they were hauled before the bar of justice, and more often than not defended them successfully.

Wohl had come to believe that Giacomo held the mob in just about as much contempt as he did, and that he represented them both because they had the financial resources to pay him, and also because he really believed that an accused was entitled to good legal representation, not so much for himself personally, but as a reinforcement of the Constitution.

Giacomo was also held in high regard by most police officers, primarily because he represented, pro bono publico, police officers charged with police brutality and other infractions of the law. He would not, in other words, represent Captain Vito Cazerra, because Cazerra could not afford him. But he would represent an ordinary police officer charged with the use of excessive force or otherwise violating the civil rights of a citizen, and do so without charge.

“Peter,” Giacomo said. “I’m delighted that you could join us.”

“I didn’t want Mike to walk out of here barefoot, Armando, but thank you for your hospitality.”

“I only talk other people out of their shoes, Peter, not my friends.”

“And the check is in the mail, right?” Weisbach said, laughing as they shook hands.

A waiter appeared.

“I’m drinking a very nice California cabernet sauvignon,” Giacomo said. “But don’t let that influence you.”

“A little wine would be very nice,” Wohl said.

“Me, too, thank you,” Weisbach said.

“The word has reached these hallowed precincts of the tragic event in Chestnut Hill this morning,” Giacomo said. “What a pity.”

“Yes, it was,” Wohl agreed.

“If I don’t have the opportunity before you see him, Peter, would you extend my sympathies to young Payne?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He must be devastated.”

“He is,” Wohl said.

“And her mother and father…” Giacomo said, shaking his head sadly.

A waiter in a gray cotton jacket served the wine.

“I think we’ll need another bottle of that over lunch, please,” Giacomo said. He waited for the waiter to leave, and then said, “I hope you like that. What shall we drink to?”

Wohl shrugged.

“How about good friends?” Giacomo suggested.

“All right,” Peter said, raising his glass. “Good friends.”

“Better yet, Mike’s new job.”

“Better yet, Mike’s new job,” Wohl parroted. He sipped the wine. “Very nice.”

“I’d send you a case, if I didn’t know you would think I was trying to bribe you,” Giacomo said.

“All gifts between friends are not bribes,” Wohl said. “Send me a case, and I’ll give Mike half. You can’t bribe him, either.”

“I’ll send the both of you a case,” Giacomo said, and then added: “Would you prefer to hear what I’d like to say now, or over lunch?”

“Now, please, Armando,” Wohl said. “I would really hate to have my lunch in these hallowed precincts ruined.”

“I suspected you’d feel that way. They do a very nice mixed grill here, did you know that?”

“Yes, I do. And also a very nice rack of lamb.”

“I represent a gentleman named Paulo Cassandro.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Weisbach asked.

“Because you are both astute and perceptive, Michael. May I go on?”

“By all means.”

“Mr. Cassandro was arrested this morning. I have assured Mr. Cassandro that once I bring the circumstances surrounding his arrest…Constitutionally illegal wiretaps head a long list of irregularities…”

“Come on, Armando,” Weisbach said, laughing.

“…to the attention of the proper judicial authorities,” Giacomo went on, undaunted, “it is highly unlikely that he will ever be brought to trial. And I have further assured him that, in the highly unlikely event he is brought to trial, I have little doubt in my mind that no fair-minded jury would ever convict him.”

“He’s going away, Armando,” Wohl said. “You know that and I know that.”

“You tend to underestimate me, Peter. I don’t hold it against you; most people do.”

“I never underestimate you, Counselor. But that clanging noise you hear in the background is the sound of a jail door slamming,” Peter said. “The choir you hear is singing, ‘Bye, Bye, Paulo.’”

“If I may continue?”

“Certainly.”

“However, this unfortunate business, this travesty of justice, comes at a very awkward time for Mr. Cassandro. It will force him to devote a certain amount of time to it, time he feels he must devote to his business interests.”

“Freely translated, Peter,” Weisbach said, “what Armando is telling us is that Paulo doesn’t want to go to jail.”

“I wondered what he was trying to say,” Wohl said.

“What he wants to do is get this unfortunate business behind him as soon as possible.”

“Tell him probably ten to fifteen years, depending on the judge. If he gets Hanging Harriet, probably fifteen to twenty,” Weisbach said.

The Hon. Harriet M. McCandless, a black jurist who passionately believed that civilized society was based on a civil service whose honesty was above question, was famous for her severe sentences.

“You’re not listening to me, Michael,” Giacomo said. “I am quite confident that, upon hearing how the police department has so outrageously violated the rights of Mr. Cassandro, Judge McCandless, or any other judge, will throw this case out of court.”

“God, you’re wonderful,” Peter said.

“As I was saying, with an eye to putting this unfortunate business behind him as soon as possible, my client would be…”

“Armando,” Weisbach said, “even if I wanted to, we couldn’t deal on this. You want to deal, try the District Attorney. But I’ll bet you he’ll tell you Cassandro has nothing to deal with. We have him cold and he’s going to jail.”