“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Detective Payne said, Bookmaking and numbers running is a violation of the law. I think we should find your friend and throw his ass in jail.’ Isn’t that what you said, Matt?”

“Hmmmm,” Matt said thoughtfully. “Yes, that is essentially what I said.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” Matt said. “I was not speaking in jest.”

“I’m getting out of here,” Sonny said. “And just for the hell of it, wiseass, you can’t search me without a reason, and even if you did, you wouldn’t find a thing on me.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Sonny,” McFadden said, and his voice was no longer pleasant. “Until I tell you you can.”

“I’ll bet, Charles,” Matt said, “that if I was to show that young man with the red hair my badge, and ask if he would be kind enough to open his bag for me…” He interrupted himself, jumped to his feet, and walked quickly to the redhead.

“I want you to put that bag on that table,” he said, showing him his badge. “In sight. And I want you to sit in that booth with your hands flat on the table until I tell you to move. You understand me?”

The redhead followed Matt’s pointing, to the last booth in the line.

“Am I busted?” the redhead asked, very nervously.

“If you mean arrested,’ not yet. And perhaps that can be avoided. It depends on Mr. Boyle.”

He waited until the redhead had done what he had ordered him to do, then walked back to the booth and sat down.

“Excuse me, Detective McFadden,” he said politely. “Please continue.”

“So you bust him, so what?” Sonny said.

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” Matt said. “But in that unhappy happenstance, you would lose the morning’s receipts. That would provide sufficient justification, I would think, Mr. Boyle, for Special Operations to assign whatever police personnel proved to be necessary to save the innocent citizens of this area from gambling czars such as yourself. And I think there is a good possibility that after we have his mother and his parish priest talk to that young man in Central Lockup, he might be willing, to save his soul from eternal damnation, ninety days in prison, and the first entry on his criminal record, to tell us who had given him his present employment, and precisely where and with whom he plied his trade.”

“Speaking of which,” Charley McFadden said. “The minute the word gets out that the cops have your receipts, you’re going to have a lot of winners, Sonny. They’re not too smart, but they’re smart enough to know if they claim they won, you’re either going to have to have a receipt proving they didn’t, or pay off. That could be very expensive, Sonny.”

“Interesting thought, Detective McFadden,” Matt said.

“Thank you, Detective Payne”

Sonny, now visibly nervous, looked between Matt and Charley.

“OK, McFadden,” Sonny said. “What do you want?”

“Now that we have you in the right frame of mind, Mr. Boyle,” Matt said, “Detective McFadden wishes to probe your presumably extensive knowledge of Philadelphia’s criminal community.”

“Huh?”

“Tell us about Frankie Foley, Sonny,” Charley said.

Oh, shit! I didn’t even think about him. What the fuck has Foley done now? Christ, did he hit the Narcotics cop?

“Never heard of him,” Sonny said.

“Think hard,” Charley said. Sonny shrugged helplessly.

“Never heard of him, Charley,” Sonny said. “I swear to God!”

“You were apparently wrong, Charles,” Matt said. “Mr. Boyle will not be cooperative. Mr. Boyle, you are under arrest for violating the laws of the City of Philadelphia and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vis-a-vis gambling and participating in an organized gambling enterprise. You have the right to an attorney…”

“Jesus Christ, Charley!” Sonny said. “Now wait a minute.”

“Remember who he is now, Sonny?” Charley asked.

“…and if you cannot afford an attorney,” Matt went on, “one will be appointed for you.” He paused. “I don’t seem to have my handcuffs, Charles. Might I borrow yours?”

“Charley, can we talk? Private?” Sonny asked.

“I have other things on my agenda, Mr. Boyle. I don’t have time to waste on you,” Matt said.

“Matt, Sonny and I go back a long way,” Charley said. “Be a good guy. Give me a minute alone with him.”

Matt gave this some thought. He looked impatiently at his wristwatch.

“Very well,” Matt said. “I will have a word with his accomplice.”

He got up and walked to the booth where Pat O’Hallihan sat with his hands obediently on the table.

“I don’t like your friend, Charley,” Sonny said.

“I don’t think he likes you, either. Too bad for you. He’s a mean sonofabitch sometimes. You don’t know who he is?”

Sonny shook his head.

“He’s the guy who popped the Northwest Serial Rapist in the head. Blew his brains out.”

“No shit, that’s him?”

“That’s him.”

“Charley, you’re going to get me killed,” Sonny said. “I’m not shitting you.”

“How am I going to get you killed?”

“Frankie Foley’s a hit man for the mob. If he finds out I’ve been talking to you, I’m a dead man.”

“An Irish hit man for the mob? Come on, Sonny.”

“I’m telling you. He does hits they don’t want to do themselves.”

Sonny looked over at Pat O’Hallihan. Matt Payne had the zipper bag open and was searching through its contents.

“How do you know?” Charley asked.

“I know. I know. Trust me.”

“‘How do you know?’ I asked.”

“He…uh, Jesus, Charley, you’re going to get me killed.”

“Think about it, Sonny,” Charley said. “When the word gets out that two cops were in here asking you about Frankie Foley, and then hauled you off, Frankie’s going to think you told on him anyway.”

Sonny Boyle felt sick to his stomach.

“He’s come to me a couple times and told me he needed alibis. Usually right after somebody hit one of the Guineas.”

“Lately?”

“I ain’t seen him, I swear to God, in a month.”

“Where does he usually hang out?”

“Meagan’s Bar.”

“He’s in the deep shit now, Sonny.”

“You think he hit the narc?”

“You tell me, Sonny.”

“I ain’t heard nothing, Charley, I swear to God.”

“Payne wants to lock you up, Sonny. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Christ, I don’t know any more than I told you. And that’s enough to get me killed. Those Dagos don’t fuck around.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Charley repeated.

“I can ask around,” Sonny said. “I hear things sometimes.”

“I’ll bet you do,” Charley said.

“I swear to God, if I hear anything, I’ll call you.”

“I believe you, Sonny,” Charley said. “But I don’t know about Payne. He wants this guy. He’ll do anything to get him.”

“You lock me up, all you get is what I already told you,” Sonny argued. “Let me ask around, Charley. It makes sense.”

Charley considered that for a moment.

“I’ll try, Sonny,” he said. “I don’t know…”

“Talk to him, Charley. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Charley shrugged and walked over to the booth where Matt was now counting thick, rubber-band-bound stacks of one-dollar bills.

Matt got up and walked with Charley to a corner of the room. Charley began to talk to him. Sonny did not think Payne looked at all happy with what Charley was saying.

But finally, after flashing Sonny Boyle a look of utter contempt, he shrugged and walked out of the restaurant. Charley went back to Boyle’s booth.

“That took some doing,” he said. “My ass is now on the line. Don’t fuck with me about this, Sonny. If that mean sonofabitch comes down on me, I’ll really come down on you. You understand?”

“Charley, I understand. The first thing I hear-”

“And you better hear something, and soon,” Charley interrupted. He laid a calling card on the table, took out a pen, and wrote another number on it. “My home phone is on there. The one I wrote is Special Operations. Call me there, not at Northwest Detectives.”