Part 54 (1/2)
FIFTEEN.
[ONE].
I may have had more of these than I remember,” Mickey O'Hara said, interrupting Was.h.i.+ngton, and holding up his Old Bushmills on the rocks, ”because the guy in the door looks just like Stan Colt.”
”Yes, he does, doesn't he?” Was.h.i.+ngton agreed.
Mr. Colt, smiling, his hand extended, marched up to them.
”Hi,” he said. ”You're Matt's boss, aren't you? Lieutenant Was.h.i.+ngton?”
”Yes, I am,” Was.h.i.+ngton said. ”And unless I err, you are Mr. Stan Colt?”
”Right!”
”I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Colt,” Was.h.i.+ngton said, adding: ”This is Mr. Michael J. O'Hara, of the Bulletin. Bulletin.”
”No s.h.i.+t!” Mr. Colt exclaimed. ”You're Mickey O'Hara? G.o.dd.a.m.n! You're a G.o.dd.a.m.n legend!”
He enthusiastically pumped Mickey's hand.
”Mr. O'Hara is indeed one of our more prominent journalists, ” Was.h.i.+ngton said, as Wohl, trailed by Matt, came into the bar.
”When you and Bull Bolinski got caught running numbers for Frankie the Gut, you took the fall for him, got expelled, and the Bull got to graduate, got to be All-American . . . you know. The Bull told me all about you.”
”You know Casimir?” Mickey asked.
”h.e.l.l, yeah, I know the Bull. We West Catholic guys got to stick together, you know. He always stays with me when he's on the Coast.”
”I'll be d.a.m.ned,” Mickey said. ”I heard you were in town, raising money for West Catholic, but I didn't know you went there.”
”You probably wouldn't remember me. I used to be Stanley Coleman, I was a freshman and you and the Bull were juniors when you got s.h.i.+t-canned, but I sure remember you.”
”I'll be d.a.m.ned,” Mickey said, and now returned Mr. Colt's enthusiastic hand-pumping.
Wohl walked up, smiling a little lamely.
”Well, I see you've met Mr. O'Hara, Mr. Colt,” he said.
”Met him, s.h.i.+t! We go way back; we both got kicked out of West Catholic. Jesus, I'm glad you brought me in here!”
”Me, too,” Mickey said.
”Hey, bartender,” Mr. Colt called, and when he had his attention, made a circling motion with his hand, which the bartender correctly interpreted to mean that he should bring liquid refreshment to one and all.
”The usual, Inspector?” the bartender asked.
Wohl nodded.
”Detective?”
”Hey, he's a sergeant,” Mr. Colt corrected him. ”Give us both one of those Irish martinis.”
”And if I don't want an Irish martini?” Matt asked, smiling.
”Drink it anyway, you're an outnumbered WASP,” Colt said, and then frowned, remembering. ”Hey, I still don't have any money. I'll pay you back.”
”Sure.”
”The Bulletin Bulletin will pay,” Mickey announced. ”Why don't we get a table?” will pay,” Mickey announced. ”Why don't we get a table?”
They took a table. The bartender delivered a round of drinks.
”You hang out with these guys, right, Mickey?” Mr. Colt inquired.
”Yeah. What I want to know is what you're doing with them.”
”Matt's showing me around the police department, and doing a G.o.dd.a.m.n good job of it.”
”For a WASP,” Mickey said, ”Matty's a pretty good cop. I owe him big time.”
”How come?”
”A couple of years back, we were in an alley, and a really bad guy comes down it shooting at us with a .45-”
”Jesus, Mickey!” Matt protested.
”-and Matty put him down,” O'Hara went on. ”Took a bullet in the leg, but the bottom line was one dead bad guy.”
”No s.h.i.+t?”
”We call him the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.”
”My friends don't call me that,” Matt said, coldly.
”Or sometimes the Casanova of Center City,” O'Hara went blithely on.
”Yeah, I like his taste in women,” Mr. Colt said. ”You should have seen the one he had with him tonight.”
”Curiosity overwhelms me,” Was.h.i.+ngton said. ”To whom does Mr. Colt refer, Matthew?”
”Captain Quaire a.s.signed Detective La.s.siter to explain the Williamson job to him,” Matt said.
”You got something going with her, Matty?” O'Hara asked.
”No, I don't.”
Mr. Colt winked broadly, held up his balled first with the thumb extended, and said, ”Right.”