Part 84 (1/2)
”Well, we better drive over there after we finish breakfast,” O'Hara said.
”Actually,” Matt said, thoughtfully. ”It makes a pretty good last act. The fat lady sings. The last act of the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line. I'm quitting the job, Mickey.”
”You're not going to bring that c.r.a.p up again, are you?”
”Again?”
”You had a couple of drinks-eight or ten-too many the other night, pal, after you had your little chat with the lady detective.”
”And I told you?”
”You were . . . somewhat loquacious . . . Matty. You would never love again, and you were quitting the job. Ad infinitum Ad infinitum.”
”I don't remember that.”
”And thus you don't remember what I told you?”
”No.”
”I said you were probably lucky Detective Whatsername dumped you-I never liked her; she's one of those dames who's never satisfied-and as full of s.h.i.+t as a Christmas turkey about quitting the job. You could no more do anything else than I could become a ballet dancer. You're a cop, Matty. A good one. It's in your blood.”
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance into the combined bar and dining room of Le Relais of Mr. Isaac Festung.
He was accompanied by two gendarmes.
He was wearing what looked like a dirty white poncho and baggy blue cotton trousers, and was barefoot in leather sandals.
He looked around the room and spotted Mickey.
He walked to the table.
”You were at my home this morning,” he challenged. ”Taking pictures.”
”Yes, I was.”
”Morbid interest? Or journalistic? Or is there a difference? ”
”I'm a reporter, if that's what you mean,” O'Hara said.
”Well, I'm sorry to tell you that I'm not granting any interviews right now.”