Susan looked at the photograph of the Bennington girls on her shelf-Jennifer Ollwood was standing next to her in the picture-then shifted the frame slightly.

  She picked up her purse and left her office, stopping at the adjacent office, of Appeals Officer, Grade IV, Veronica Haynes, a black woman who, Susan had decided, believed that the only people who should receive aid from the state were the aged in the last few weeks of their terminal illness.

  "If anybody asks, Veronica, I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

  Veronica smiled at her. "Couple, as in two? Or several, as if you're going out for coffee?"

  "Several, wiseass," Susan said, smiling, and walked to the elevators.

  On the way down, she looked in her coin purse and found that it held two nickels and a dime.

  Somewhat reluctantly, the proprietress of the lobby newsstand, an obese harridan with orange hair, changed two dollars into silver for her. Susan found an empty telephone booth and went in.

  Jennifer answered on the second ring. Her voice seemed hesitant.

  "Hello?"

  "It's me."

  "That didn't take long."

  "I hurried. What's up?"

  "Are you planning to come this way anytime soon?"

  "I hadn't planned on it," Susan said.

  But I could. Daffy asked me please, please come to her husband's birthday party.

  "I'd really like to see you," Jennie said.

  "And I'd like to see the baby," Susan said.

  "Bryan has something he wants you to keep for him. For us," Jennie said.

  So that's what this is all about. Damn him!

  Bryan was Bryan Chenowith.

  If I had a file on him, he would be categorized as "Father of (illegitimate) child, residing with mother. Employable, but not employed."

  "How's the baby?" Susan asked.

  "Wonderful!" Jennie said, her voice reflecting the pride of the new mother.

  "I can't wait to see him," Susan said.

  "Then you can come?"

  "Daffy's having a birthday party for Chad," Susan said. "On Saturday. She's called me twice, begging me to come. You know what I think of him."

  "Is it too late to change your mind?" Jennie asked, a hint of desperation in her voice. "Philadelphia's not far from here."

  "I could call her," Susan said.

  "In for a penny. In for a pound," as they say.

  "That's a 'yes'?"

  "I want to see the baby," Susan said, as much to herself as to Jennie.

  "Will you stay with Daffy?"

  "No," Susan said. "Probably the Bellvue."

  "You'll drive down Saturday morning?"

  "Right."

  "I'll call the hotel and tell you when and where to meet me," Jennie said.

  "You don't want to tell me now?"

  "I'd better come up with a plan," Jennie said, giggling.

  "Okay. I'll be at the hotel after twelve, I guess. Why don't you call me about one?"

  "I will."

  "Is there anything I can bring you?"

  "No. Thank you, but no. We're doing fine."

  Said the noble bride from the deck of the sinking ship.

  "Well, then, I'll see you over the weekend," Susan said.

  "I really love you, you know that," Jennie said, and the phone went dead.

  Susan made two more telephone calls before going back to her office. The first was to Daphne Elizabeth Browne Nesbitt, who was also in the photograph of the Bennington girls on Susan's bookshelf. She told Daffy that her plans had changed and that she now could come to Chad's party, if that would be all right.

  Daffy said she would have the crиme de la crиme of Philadelphia's bachelors lined up for her selection.

  I was afraid of that. It was another reason I didn't want to come to your asshole of a husband's birthday party.

  "I would rather snag my men on my own hook, Daffy. Thank you just the same."

  "Don't be silly," Daffy said. "Advertising pays. Ask Chad about that. And besides, we have to stick together, don't we? Help each other out?"

  Oh, do we ever!

  "Right," Susan said. "See you Saturday."

  Then Susan called her mother and told her that she had changed her mind about going to Chad Nesbitt's birthday party in Philadelphia over the weekend.

  "Well, baby, I'm very glad to hear that," Susan's mother replied.

  "Mother, would you call the Bellvue and see about a room? It's so close to the weekend that I'm afraid-"

  "No, I won't," her mother replied. "But I will call Mrs. Samuelson. She's very good at that sort of thing."

  Mrs. Dorothy Samuelson was her father's executive assistant, and she was, indeed, very good at things like that. It was what Susan had hoped her mother would do, pass the buck to Mrs. Samuelson.

  Now that she had committed herself to Jennie, she would need to have a room in the Bellvue-Stratford Hotel.

  TWO

  From where Officer Herbert Prasko of the Five Squad of the Narcotics Unit of the Philadelphia Police Department had stationed himself on the second-floor balcony of the Howard Johnson motel on Roosevelt Boulevard, he had an extraordinarily good view of the vehicle he was surveilling.

  The new four-door Chevrolet sedan was parked, nose out, in front of a row of rooms in the rear of the motel. It was a Hertz rental, picked up at the Philadelphia International Airport four hours before by Ronald R. Ketcham, white male, twenty-five, five-ten, brown hair, 165 pounds, no previous arrests, who resided in a luxury apartment on Overbrook Avenue not far from the Episcopal Academy, of which he was a graduate.

  Mr. Ketcham, who was not quite as smart as he believed himself to be, was laboring under the misimpression that the use of a rental automobile rather than his Buick coupe was one more clever thing he had done to conceal both his illegal activity and identity from both the police and other criminals.

  Officer Prasko didn't know if the other criminals involved knew Mr. Ketcham's identity-the scumbags probably couldn't care less-but his identity had been known to Five Squad for five weeks, from the time they had first followed Amos J. Williams, black male, thirty-two, six-three, 180 pounds, twenty-eight previous arrests, and four of his goons to a delivery rendezvous with Mr. Ketcham, who seemed to be one of his better customers.

  For a number of reasons, it had been decided not to make an arrest at that time, but it had not been hard at all to trace the customer's rental car back through the Hertz main office to their airport rental operation, and from the rental agreement to identify Mr. Ketcham in some detail.

  Hertz had been very cooperative. They had promised to notify Five Squad the next time Mr. Ketcham rented a car, and had done so today. Officer Prasko thought that was pretty dumb on Mr. Ketcham's part, to go back to Hertz; he should have changed to Avis, or somebody else. And it was also dumb for him to go back to the Howard Johnson motel. There were a lot of other motels. If he had set up this meet someplace else, he would not be about to find his ass in a very deep crack.

  Five Squad had come up with a plan after the first time they had followed Mr. Williams to his rendezvous with Mr. Ketcham. On being notified by Hertz that Mr. Ketcham had again rented an automobile, a Five Squad plainclothes officer-who turned out to be Officer Prasko-would proceed to the Howard Johnson motel, and there await the possible arrival of Mr. Ketcham.

  Herb Prasko, en route to the motel in an undercover car-a two-year-old Mercury, formerly the property of another drug dealer scumbag-had thought the odds were that he would be pissing in the wind. But you never could really tell. Sometimes people were really stupid, as Mr. Ketcham had turned out to be by returning to the same Howard Johnson motel instead of going someplace else to do his business.

  But he had waited, parked just inside the motel, slumped down on the front seat of the Mercury, watching the entrance to the motel, for nearly three hours, before Ketcham had shown up.

  He had a dame with him, white female, early twenties, 120 pounds, blonde, nice figure, who sat in the car while Mr. Ketcham went in the motel office for the key. Officer Prasko slipped down all the way on the seat of the Mercury as they drove past him, and then watched where they were going in the rearview mirror.

  Then, when the Chevy had gone around the first row of rooms to the back, he got out of the car, trotted quickly after them, and got to the corner of the building in time to see Mr. Ketcham enter 138, a ground-floor room in about the middle of the back row of rooms.

  He then went to the pay phone outside the motel office and called Sergeant Patrick J. Dolan at Narcotics and told him what he had. Dolan-who could be a prick-made him repeat everything he said, and then told him not to let the door to 138 out of his sight, as if he thought Prasko had come on the job last Tuesday and had to be told shit like that.

  Five Squad would be there as soon as they could get there, Dolan said, and said to meet them on the H Band. That was the special radio frequency assigned for the use of detectives, but available for other purposes as well.

  Officer Prasko then took a pair of binoculars and a walkie-talkie from the floor of the backseat of the Mercury and went up the stairs to the second-floor balcony of the first building. He stationed himself between a Coke machine and an ice machine in an alcove, from where he could see the rental Chevy and the door to 138.

  He had a good view of both the door and the car, especially the car and the girl in it.

  She was a looker. And she was nervous. She lit a cigarette and took only a couple of puffs before putting it out and turning to look at the door, which made her breasts stretch the thin material of her blouse. Then she lit another cigarette.

  A little after that, she put her hand in her blouse and adjusted her bra, which Prasko found exciting.

  What the hell was Ketcham thinking, bringing a girl like that along on a meet like this? Amos Williams was a mean son of a bitch, and the first thing he was likely to do if something went wrong was grab the girl. By the time Ketcham fixed whatever Williams didn't like, Christ only knew what Williams and his goons would do with a white girl like that, a real looker.

  "Six?" the radio went off. Too loud.

  He recognized the voice. It was that of Officer Joe Grider. More important, it wasn't Dolan's, which was a good thing, meaning they could put Plan B into operation.

  Officer Prasko adjusted the volume and the squelch before putting the microphone to his lips.

  "Six," he said.

  "He still there?"

  "Yeah."

  "Where's the room?"

  "Around in the back. Middle. Ground floor."

  "Any sign of his friends?"

  "No."

  "We're about there. I'm going to park up the street and see who shows up."

  "What are you in?"

  "The van."

  The van was not standard, but a 1971 Dodge panel truck, also formerly the property of someone who had been apprehended while illegally trafficking in controlled substances. After the forfeited vehicle had been turned over to Five Squad for undercover work, they had chipped in and had it painted in the color scheme used by-and with the logotype of-Philadelphia Gas Works.

  "Who's the super?"

  "I am. Plan B," Officer Grider replied.

  "Just the van?"

  "One car."

  "One of you block the Chevy."

  "You got it."

  Officer Prasko picked up his binoculars again. The curtains were drawn across the picture window of 138-Why the fuck do you suppose they put in picture windows? Nobody ever looks out of a motel room, and if you did, all you would see is the other part of the motel-and there was no sign of activity. The blonde in the front seat of the Hertz Chevy was lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old one.

  Three minutes later, the radio went off again. He couldn't hear what was being said.

  "Repeat," he ordered.

  "Turn the goddamn volume up!"

  "I just did."

  "Bingo, here comes our friends. Light blue new Olds 98. Tell me when he gets inside, and we'll come in halfway. "

  Officer Prasko scurried across the balcony, keeping low so that he wouldn't be seen.

  He saw the Blue Olds 98-well enough to recognize Amos Williams sitting beside the driver-enter the motel area and drive toward the rear. And stop.

  "He stopped halfway to the back," Prasko reported.

  "Being careful," Officer Grider replied.

  Mr. Williams was careful for three minutes, which seemed like much longer, and then the driver's-side rear door of the Olds 98 opened and Marcus C. aka "Baby" Brownlee, black male, thirty-six, six-one, 240 pounds, thirty-two previous arrests, got out, looked around, and walked very quickly toward room 138.

  "Baby Brownlee going to the room," Officer Prasko reported.

  He dropped his binoculars to the Chevy. The blonde was not in sight.

  Probably dropped onto the seat. I would if I was a good-looking piece like that and saw that mean-looking dinge walking my way.

  "Knocking on the door," Officer Prasko reported, and added a moment later, "He's in."

  "Wait," Officer Grider replied.

  Baby Brownlee was in room 138 for two minutes forty seconds, which seemed like much longer.

  "Door opening," Officer Prasko reported. "Baby's coming out. Moving toward car."

  "Five?"

  "Ready."

  Five was officer Timothy J. Calhoun, and he was apparently driving the unmarked police car.

  "At the car," Officer Prasko reported. "Getting in."

  Baby Brownlee was in the Olds 98 for fifty seconds, which seemed like much longer.

  The blonde's head appeared in the Chevy. She took a look around and then dropped from sight again.

  Christ, I'd like to jump the bones of something like that.

  "Car's moving," Officer Prasko reported.

  "Five?"

  "Car's turning around," Officer Prasko reported.

  "Just say when," Officer Calhoun replied.

  "Car's stopped. Now facing toward exit," Officer Prasko reported.

  "What are they doing?" Officer Grider inquired.

  "Getting out of the car. Baby's out. Amos is out. Opening trunk."

  "And? And?"

  "Baby's got a beach bag."

  "Go! Go! Go!" Officer Grider ordered.

  Officer Prasko stood up and walked as far as he could toward the stairs without losing sight of the Olds 98, the Hertz Chevy, and the door to room 138.

  The van came in first, tires squealing, the rear door already open and stopped in front of the Olds 98. Half a dozen plainclothes police officers, weapons-four pistols, two pump-action 12-gauge shotguns-at the ready, jumped out.

  Officer Calhoun's unmarked car skidded to a stop in a position blocking the Hertz Chevy. Calhoun and another plainclothes officer, revolvers drawn, jumped out of the car.

  Prasko descended the stairs as rapidly as he could, considering the fucking binoculars were banging on his chest, and he had to be careful holding the walkie-talkie, otherwise he'd drop the son of a bitch and have to pay for the fucker.

  As he reached the ground floor, Prasko stooped and drew his snub-nosed. 38 Special-caliber revolver from its ankle holster.

  This act coincided with the appearance, at a full run, of an individual black male, twenty-five to thirty, five-ten, 150 pounds, noticeable scar tissue left cheek, who had not obeyed the orders of the other police officers to subject himself to arrest.

  Just in fucking time!

  "Freeze, motherfucker!" Prasko ordered.

  The individual almost visibly debated his chances to evade Prasko and then apparently decided attempting to do so would not be in his best interests.

  He stopped running and raised his hands above his head.

  "Up against the wall!" Prasko ordered, spinning the man around, then pushing him toward the wall.

  "Oh, shit, man!" the individual responded.

  "Spread your legs!" Prasko ordered, as Calhoun appeared around the corner.

  "I got the bastard, Timmy," Prasko said.

  "Put your left hand behind your back," Prasko ordered, then looked at Calhoun.

  "You want to cuff him, please, Timmy?"

  Calhoun placed handcuffs on the man's left wrist, then grabbed the other wrist, which caused the man's face to fall against the wall.

  "Shit!" he exclaimed.

  Calhoun finished cuffing him, then performed a perfunctory search of his person to determine if he was armed.

  "Clean," Calhoun informed Prasko.

  "Do him," Prasko requested.

  Calhoun emptied the man's pockets onto the ground beside him, but no controlled substances or any other illegal matter were discovered.

  "Nothing," Calhoun reported.

  "I'll bring him. You want to take my walkie-talkie?"

  Calhoun took Prasko's walkie-talkie, and then, at a half-trot, ran back around the building.

  Prasko dropped to his knees beside the pile of items and picked up the man's wallet. It contained his driver's license and other documents, a color photograph of a white female performing fellatio on a black male (not the individual), and seven hundred and sixty-three dollars in currency, five hundred of it in one-hundred-dollar bills.

  Officer Prasko became aware that his heart was beating rapidly, and that he had to take a piss.

  Prasko put two of the one-hundred-dollar bills in his pocket, replaced the rest of the currency into the wallet, and then placed the wallet and other material back into the man's pockets.

  "Turn around," he ordered.

  The man turned around with some difficulty, being cuffed, and looked at Prasko with what Prasko believed was mingled loathing and contempt. Prasko believed he understood why. It had to do with the criminal justice system and their relative compensation. The guy was almost certainly aware that since he had been apprehended without being found in possession of controlled substances, or a firearm or other deadly weapon, he could reasonably expect to be released from custody on bail within a matter of hours.

  He was also aware that he made more money in a day than a policeman made in a week. Or ten days. Or two weeks. Or maybe even a month, depending on how valuable he was to Amos Williams.

 

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