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“I’ll have a look,” Officer Caragiola said.

He left the kitchen and walked to the front of the restaurant and, sipping on his coffee, looked for a Volkswagen. There was two guys in it, one of them, a big fat slob with one of them hippie bands around his forehead, behind the wheel, slumped down in the seat as if he was asleep. And then the passenger door opened, and a little guy—she was right, he looked like a spic—got out and looked for traffic, and then walked across the street to the stairs to the elevated. Looked like a mean little fucker.

Officer Caragiola set his coffee on the counter and walked quickly out of Gene & Jerry’s, and across the street, and up the stairs after him.

He got to the platform just as a train arrived. Everybody on the platform got on it but the little spic. He acted as if he was waiting for somebody who might have ridden the elevated to the end of the line and just stayed on. If he did that, he would just go back downtown. If somebody like that was either buying or selling dope, that would be the way to do it.

Officer Caragiola ducked behind a stairwell so the little spic couldn’t see him, and waited. People started coming up the stairs, filling up the platform, and then a train arrived from downtown and left, and then five minutes later reappeared on the downtown track. Everybody on the platform got on the train but the little spic.

Tony Caragiola came out from behind the stairwell and walked over to the little spic.

“Speak to you a minute, buddy?” he said.

“What about?”

Tony saw that the little spic was pissed. He probably knew all the civil rights laws about cops not being supposed to ask questions without reasonable cause.

“You want to tell me what you and your friend in the Volkswagen are doing?”

“Narcotics,” the little spic said. “I’d rather not show you my I.D. Not here.”

“Who’s your lieutenant?” Tony asked.

“Lieutenant Pekach.”

It was a name Officer Caragiola did not recognize.

“I think you better show me your ID,” he said.

“Shit,” the little spic said. He reached in his back pocket and came out with a plastic identity card. “Okay?” he said.

“The lady in the restaurant said you were acting suspicious,” Tony Caragiola said.

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

Officer Jesus Martinez put his ID back in his pocket and walked down the stairs. Officer Anthony Caragiola walked twenty feet behind him. He went back in Gene & Jerry’s and told Gene everything was all right, not to worry about it. Then he went back across the street and climbed the stairs to catch the elevated to go to work.

Officer Martinez got back into the Volkswagen. He glowered for a full minute at Officer Charley McFadden, who was asleep and snoring. Then he jabbed him, hard, with his fingers, in his ribs. McFadden sat up, a look of confusion on his face.

“What’s up?”

“I thought you would like to know, asshole, that the lady in the restaurant called the cops on us. Said we look suspicious.”

****

At quarter to five, Peter Wohl drove to Marshutz & Sons. As he walked up the wide steps to the Victorian-style building, the Moffitts—Jean, the kids, and Dutch’s mother—came out.

Jean Moffitt was wearing a black dress and a hat with a veil. The kids were in suits. Gertrude Moffitt was in a black dress and hat, but no veil.

“Hello, Peter,” Jean Moffitt said, and offered a gloved hand.

“Jeannie,” Peter said.

“You know Mother Moffitt, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Peter said. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Moffitt.”

“We’re going out for a bite to eat,” Gertrude Moffitt said. “Before people start coming after work.”