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“We really don’t think they’re an army, Mr. Katz.”

Katz snorted.

“Do what you think you have to, Albert,” Mr. Katz said, and walked away.

“He’s a married man, with kids,” Al Monahan said, “I understand how he feels.”

“Are you about ready, Mr. Monahan?” Washington asked.

“I’ve just got to get my coat and hat,” Monahan replied. “And then I’ll be with you.”

Washington watched him walk across the floor toward the rear of the store, and then went to the door and looked out.

Things were exactly as he had set them up. He questioned whether it was really necessary, but Peter Wohl had told him to ‘err on the side of caution’ and Washington was willing to go along with his concern, not only because, obviously, Wohl was his commanding officer, but also because of all the police brass Washington knew well, Peter Wohl was among the least excitable. He did not, in other words, as Washington thought of it, run around in circles chasing his tail, in the manner of other supervisors of his acquaintance when they were faced with an out-of-the-ordinary situation.

There were three cars parked in front of Goldblatt’s. First was the Highway car, then Washington’s unmarked car, and finally the unmarked car that carried the two plainclothes officers.

Both Highway cops, one of the plainclothesmen, and the 6th District beat cop were standing by the fender of Washington’s car.

“Okay,” Mr. Monahan said in Washington’s ear, startling him a little.

Washington smiled at him, and led him to the door.

When they stepped outside, one of the Highway cops and the plainclothesmen stepped beside Mr. Monahan. As Washington got behind the wheel of his car, they walked Monahan between the Highway car and Washington’s, and installed him in the front seat.

The beat cop, as the Highway cop and the plainclothesmen got in their cars, stepped into the middle of the street and held up his hand, blocking traffic coming east on South Street, so that the three cars could pull away from the curb together.

The Highway car in front of Washington had almost reached South 8th Street and had already turned on his turn signal when Washington saw something dropping out of the sky.

He had just time to recognize it as a bottle, whiskey or ginger ale, that big, then as a bottle on fire, at the neck, when it hit the roof of the Highway car and then bounced off, unbroken, onto South Street, where it shattered.

The Highway car slammed on his brakes, and Washington almost ran into him. As he jammed his hand on the horn, the unmarked car behind him slammed into his bumper.

Washington signaled furiously for the Highway car to get moving. It began to move again the instant there was a sound like a blown-up paper bag being ruptured, and then a puff of orange flame.

Those dirty rotten sonsofbitches!

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Mr. Monahan said.

Washington’s hand found his microphone.

“Keep moving!” he ordered. “The beat cop’ll call it in. Go to the Roundhouse.”

Washington looked in his mirror. The unmarked car behind him was still moving, already through the puddle of burning gasoline.

“What the hell was it, a fucking Molotov cocktail?” an incredulous voice, probably, Washington thought, one of the Highway guys, came over the radio.

“Can you see, Mr. Monahan, if the car behind us is all right?” he asked.

“It looks okay.”

Washington picked up the microphone again.

“Okay. Everything’s under control,” he said.

In a porcine rectum, he thought, everything’s under control. What the hell is going on here? This is Philadelphia, not Saigon!

SEVENTEEN