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“1950 SK-120 Drophead Coupe,” Wohl said. “So he came to me after a meeting one night and said he had heard I was a cop, and that he didn’t want to put me on the spot, but did I know an honest sergeant, or maybe even an honest lieutenant. He would go to him, without mentioning my name, and tell him his problem.”

“A long time ago?”

“Just before they gave me Special Operations,” Wohl said.

“He didn’t know you were a staff inspector?”

“No. Not until I testified in court.”

“So what happened?”

“The next time the Health Department sleaze-ball came in, I was tending bar and I had a photographer up there.” He gestured toward a balcony overlooking the bar and smiled. “I put a microphone in the pretzel bowl. Hanging Harriet gave the Health Department guy three to five,” Wohl said.

Hanging Harriet was the Hon. Harriet M. McCandless, a formidable black jurist who passionately believed that civilized society was based upon a civil service whose honesty was above question.

“No wonder he buys you drinks.”

“The sad part of the story, Jack, is that Charley really was afraid to go to the cops until he found one he thought might be honest.”

Wohl took a swallow of his drink, and then said, “Let’s carry these to the table. I’ve got to get something to eat.”

The headwaiter left his padded rope and showed them to a table at the rear of the room. A waiter immediately appeared.

“The El Rancho Special,” Wohl ordered. “Hold the beans. French fries.”

“What’s that?”

“Barbecued beef. Great sauce. You really ought to try it.”

“I think I will,” Malone said.

“Yes, sir. And can I get you gentlemen a drink?”

“Please. The same thing. Jameson’s, isn’t it?”

“Jameson’s,” Malone offered.

“And I don’t care what Mr. Meader says, I want the check for this,” Wohl said.

The waiter looked uncomfortable.

“You’re going to have to talk to Mr. Meader about that, sir.”

“All right,” Wohl said. He waited until the waiter left, and then said, “Well, you can’t say I didn’t try to pay for this, can you?”

Malone chuckled.

Wohl reached in the breast pocket of his jacket and came out with several sheets of blue-lined paper and handed them to Malone.

“I’d like to know what you think about that, Jack. I don’t have much—practically no—experience in this sort of thing.”

“What is it?”

“How to protect Monahan, the witness in the Goldblatt job, and Matt Payne. Monahan positively identified everybody we arrested, by the way. Washington called me just after I called you.”

The protection plan was detailed and precise, even including drawings of Monahan’s house, Matt’s apartment, and the areas around them. That didn’t surprise Malone, for he expected as much from Wohl. His brief association with him had convinced him that he really was as smart as his reputation held him to be.

But he was surprised at the handwriting. He had read somewhere, years before, and come to accept, that a very good clue to a man’s character was his handwriting. From what he had seen of Wohl, what he knew about him, there was a certain flamboyance to his character, which, according to the handwriting theory, should have manifested itself in flamboyant, perhaps even careless, writing. But the writing on the sheets of lined paper was quite the opposite. Wohl’s characters were small, carefully formed, with dots over the i’s, and neatly crossed t’s. Even his abbreviations were followed by periods.