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“So far a

s Monahan is concerned, I don’t know. At least until the end of the trail, and probably a little longer. Stillwell is going to go before the Grand Jury as soon as he can, probably in the next couple of days, and then they’re going to put it on the docket as soon as that can be arranged. Giacomo will do his damnedest to get continuances, of course, but with a little bit of luck, we’ll have a judge who won’t indulge him. As far as Payne is concerned: He’s a cop. As soon as he’s back for duty, we’ll call off official protection. Encourage him to do his drinking and wenching in the FOP.”

Malone nodded and chuckled.

“There is also a chance that we’ll be able to get our hands on the people who are issuing the press releases. I want the people on Monahan’s house to take license numbers, that sort of thing.”

“That wasn’t in here,” Malone said, tapping the lined paper Wohl had given him, “but I thought about it.”

“There is also a chance, a very slim one, that we can get some of the other witnesses to agree to testify. Washington’s going to talk to them. And I’m sure that Stillwell will probably try too. If we can get more people to come forward—”

“Which is exactly what these scumbags are worried about, what they’re trying to prevent,” Malone said, and then, really surprising Wohl, said bitterly, “Shit!”

Then, having heard what he said, and seeing the look on Wohl’s face, he explained.

“Second table from the headwaiter’s table. My wife. Ex-wife.”

Wohl looked, saw a not-especially-attractive woman, facing in their direction, across a table from a man with long, silver-gray hair, and then turned to Malone.

“That the lawyer?”

“That’s him.”

“What I think you should do, Jack,” Wohl said, “is smile and act as if you’re having a great time. I’m only sorry that I’m not a long-legged blonde with spectacular breastworks.”

Malone looked at him for a moment, and then picked up his glass.

“Whoopee!” he said, waving it around. “Ain’t we having fun!”

“What do you say, kiddo?” Mickey O’Hara asked as he stuck his head into Matt Payne’s room. “Feel up to a couple of visitors?”

“Come on in, Mickey,” Matt said. He had been watching an especially dull program on public television hoping that it would put him to sleep; it hadn’t. He now knew more of the water problems of Los Angeles than he really wanted to know.

Mickey O’Hara and Eleanor Neal came into the room. O’Hara had a brown bag in his hand, and Eleanor carried a potted plant.

“I hope we’re not intruding,” Eleanor said, “but Mickey said it would be all right if I came, and I wanted to thank you for saving his life.”

“Matt, say hello to Eleanor Neal,” Mickey said.

“How do you do?” Matt said, a reflex response, and then: “I didn’t save his life.”

“Yeah, you did,” Mickey said. “But for a moment, in the alley, I thought you had changed your mind.”

Matt had a sudden, very clear mental picture of the fear on Mickey’s face and in his eyes, right after it had happened, when he had, startled by the flash from Mickey’s camera, turned from the man he had shot and pointed his revolver at Mickey O’Hara.

“What does that mean?”

“Not important,” Mickey said. He pulled a bottle of John Jameson Irish whiskey from the brown paper bag. “Down payment on what I owe you, Matt.”

“Hey, I didn’t save your life, okay? You don’t owe me a damned thing.”

Mickey ignored him. He bent over and took two plastic cups from the bedside table, opened the bottle, poured whiskey in each cup, and then looked at Matt.

“You want it straight, or should I pour some water in it?”

“I’m not sure you should be giving him that,” Eleanor said.

“He’s an Irishman,” Mickey said. “It’ll do him more good than whatever else they’ve been giving him in here.”