All the goddamned drug-runners.
It had been then that his cellular had started to vibrate, flash Soup King-and cause him to worry.
Matt Payne looked at the cellular phone and said aloud, “What’s he want at this hour?”
Payne told himself that it wasn’t the time of day that bothered him; rather, it was what it suggested. For as long as he could remember, certainly since his early teen years, his parents had told him that calls in the late of night or early morning almost never announced good news. And his experience as a Philly cop sure as hell had only proved their point, time and again.
Maybe he accidentally hit my auto-dial number?
And if that’s the case, and if I’d been sound asleep, I’d be pissed he’s waking me up.
Payne had been pals with the “Soup King”-Payne’s nickname for Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV-since they were in diapers, when Chad was merely the Soup Prince-in-Waiting. Later, they attended prep school together before both graduating from the University of Pennsylvania.
Had Payne’s cellular phone volume not been muted, the phone, having linked “Soup King” with the audio file Matt had saved to its memory chip, would have blared from the speaker their alma mater’s marching band playing:
Tell the story of Glory
Of Pennsylvania
Drink a highball And be jolly
Here’s a toast to dear old Penn!
The Soup King crack came from the fact that Chad’s family was Nesfoods International-his father, Mr. Nesbitt III, was now chairman of the executive committee-having succeeded his father, who’d succeeded his-and Chad was recently named a vice president, having worked
his way up in the corporate ranks, just as his father and Grandfather Nesbitt had.
And Matt’s father and Chad’s father were best friends.
Chad never had lacked in the self-esteem department, and Matt often found it his duty to help keep him grounded.
Payne grabbed the phone from its cradle, which automatically answered the call. He put it to his head and by way of greeting said: “My telephone tells me that the Soup King is calling at four forty-six in the morning. Why, pray tell, would anyone-friend or foe or vegetable royalty-wish to awaken a fine person such as myself from a peaceful slumber at this ungodly hour?”
“Matt? Are you awake, Matt?”
Payne pulled the phone from his head and looked at it askance; it was as if Nesbitt hadn’t heard a word he’d said. He put the phone back to his head and replied: “Such a query calls into question the intelligence of one who asks it. Because, it would follow that if one were to telephone a person, and said person were to answer, then, yes, it could be presumed that that person was awake. Or perhaps rudely awakened.”
Nesbitt didn’t reply.
“Actually, you’re lucky,” Payne went on. “I wasn’t rudely awakened. I was, instead, accomplishing multiple tasks, from plotting my future to looking for a new car. All with the wonders of this miraculous thing called the Internet that’s ready at any hour of the day or night. I don’t know about you, but I think this Internet thing might be around for a while. Wonderfully handy. And you can go anywhere on it, even in just your underwear.”
Nesbitt either ignored the ridiculous sarcasm or again didn’t hear what he’d said.
“Look, Matt. I need your help. This is bad.”
Payne thought that Nesbitt’s voice had an odd tone to it, and that caused a knot in his stomach.
“What’s bad, Chad?”
Nesbitt did not address the question directly. “I’d heard-Mother said at dinner last week-are you still a cop or not?”
“Well, the days of the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line very well may be numbered. I’m thinking of taking a road trip. Any interest in-”
“So,” Chad interrupted, “does that mean no?”
“No. It means technically, yes, I’m still a cop. The real question, though, is: ‘Will I continue to be a cop?’ I’ve been put on ice to take time and consider just that-”
“Dammit, yes or no?” he interrupted.