“How do you do, Mr. Boyle?” Matt said.
Main Line, Sonny decided. If he talks like that—like he keeps his teeth together when he talks—and dresses like that, he’s from some place like Merion or Bala Cynwyd. I wonder what the fuck he’s doing with McFadden.
“Long time no see,” Sonny said. “What brings you down this way?”
Charley put two fingers in his mouth, causing a shrill whistle which attracted the waitress’s attention. “Two coffees, darling,” he called out. “Put them on Sonny’s bill.”
“On my bill, my ass,” Sonny said.
“For old times’ sake, Sonny, right? Besides, I’ve told Matt you’re a successful businessman.”
“You did?”
“I told him you are one of the neighborhood’s most successful numbers runners and part-time bookies.”
“Jesus Christ, Charley, that’s not funny.”
“Don’t be bashful,” McFadden said. “He’s always been a little bashful, Matt.”
“Has he really?” Matt said.
“Yeah. What do you expect, with a name like Francis? That’s a girl’s name.”
“When its a girl, they spell it with an e,” Sonny said. “Damn it, you know that.” He looked at Matt Payne. “Charley and me go back a long ways. He’s always
pulling my leg.”
Who the fuck is this guy? What the hell is this all about?
One of Sonny’s runners—Pat O’Hallihan, a bright, red-headed eighteen-year-old who worked hard, was honest, and for whom Sonny saw a bright future came into Lou’s Crab House, carrying a small canvas zipper bag with his morning’s receipts. He stopped when he saw that Sonny was not alone in the booth. Sonny made what he hoped was a discreet gesture telling him to cool it.
It was not discreet enough.
“Turn around, Matthew,” McFadden said. “The kid in the red hair? Three to five he’s one of Sonny’s runners.”
Matt turned and looked.
“Is he really?” he asked.
“Charley, you are not funny,” Sonny said.
“Who’s trying to be funny?” McFadden said. “I was just filling Detective Payne in on the local scumbags.”
“Detective” Payne? Is he telling me this Main Line asshole in the three-hundred-fifty-dollar jacket and the fifty-dollar tie is a cop?
“You’re a cop?” Sonny’s mouth ran away with him.
“Show him your badge, Matthew,” McFadden said. “Sonny—I suppose in his line of work, it’s natural—don’t trust anybody.”
The Main Line asshole reached into the inside breast pocket of his three-hundred-fifty-dollar Harris tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and came out with a small folder. He opened it and extended it to Sonny, which afforded Sonny the opportunity to see a Philadelphia Police Department detective’s badge and accompanying photo identification.
“You don’t look like a cop,” Sonny said.
“Don’t I really?” Matt asked.
“Detective Payne is with Special Operations,” Charley said. “You familiar with Special Operations, Sonny?”
“Sure.”