"I wouldn't bother you with this, Captain, but nobody knows where Captain Pekach is."

"What's the problem?"

"You know about the parade? Escort the governor to Constitution Hall?"

Sabara nodded. "Twelve wheels. At the airport no later than eleventhirty. Something wrong?"

"Captain, we brought the bikes here. We went inside for a cup of coffee, before the inspection. When we went back out, there was only ten wheels."

"You're not telling me somebody stole two Highway bikes?"

"Stole, no. Some wiseass is fucking around. When I find out who, I'll have his ass. But what do we do now?"

"Everybody else is outside, where they're supposed to be?"

"Yes, sir."

Captain Sabara, with the sergeant following, strode purposefully out of his office and then out the side door of the building, where he found ten Highway motorcycles lined up neatly, their riders standing beside them.

"Whose wheels are missing?" he demanded.

Two Highway Patrolmen, holding their plastic helmets in their hands and looking more than a little sheepish, stepped forward.

"What did you do, leave the keys in them?"

One patrolman nodded, embarrassed. The second began to explain, " Captain, who the hell's going to steal a Highway-"

He was stilled in midsentence by one of Captain Mike Sabara's nearly legendary frosty glances.

Sabara kept up his icy look for about thirty seconds, and then there came the sound of two motorcycles, approaching at high speed.

"Who the fuck-?" the sergeant asked, only to find that Captain Sabara's cold eyes were now on him.

Two Highway wheels, ridden by guys in complete Highway regalia, including plastic helmets with the face masks down, appeared just outside the parking lot on Bustleton Street, and slid to a stop on squealing tires. Now their sergeant's stripes were visible.

They sat there a moment, revving the engines, and then, one at a time, entered the parking lot, where, simultaneously, they executed a maneuver known to the motorcycling fraternity as a "wheelie." This maneuver involves lifting the front wheel off the ground and steering by precisely adjusting the balance of what is now a powered unicycle by shifting the weight of the body.

It is a maneuver that only can be successfully accomplished by a rider of extraordinary skill. In the interest of rider safety and vehicle economy, the maneuver is forbidden by the Police Department except for instructional purposes by Wheel School instructors.

After passing one way through the parking lot, the two cyclists dropped the front wheel gently back onto the ground, simultaneously negotiated a turn, and then simultaneously executed another wheelie, in the other direction. A final gentle lowering on the front wheel, a final gentle, precise turn, and then the two rode to the center of the parked motorcycles and stopped. They revved the engines a final time, kicked the kick stands in place in a synchronized movement, and then swung off the machines.

The first rider raised his face mask and then removed his helmet.

Jesus H. Christ, it's Pekach! I knew he had been in Highway, but I didn't know he could ride a wheel that good!

"For obvious reasons," Captain Pekach announced solemnly, "I think I should remind all of you that Departmental regulations require that the keys to motorcycles be removed when they are left unattended."

The second rider now raised his mask and removed his helmet.

"Anyone who willingly gets on one of those things," Staff Inspector Peter Wohl announced, "is obviously not playing with a full deck."

Then he and Captain Pekach walked into the building.

Captain Sabara had turned to the sergeant who had reported the missing wheels to him.

"Did I ever tell you, Sergeant, that when I first came to Highway the sergeant I replaced was Inspector Wohl?"

Then he turned and walked into the building.

Malone thought it was a great story. But it was more than that. Wohl knew how to deal with people. After the wheelie demonstration, and after the word had spread that Wohl had been the youngest sergeant ever in Highway, there had been no more bitching that he didn't understand how things were in Highway.

And, Malone thought, it had been a nice touch for Wohl to come out of his office himself to apologize for being tied up. Most division commanders wouldn't have done that; they would have told their driver to have the newcomer wait.

And what Payne had said, "you'll be right at home around here," was interesting too.

Maybe this Special Operations assignment will turn out all right after all.

At five minutes past one that afternoon, Abu Ben Mohammed pushed open one of the double doors giving access to the business premises of Goldblatt amp; Sons Credit Furniture amp; Appliances, Inc., which occupied all of a three-story building on the north side of South Street, between South 8^th and South 9^th Streets in South Philadelphia.

Abu Ben Mohammed, according to police records, had been born, as Charles David Stevens, at the Temple University Hospital, in North Philadelphia, twenty-four years, six months, and eleven days earlier. On the occasion of his most recent arrest, he had been described as a Negro Male, five feet nine inches tall, weighing approximately 165 pounds, and with no particular deformities or scars.

Goldblatt amp; Sons had a doorman, Albert J. Monahan, who was fifty-six. Red Monahan had been with Goldblatt amp; Sons for thirty-eight years. He went way back to when it had been Samuel Goldblatt Fine Furniture, when Mr. Joshua Goldblatt (now treasurer) and Mr. Harold Goldblatt (now secretary) had been in short pants, and Mr. Samuel Goldblatt, Jr., (now president) then known as "Little Sammy," had been just another muscular eighteen-year-old working one of the trucks delivering merchandise alongside Red.

Before he'd had his heart attack, three years before, Red Monahan had worked his way up to warehouse supervisor. In addition to the portions of the third floor and of the basement of the building on South Street used to warehouse, there was a five-story warehouse building on Washington Avenue two blocks away.

Red had been responsible for checking merchandise as it came in, filling orders from the store to be loaded on trucks, and in moving merchandise back and forth between the store and the warehouse.

Old Mr.Goldblatt had still been alive when Red had his heart attack, although he was getting pretty fragile. But he insisted on being taken to the hospital to see Red, and Young Mr. Sam had, nervously, loaded him into his Buick and taken him.

Old Mr.Goldblatt had told Red that he was too mean an Irishman to die, or even to stay sick for very long, and anyway not to worry. The store had good hospital insurance and what that didn't pay, the store would. And he could consider himself retired, at full pay, from that moment. Anyone with thirty-five years with the store was entitled to take it easy when the time came.

Red told Old Mr.Goldblatt that he didn't want to retire; everybody he knew who retired was dead in a year or eighteen months. And what the hell would he do, anyway, sit around the house all day?

Old Mr.Goldblatt told Red that there would be a job for him at the store as long as he wanted one, and then when he was back in the Buick he told Young Mr. Sam that he was to figure out something for Red to do that wouldn't be a strain on him, but that would also keep him busy.

"No make work. Red's got pride."

"Jesus Christ, Pop!"

"Just do it, Sammy. Let me know what you come up with."

What Young Mr. Sam came up with was what he called "floor walker." When he was a kid, there had been floor walkers in Strawbridge amp; Clothier, John Wanamaker's, and other top-class department stores. What they did was literally walk the floor, keeping an eye on customers, stock, and employees.