But you're Irish, right?

"You may have noticed, Peter, that I'm Irish," Cohan said.

"Who did he hit?"

"It's not important, but you'd probably hear anyway. A lawyer named Howard B. Candless."

Wohl shrugged, signaling he had never heard of him.

"Jack did quite a job on him," Cohan said. "Knocked a couple of teeth out. Caused what the medical report said were 'multiple bruises and contusions.' They kept Candless in the hospital two days, worrying about a possible concussion."

"Why?" Wohl asked. "That doesn't sound like Malone."

"And when he was finished with the lawyer, Jack had a couple too many drinks and went home and slapped his wife around."

"On general principles?"

"Jack is a very simple guy. He believes that when a woman marries one man, she should not get into another man's bed."

"Jesus Christ!"

"They kept her in the hospital overnight; long enough to make Polaroid pictures of her bruises and contusions. That's important."

"But he's not going to be charged? Or did I get the wrong impression?"

"It took some doing. He wasn't charged."

Malone wasn't charged because Deputy Commissioner Cohan is his rabbi. Every up-and-coming police officer has a rabbi. My father was Jerry Carlucci 's rabbi. Jerry Carlucci was Denny Coughlin's rabbi. Denny Coughlin, it is said, is my rabbi. Even Officer Matthew M. Payne has a rabbi, I have lately come to realize-me.

The function of a rabbi is to select a young officer and guide him through the mine fields of police department politics, try to see that he is given assignments that will broaden his areas of expertise and enhance his chances of promotion. And, of course, when he gets in trouble, to try not only to fix it, so he doesn't get kicked off the cops, but to try to insure that he won't do what he did again.

"He was lucky to have you as a friend," Wohl said.

"He's a good man," Cohan said. "And a good cop."

"Yes, sir, I think so."

"I had him assigned to Major Crimes Division, to the Auto Squad," Cohan said. "And I arranged for him to stay there after he made lieutenant. All this took place, you understand, right around the time they were making up the lieutenant's list. If there had been an Internal Affairs report-"

"I understand," Wohl said. "What's his status with his wife?"

"They were divorced. I was a little slow on that one, Peter. A little naive. I thought the lawyer had gone along with withdrawing the assault charges because he was either ashamed of what he had done, didn't want the story repeated around the courtrooms, and/or didn't want to have any scandal floating around Mrs. Malone, who he intended to marry."

"But?"

"It would not have solved his purpose to have Jack locked up or even fired. That might have tended to make the judge feel a little sympathetic toward Jack when he got him in court and showed the judge the color photos of Mrs. Malone's swollen, black-and-blue face. And, Jesus, tell it all, the bruises on her chest and ass. Jack literally kicked her ass all over the house."

"Oh, Christ! Who was the judge?"

"Seymour F. Marshutz," Cohan said. "Marshutz cannot conceive of a situation-don't misunderstand me, I'm not defending what Jack did, not for a minute-where slapping a wife around is not right up there with child molesting. I tried to talk to him, I've known Sy Marshutz for years, and got absolutely nowhere."

"And?"

"She got everything, of course. The only reason he didn't give her alimony is because we don't have alimony in Pennsylvania, but he gave her everything else they owned but his clothes and an old junk car. Custody, of course, because the way Sy Marshutz sees it, while playing the whore is bad, it's not as bad as violence, and Jack has limited visitation privileges."

I wonder what I'm supposed to do with Lieutenant Jack Malone. That's obviously what this is about; this is not marital notes from all over.

"I had a long talk-lots of long talks-with Jack. I chewed his ass. I held his hand. For all I know, if Marilyn had done to me what his wife did to Jack, maybe I'd have taken a swing at her too. Anyway, I told him his life wasn't over, and that if I were him, I'd give everything I have to the job for a while, that thinking about what happened was only-you know what I mean, Peter."

"Yes, sir."

"So he took me literally. He's working all the time. He's got a room in a hotel, the St. Charles, on Arch at 19^th?"

"Faded grandeur," Wohl said without thinking.

"Yeah," Cohan said. "Okay. Anyway. All he does is work and watch TV in the hotel room."

"No booze?"

"A little of that. We had a talk about that too. I think he's had more to drink in the last year than he's had up to now. That isn't a problem."

"But there is one."

"Yeah. Now he sees a car thief behind every bush."

"I don't follow you, sir."

"All work and no play hasn't made Jack a dull boy, Peter," Cohan said solemnly, "it's put his imagination in high gear, out of control."

"Is this any of my business, sir?"

"He thinks Bob Holland is a car thief."

Bob Holland was Holland Cadillac Motor Cars. And Bob Holland Chevrolet. And Holland Pontiac-GMC. And there was a strong rumor going around that Broad Street Ford and Jenkintown Chrysler-Plymouth were really owned by Robert L. Holland.

"Is he?"

"Come on, Peter," Cohan said. "You're not talking about some sleazeball used car dealer here."

"I gather Jack has nothing but a hunch to go on?"

"He went to Charley Gaft and asked for permission to surveil all of Holland's showrooms," Cohan said. "And when Gaft turned him down, he came to me. Ten minutes after Bob called me and told me he was worried about him."

Captain Charles B. Gaft commanded the Major Crimes Division.

"I'm afraid to ask what all this has to do with me, Commissioner. What do you want me to do, have Highway Patrol keep an eye on Bob Holland's showrooms? Or sit on Jack Malone?"

"Peter," Cohan said, almost sadly, "your mouth has a tendency to run away with itself. It's only because I've known you, literally, since you wore short pants and because I know what a good police officer you are that I don't take offense. But there are those-people of growing importance to you, now that you're moving up-who would think that was just a flippant remark and unbecoming to a division commander."

Oh, shit!

"Commissioner, it was flippant, and I apologize. I have no excuse to offer except the champagne."

"Now, I already said, I understand your sense of humor, Peter. But maybe you'd better watch that champagne. It sneaks up on you."

"Yes, sir. But I do apologize."

"It never happened. Getting back to Jack. He's under a strain. He's working too hard. But he's a fine police officer and worth saving, and that's why I'm asking you for your help."

I'll be a sonofabitch. He rehearsed that little speech. That's what he planned to say to me to see if I would stand still for whatever he wants. It was supposed to be delivered before he went to see Czernick and Carlucci.

"Whatever I can do, Commissioner."

I say nobly, aware that I have absolutely no option to do or say anything else.

"I knew I could count on you, Peter. What I'm going to do is send Jack over to you-"

Shit! But what else did I expect?

"-and have Tony Lucci transferred to Jack's job on the Auto Squad in Major Crimes."

Lieutenant Anthony J. Lucci, who had been Mayor Carlucci's driver as a sergeant, had been sent to Special Operations on his promotion to lieutenant. It was a reward for a job well done, which by possibly innocent coincidence gave His Honor the Mayor a window on the inner workings of Special Operations, reports delivered daily.

Every black cloud has a silver lining. I get rid of Lucci. What's that going to cost me? Is he telling the truth about Malone not having a bottle problem, or am I going to have to nurse a drunk?