Something, maybe not tonight, maybe not this week, maybe not this fucking year, but something, sometime, sooner or later, is going to happen, and then I'll know how he's doing it.

He lit a cigarette, saw that it was his next to last Fuck it, I smoke too much anyway And settled himself against the worn-out and lumpy cushion and started to look.

When Officer Charles McFadden finished his tour at four, he went looking for Officer Matthew Payne. When he went through the door marked HEADQUARTERS, SPECIAL OPERATIONS, Payne was not at his desk. And there was no one sitting at the sergeant's desk either.

Charley sat on the edge of Payne's desk, confident that one or both of them would turn up in a minute;somebody would be around to answer the inspector's phone.

A minute or so later, the door to the inspector's office opened and a slight, fair-skinned, rather sharp-featured police officer came out. He was in Highway regalia identical to Officer McFadden's, except that there were silver captain's bars on the epaulets of his leather jacket. He was Captain David Pekach, commanding officer of Highway Patrol.

McFadden pushed himself quickly off Payne's desk.

"Hey, whaddaya say, McFadden?" Captain Pekach said, smiling, and offering his hand.

"Captain," McFadden replied.

"Where's the sergeant?" Pekach asked.

"I don't know," Charley said. "I came in here looking for Payne."

"The inspector's got him running down some paperwork. I don't think he'll be back today. Something I can do for you?"

"No, sir, it was- I wanted to see if he wanted to have a beer or something."

"You might try him at home in a couple of hours," Pekach said. "I really don't think he'll be coming back. Do me a favor, Charley?"

"Yes, sir."

"Stick around for a couple of minutes and answer the phone until the sergeant comes back. He's probably in the can. But somebody should be on that phone."

"Yes, sir."

"The inspector's gone for the day. Captain Sabara and I are minding the store."

"Yes, sir," McFadden said, smiling. He liked Captain Pekach. Pekach had been his lieutenant when he had worked undercover in Narcotics.

The door opened and a sergeant whom McFadden didn't know came in.

"You looking for me, sir?"

"Not anymore," Pekach said, tempering the sarcasm with a little smile.

"I had to go to the can, Captain."

"See if you can find Detective Harris," Pekach said. "Keep looking. Tell him to call either me or Captain Sabara, no matter what the hour."

"Yes, sir."

Pekach turned and went back into the office he shared with Captain Mike Sabara. Then he turned again, remembering two things: first, that he had not said "So long" or something to McFadden; and second that McFadden and his partner had answered the call on the shooting at Goldblatt's furniture.

He reentered the outer office just in time to hear the sergeant snarl, "What do you want?" at McFadden.

"Officer McFadden, Sergeant," Pekach said, "for the good of the Department, you understand, was kind enough to be standing by to answer the telephone. Since, you see, there was no one else out here."

The sergeant flushed.

"Come on in a minute, Charley," Pekach said. "You got a minute?"

"Yes, sir."

Pekach held the door open for Charley and then followed him into the office.

Captain Michael J. Sabara, a short, muscular, swarthy-skinned man whose acne-scarred face, dark eyes, and mustache made him appear far more menacing than was the case, looked up curiously at McFadden.

"You know Charley, don't you, Mike?" Pekach asked.

"Yeah, sure," Sabara said, offering his hand. "How are you, McFadden?"

At least this one, he thought, looks like a Highway Patrolman.

The other one, in Captain Sabara's mind, was Officer Jesus Martinez; theother of the first two probationary Highway Patrolmen. Jesus Martinez was just barely over Departmental height and weight minimums. It wasn't his fault, but he just didn't look like a Highway Patrolman. He looked, in Captain Sabara's opinion, like a small-sized spic dressed up in a cut-down Highway Patrol uniform.

"Charley, you went in on that shots fired, hospital case at Goldblatt's, didn't you?" Pekach asked.

"Yes, sir. Quinn and I were at City Hall when we heard it."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing. They were long gone-they had stashed a van out in back-when we got there."

"You hear anything on the scene about the doers?"

"Spades in bathrobes," McFadden said, "Is what we heard. Dumb spades. They-Goldblatt's-don't keep any real money in the store."

"What do you think about this?" Captain Sabara said, and handed him a photocopy of the press release that had been sent to Mickey O'Hara at theBulletin.

"What the hell is it?" McFadden asked.

"What do you think it is, Charley?" Pekach asked.

"I think it's bullshit.If this thing is real, and they're going to have a war with the Jews, how come the guy they shot was an Irishman?"

"Good question," Pekach said. "If you had to guess, Charley, what would you say?"

"Jesus, Captain, I don't know. I don't think this Liberation Army is for real-is it?"

"That seems to be the question of the day, Charley," Pekach said, and then changed the subject. "I don't seem to see you much anymore. How do you like Highway?"

"It's all right, I guess," Charley replied. "But sometimes, Captain, I sort of miss Narcotics."

"Narcotics or undercover?" Pekach pursued.

"Both, I guess."

"If you don't catch up with Payne tonight, I'll tell him you were looking for him," Pekach said.

McFadden understood he was being dismissed.

"Yes, sir. Good night, Captain." He faced Sabara and repeated, " Captain."

Sabara nodded and smiled.

When McFadden had closed the door behind him, Sabara said, "There are three hundred young cops out there with five, six years on the job who would give their left nut to be in Highway, and that one says, 'It's all right, I guess.'"

"Butyour three hundred young cops never had the opportunity to work forme inNarcotics," Pekach said.

"Oh, go to hell," Sabara chuckled. "You're no better than he is."

"He wasn't much help, was he?"

"No, he wasn't. Did you think he would be?"

"Wohl said he thought we should find out what we could about Goldblatt's. I was trying."

"You really think Special Operations is going to wind up with that job?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. Carlucci probably sees a story in the newspapers, 'Mayor Carlucci announced this afternoon that the Special Operations Division arrested the Islamic Liberation Army-' "

"All eight of them," Sabara interrupted. "That's if thereis an Islamic Liberation Army. And anyway, Highway could handle it without the bullshit."

"That's my line, Mike. Write this on your forehead:'Pekach is Highway,I'm Special Operations.' "

Sabara chuckled again. "What the hell is Wohl up to?"

"I guess he's just trying to cover his ass," Pekach replied. "In case he does-in other words, we do-get that job."

Charley McFadden drove home, took a bottle of Schlitz from the refrigerator, carried it into the living room, sat on the couch, and dialed Matt Payne's apartment. It rang twice.

"Matthew Payne profoundly regrets, knowing what devastating disappointment it will cause you, that he is not available for conversation at this time. If you would be so kind as to leave your number at the beep, he will know that you have called."

"Shit!" Charley said, laughing, and hung up.

"Watch your mouth, Charley!" his mother called from the kitchen.

Charley hoisted himself out of the couch and went up the stairs, two at a time, to his bedroom. He took his pistol from its holster, put it in the sock drawer of his dresser, and took his snub-nosed Colt.38 Special and its holster out of the drawer. Then he took off his uniform. He rubbed the Sam Browne belt and its accoutrements with a polishing cloth, took a brush to his boots, and then arranged everything neatly in his closet, where, with the addition of a clean shirt, it would be ready for tomorrow.