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Authors: Don Pendleton
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asked him, "What will you do with that intelligence Tom?"
"We'll investigate, of course."
"Routinely."
"Naturally. You know the channels. We, uh, have the same access to classified data banks as you." He emphasized the classified in a voice becoming clearly antagonistic.
What the hell, Winston told himself. The guys thinks I'm trying to set up a competitive shop. He said, "Look, all I want to hear is that you're as upset over this thing as I am. Then I'll bow out. I stopped playing cop a long time ago. The only reason I came here was to—"
"Look, Mike, get the hell out, will you? I've got to clear up some stuff and blow this joint myself. Dinner date, big one. Get on the hell out of my hair, eh?"
"This is one hell of an urgent matter, Tom. Just tell me that you understand that."
He'd said the wrong thing and he know it immediately Fairchild's eyes blazed and he said, "I don't have to tell you a goddamned thing, Commissioner." He got to his feet, looked at the door, and told Winston goodbye.
"I'm not budging," Winston said adamantly. "This is a very serious matter, and—"
"So is mine, Commissioner. That dinner engagement is at the White House."
He said it rather proudly, Winston thought. Get off my back, nigger-tender, you're talking to a guy who dines with the President. Yeah, Winston thought, and I'm talking to a guy who undermined me out of that very spot.
Winston told him, "Great. Take me with you, and we'll discuss the matter with the man."
"I don't invite people to the White House. You're smart enough to know that, Winston."
Sure, but not smart enough to look out for a knife from a friend. "I'm smart enough," he said aloud, "to know that there are going to be twenty million howling niggers pouring out of those towns with blood in their eyes. A military coup is underfoot, I know it now and you should have a long time ago. Now you pick up that telephone and clear it with: the man, and then let's go to dinner."
Fairchild showed him a twisted grin and asked, "Are you feeling all right, Mr. Winston?"
"No, I'm feeling like hell. But I can stand it if you can. Pick up the phone, Tom."
The police chief sighed, dropped his eyes to the desk, then raised them slowly to the still figure in the visitor's chair. "I guess I'd better detain you, Commissioner Winston," he said thoughtfully.
"In a pig's ass," Winston replied calmly.
Fairchild smiled. "You understand. A security hold, just until we've had time to check out this, uh, threat. You shouldn't be running around making threats like that, Commissioner. It's against the law."
"Knock it off, Tom. You know exactly why I am here, and that I am not dashing about alarming the populace." Winston stood up. "Now let's end the game. Make the call or I will."
"In all seriousness," Fairchild said smoothly, "I am placing you in security hold. You're trying to mix yourself into something that is way beyond you, and that's all I'm going to say about it. You'll just have to understand."
Winston simply could not understand. He let go from the hip, falling over across the desk-top with an arcing hook that removed the set smile from the cop's face. Fairchild toppled over behind the desk, spinning to hands and knees, and Winston was over the desk with both feet before the cop had completely touched down.
A small nickle-plated revolver clattered to the floor. Winston scooped it up, leaned back against the edge of the desk, and said, "Okay, Tom, come up carefully."
"You're nuts ... totally insane!" the police chief panted.
"Not nuts enough to let you lock me up at a time like this. Now you get on that telephone. You set it up for us to talk to the old man. And you set it up clean. Or else I am going to set you down very dirty, and I have never been more serious in my life."
Fairchild obviously believed him. His eyes receded even farther into the skull and he grunted, "Don't be melodramatic, Mike. You don't think I'd turn a lunatic loose on the old man."
"And you know I'm no
"We'll investigate, of course."
"Routinely."
"Naturally. You know the channels. We, uh, have the same access to classified data banks as you." He emphasized the classified in a voice becoming clearly antagonistic.
What the hell, Winston told himself. The guys thinks I'm trying to set up a competitive shop. He said, "Look, all I want to hear is that you're as upset over this thing as I am. Then I'll bow out. I stopped playing cop a long time ago. The only reason I came here was to—"
"Look, Mike, get the hell out, will you? I've got to clear up some stuff and blow this joint myself. Dinner date, big one. Get on the hell out of my hair, eh?"
"This is one hell of an urgent matter, Tom. Just tell me that you understand that."
He'd said the wrong thing and he know it immediately Fairchild's eyes blazed and he said, "I don't have to tell you a goddamned thing, Commissioner." He got to his feet, looked at the door, and told Winston goodbye.
"I'm not budging," Winston said adamantly. "This is a very serious matter, and—"
"So is mine, Commissioner. That dinner engagement is at the White House."
He said it rather proudly, Winston thought. Get off my back, nigger-tender, you're talking to a guy who dines with the President. Yeah, Winston thought, and I'm talking to a guy who undermined me out of that very spot.
Winston told him, "Great. Take me with you, and we'll discuss the matter with the man."
"I don't invite people to the White House. You're smart enough to know that, Winston."
Sure, but not smart enough to look out for a knife from a friend. "I'm smart enough," he said aloud, "to know that there are going to be twenty million howling niggers pouring out of those towns with blood in their eyes. A military coup is underfoot, I know it now and you should have a long time ago. Now you pick up that telephone and clear it with: the man, and then let's go to dinner."
Fairchild showed him a twisted grin and asked, "Are you feeling all right, Mr. Winston?"
"No, I'm feeling like hell. But I can stand it if you can. Pick up the phone, Tom."
The police chief sighed, dropped his eyes to the desk, then raised them slowly to the still figure in the visitor's chair. "I guess I'd better detain you, Commissioner Winston," he said thoughtfully.
"In a pig's ass," Winston replied calmly.
Fairchild smiled. "You understand. A security hold, just until we've had time to check out this, uh, threat. You shouldn't be running around making threats like that, Commissioner. It's against the law."
"Knock it off, Tom. You know exactly why I am here, and that I am not dashing about alarming the populace." Winston stood up. "Now let's end the game. Make the call or I will."
"In all seriousness," Fairchild said smoothly, "I am placing you in security hold. You're trying to mix yourself into something that is way beyond you, and that's all I'm going to say about it. You'll just have to understand."
Winston simply could not understand. He let go from the hip, falling over across the desk-top with an arcing hook that removed the set smile from the cop's face. Fairchild toppled over behind the desk, spinning to hands and knees, and Winston was over the desk with both feet before the cop had completely touched down.
A small nickle-plated revolver clattered to the floor. Winston scooped it up, leaned back against the edge of the desk, and said, "Okay, Tom, come up carefully."
"You're nuts ... totally insane!" the police chief panted.
"Not nuts enough to let you lock me up at a time like this. Now you get on that telephone. You set it up for us to talk to the old man. And you set it up clean. Or else I am going to set you down very dirty, and I have never been more serious in my life."
Fairchild obviously believed him. His eyes receded even farther into the skull and he grunted, "Don't be melodramatic, Mike. You don't think I'd turn a lunatic loose on the old man."
"And you know I'm no
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