Special Operations by W. E. B. Griffin

Author:W. E. B. Griffin [Griffin, W. E. B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: War & Military, General, Fiction, Detective, Police Procedural, Police, Mystery & Detective, Philadelphia (Pa.), Fiction - Mystery, Mystery fiction, Mystery & Detective - Series, Mystery & Detective - Police Procedural, War fiction, Payne; Matt (Fictitious character), Detective and mystery stories; American, Congo (Democratic Republic)
ISBN: 9780515101485
Publisher: Jove Books
Published: 1991-07-15T07:00:00+00:00

TWO

Mickey O'Hara drove the battered Chevrolet around City Hall, then down South Broad Street, past the dignified Union League Club. When he came to the equally dignified Bellevue-Stratford Hotel, Mickey pulled to the curb at the corner, directly beside a sign reading NO PARKING AT ANY TIME TOW AWAY ZONE.

He slid across the seat and got out the passenger side door. Then he walked the fifty feet or so to the revolving door of the Bellevue-Stratford and went inside.

He walked across the lobby to the marble reception desk. There was a line, two very well dressed middle-aged men Mickey pegged to be salesmen, and a middle-aged, white-haired couple Mickey decided were a wife and a husband who, if he had had a choice, would have left her home.

All the salesmen did was ask the clerk for their messages. The wife had apparently badgered her husband into complaining about their room, which didn't offer what she considered a satisfactory view, and then when he started complaining, took over from him. She obviously, and correctly, considered herself to be a first-class bitcher.

The desk clerk apparently had the patience of a saint, Mickey thought; and then—by now having gotten a good look at her—he decided she looked like one, too. An angel, if not a saint. Tall, nicely constructed, with rich brown hair, a healthy complexion, and very nice eyes. And she was wearing, Mickey noticed, no rings, either engagement or wedding, on the third finger on her left hand.

She gave the big-league bitcher and her consort another room, apologizing for any inconvenience the original room assignment might have caused. Mickey thought the big-league bitcher was a little disappointed, like a bantamweight who sent his opponent to the canvas for the count with a lucky punch in the first round. All keyed up, and nobody around to fight with.

“Good evening, sir,” the desk clerk said. “How may I help you?”

Her voice was low and soft, her smile dazzling; and her hazel eyes were fascinating.

“What room is Bull Bolinski in?” Mickey asked.

“Mr. Bolinski isn't here, sir,” she replied immediately.

“He isn't?”

“Are you Mr. O'Hara, sir? Mr. Michael J. O'Hara?”

“Guilty.”

She smiled. Warmly, Mickey thought. Genuinely amused.

“I thought I recognized you from your pictures,” she said. “I'm one of your ... what ... avid readers ... Mr. O'Hara.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She nodded confirmation. “Mr. Bolinski called, Mr. O'Hara,” she said. “Just a few moments ago. He's been delayed.”

“Oh?”

“He said you would be here, and he asked me to tell you that he will be getting into Philadelphia very late, and that he hopes you'll be free to have breakfast with him, somewhere around ten o'clock.”

“Oh.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. O'Hara?”

“No. No, thanks.”

She smiled at him again, with her mouth and her eyes.

By the time he got to the revolving door, Mickey realized that opportunity had knocked, and he had as usual, blown it again.

Well, what the hell was 1 supposed to say, “Hey, honey, what time do you get off? Let's you and me go

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