The day Bobby Scarponi pinned on a policeman's badge, Ray Monte knew their moment was close enough to touch.

"You here to pick up the payoffs?" the chubby man to Ray's left asked, laughing through the question. "They always send the new guys for the pickups. Breaks them in good that way."

"You got it goin' pretty good, Ray," Bobby said. "I figure six blocks in the one-sixties, all kickin' in to you."

"I eat," Ray said, shrugging his shoulders, cigar smoke filtering up past the lid of his fedora.

"What happens if you go down?" Bobby asked. "Who moves in on your take?"

"That's somethin' I wouldn't know or care about. Seein' as I ain't goin' any f.u.c.kin' place."

"I figure Uncle Angie." Water dripped down from the peak of Bobby's policeman's hat. "He'll give your corners to one of the Jamaican gangs. Walk away from it with a bigger cut than he's getting from you."

"By the time that happens, I'll have enough money to buy Florida," Ray said, taking the cigar from his mouth and tossing it over his shoulder into a puddle. "And you'll still be walkin' in the rain, bustin' joint-rollers."

"You still carry that blade?" Bobby asked, moving in closer to Ray, watching the three men by his side stiffen.

"Always," Ray said. "You wanna see it?"

"I saw it once," Bobby said. "It's enough to hold me."

"When your mother died, she didn't make a sound," Ray said. "She just went. Think you'll go the same?"

"You did her alone," Bobby said. "Didn't need anybody else. Now you got three. Maybe all that money makes you scared."

Ray Monte smiled and looked over at his men. "Go dry off inside and get a drink," he told them. "Pour me one too. I won't be long."

Bobby and Ray stared at one another, waiting as the three men brushed past, heading for the dark warmth of an old bar.

"You gonna draw down on me, Officer Bob?" Ray asked. "I don't have a gun."

"She wasn't carrying anything," Bobby said, the rain coming down in heavier doses.

"She had her son to protect her." Ray's voice was cold, heavy with hate. "Except he didn't do nothin' but watch her bleed."

"I've watched her die every day since then," Bobby said, the blade of a knife slipping down the side of his police jacket. "And every night."

Ray Monte pulled the switchblade from his pants pocket and snapped it open, its familiar sound echoing like a drum, as it had so often down through the years. All Bobby heard was his laugh.

The knife went in chest deep, past muscle and bone, through vein and artery. Two hands reached for it, holding it tight, burying it deeper into flesh. The two men stared at each other, the rain around them mixing with the thick flow of blood, one set of eyes welled with sadness and tears, the other losing their grasp on life. The two leaned against the rear door of the Mercedes, wet bodies clinging together, low gurgles coming from the throat of the dying man.

"You didn't make any noise either," Bobby Scarponi said to Ray Monte, letting his body go, watching it slide down the side of the Mercedes and crumple to the curb, head against a Firestone all-weather tire.

Bobby walked to his squad car, got in, put it in gear, and drove off, heading back to the station house.

His tour of duty done.

THREE MONTHS AFTER Ray Monte's death, Bobby Scarponi was transferred out of uniform and a.s.signed to the Brooklyn Decoy Unit. At twenty-five, he was the youngest member of a team that roamed the borough posing as potential criminal targets. They were a traveling troupe of actors whose successful performance ended with an attempted mugging and an arrest. Bobby, who loved acting, took to the detail as easily as he once took to drugs. More important, he cherished the risk involved, the chance of exposure, of being taken down by desperate hands. Ray Monte's death, Bobby Scarponi was transferred out of uniform and a.s.signed to the Brooklyn Decoy Unit. At twenty-five, he was the youngest member of a team that roamed the borough posing as potential criminal targets. They were a traveling troupe of actors whose successful performance ended with an attempted mugging and an arrest. Bobby, who loved acting, took to the detail as easily as he once took to drugs. More important, he cherished the risk involved, the chance of exposure, of being taken down by desperate hands.

For the cop they called Rev. Jim, it was just another way to get high.

In no time, he mastered the disguises of the job-from the drunken Wall Street executive asleep at a subway stop to the tattered rummy sleeping one off on a heat grate to the unruly drug addict hustling street corners for throwaway change. He was the best performer on the street, pushing his talents to dangerous limits as he lulled his suspects into action.

It was as a member of the Decoy Unit that Bobby Scarponi found himself leaning against a railing in Brooklyn Heights, looking out across the still river at the diamond glimmer of the Manhattan night. His hair was caked, clothes torn and soiled, black plastic garbage bags wrapped around his feet. He took a fast swig from an iced-tea-filled pint of Four Roses and turned to look at the two young girls on the park bench behind him, both drinking from cups of hot chocolate. The elder of the two, running about sixteen, held a cigarette between the fingers of a gloved hand. They giggled as they talked.

He moved a few steps down, dragging his feet, one hand on the rail, eyes catching a glimpse of his target, hidden behind a tree, a quick jump from the girls on the bench.

"We got company," Bobby Scarponi said into the top b.u.t.ton of his torn coat. A wire transmitter was attached to a band clipped to his waist. "About five feet from the marks."

The two backups were in a black Plymouth hidden behind a Parks Department shack a quarter of a mile away, guns on their laps, empty coffee containers strewn about their feet.

"You sure it's him?" the one behind the wheel, T. J. Turner, asked. "Might just be a b.u.m takin' a p.i.s.s."

"b.u.ms p.i.s.s in in their pants," Bobby whispered into his coat. "It's part of what makes them b.u.ms." their pants," Bobby whispered into his coat. "It's part of what makes them b.u.ms."

"You would know, Rev. Jim," Tommy Mackens said from the pa.s.senger seat. "Never met a decoy liked to wear p.i.s.sed-in clothes as much as you."

"It's not what you wear," Rev. Jim said, "but how you wear it."

"Be careful with this guy," T.J. told him. "He's into the pain more than the takeoff."

"He found two soft ones tonight," Rev. Jim said. "Not gonna get much of a fight out of these kids."

"Hates b.u.ms too," Tommy said, laughing. "Might come beat the s.h.i.t out of you."

"I'll be ready," Bobby Scarponi said.

He moved away from the railing, staggering his walk, singing "Bye Bye Blackbird" in a soft voice marked by a drunken lilt. He kept his eyes away from the girls, ignoring their chatter, his ears tuned only to the rustle of leaves and the rush of feet.

He was twenty yards from the two girls when the man behind the tree made his move, rushing out to stand in front of the girls, their voices silenced by the sight of a gun. He was tall and solid, a wall of muscle packed under a black set of sweats. He had a ski mask over his face and gloves to hide his fingerprints.

"Don't hurt us," one of the girls begged. Her thin face was hidden by thick curls of brown hair.

"Kind of hurt I got, you might like," the man answered, his voice hard and low. "You both stand up slow and get behind that tree."

The girls were shaking too hard to move, tears running down their faces, gloved hands gripping the sides of the bench. The man stepped closer and stroked the barrel of the gun against the side of one girl's temple, nudging the blond hair tucked beneath the flap of her pink wool hat. She didn't turn her face.

"I can put it inside any kind of trim," the man said with a small boy's giggle. "Dead or alive, don't mean s.h.i.t. Now, you two gonna walk or be dragged?"

"'Here I go singing low, Bye bye blackbird.' Everybody!" Bobby was up behind them now, his voice loud, the pint of Four Roses held high, a big smile on his face. "C'mon, girls, let's hear it. You, with the mask, I know know you can do it." you can do it."

The man turned to Bobby, gun in hand, eyes lit with anger.

"Take your s.h.i.t down the road, b.u.m," he said. "Before I put you to sleep for good."

"I look like a b.u.m to you?" Bobby said, dragging his garbage bag-covered feet closer. "You blind? I'm a singer singer, man. And you're steppin' on my stage."

The man raised the .38 Special, placing it inches from Bobby's chest, and tightened his grip around the trigger.

"Hear me out, singer singer," the man said. "I kill you and there ain't n.o.body out there gonna give a f.u.c.k."

"I tell jokes too." Bobby planted his feet, his right hand clutching the Four Roses pint. "Make the girls smile nice and pretty."

"Last chance," the man said, pressing the gun against Bobby's cheek.

"I'll take it," Bobby said.

He slapped the gun away with his left hand and smashed the pint of Four Roses on the side of the man's head. As the gla.s.s broke against bone, the ski mask was drenched in iced tea.

But the blow only dazed the larger man.

As he hurled his body on top of Bobby, both falling to the ground, he landed two solid punches to Bobby's temple and one to his lip.

"Gonna kill you, b.u.m," the man said, wrapping a large gloved hand around Bobby's throat and pressing down hard. "Gonna f.u.c.kin' kill you."

"I keep tellin' you," Bobby managed to say, his words garbled. "I ain't no b.u.m."

The two girls sat frozen in place, staring at the struggle in front of them. T.J. and Tommy started the Plymouth and roared out from behind the park station, rear tires kicking up dust and leaves, the red cherry on top of the unmarked car twirling.

Bobby turned his head slightly to the right and spotted the .38 Special on the ground, inches from his hand. His legs were wrapped tight around the man's waist. Bobby landed two quick punches to the man's face, both with little effect. He was having trouble breathing, lungs searing with pain, his throat clutching. The glare of T.J.'s headlights illuminated the man's large frame. His weight sat like a boulder on Bobby's chest.

Bobby closed his eyes, took a short breath through his nose, and stretched the fingers of his right hand, tearing the back of his coat as it sc.r.a.ped across the black concrete. But he reached the .38.

T.J. and Tommy were out of the Plymouth, their guns drawn.

"Let him go," T.J. said in a relaxed voice. "Don't even think."

"You can't stop me," the man said, eyes glowing as he pressed down tighter on Bobby's throat.

"I can," Bobby said in a raspy whisper.

He had the gun barrel inside the man's mouth.

The man looked at Bobby, whose gaze was focused and determined.

It was the look Ray Monte had seen before he died.

It was the look of a man ready to kill.

The man slowly released his grip on Bobby's throat, holding his hands out to his sides. T.J. and Tommy came up next to him, c.o.c.ked guns aimed at his head. Tommy snapped a cuff around one of the man's thick wrists and clamped it shut. He swung the arm down to the man's back, took the other hand, and locked it in cuffs.

"Okay, Rev.," T.J. said, still holding the gun on the man. "Take the jammer outta his mouth."

"This piece of s.h.i.t," Bobby said between coughs, gun rocking in and out against the man's teeth. "You see what he did to me?"

"He almost killed you," Tommy said in a soothing tone. "But he didn't. Now let him go so we can drop him off at the station, take the girls' statements, and then go grab us a bite."

"And if there's time," T.J. said, a firm grip on the back of the cuffed man's jacket, "we'll come back here and see if we can find somebody else who might wanna kill you."

"Forget killing me," Bobby said, his voice cracking with anger. "The f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d p.i.s.sed all over me!"

BOBBY SAT ON the living room couch, nursing a Dr Pepper, TV tuned to a late fall Giants-Eagles football game, the sound muted. Ronnie Earl and the Broadcasters were playing on the corner stereo, halfway through a rendition of "Drown in My Own Tears." Outside, heavy snow blanketed the streets. the living room couch, nursing a Dr Pepper, TV tuned to a late fall Giants-Eagles football game, the sound muted. Ronnie Earl and the Broadcasters were playing on the corner stereo, halfway through a rendition of "Drown in My Own Tears." Outside, heavy snow blanketed the streets.

Albeit Scarponi walked into the room and sat on the far end of the couch, a large tumbler of red wine mixed with water and ice in his right hand. He was wearing a white sweatshirt and black jeans, his feet covered by fur-lined moccasins. He had a three-day gray stubble across his face, and his left hand was slightly swollen, a winter bout with rheumatism starting early.

They sat, as they usually did, in silence, absorbed by the game and the music.

Albert looked away from the screen and stared at his son, as if noticing him for the first time.

"Tomorrow's the memorial," Albert said, watching Harry Carson wrap an arm around the Eagles quarterback. "If you want, we can go together. No sense us taking two cars. Not in this weather."

The sound of his father's voice startled Bobby. He had grown comfortable with the wall of silence that surrounded them, not quite sure how to react to the sudden cracks conversation brought.

"You sure?" Bobby asked, lifting his legs from the coffee table, eyes on his father.

His father turned his head from the television, strong hands stretched across the tops of his legs. "I think it's time for us to go together."

"I usually stop off and pick up some flowers first," Bobby said.

"Pink roses," Albert said, nodding.

"I'm sorry, Pop," Bobby said. "I'm sorry I took her away from you."

Albert stared at his son, tears flowing from the corners of his eyes. "All these years I blamed you for what happened," he said. "Now I think, maybe it needed to happen for things to right themselves. Maybe she put herself there thinkin' it was the only way to get her son back."

"The man that killed Mama," Bobby said. "He's dead."

"I know," Albert said.

"I killed him," Bobby said.

"I know that too," Albert said. "I don't know how your mother would have felt about you doing somethin' like that."

"How do you feel about it?"

"I'm proud of you, Bobby," Albert said, speaking his son's name for the first time since his wife's death.

THE CARDBOARD BOXES were torn and piled high in a corner, up against the steep wall of the tenement, mounds of dirty snow and torn plastic garbage bags lodged near their edges. A cold wind, whipping off corners and side streets, blew across their flaps. were torn and piled high in a corner, up against the steep wall of the tenement, mounds of dirty snow and torn plastic garbage bags lodged near their edges. A cold wind, whipping off corners and side streets, blew across their flaps.

Bobby Scarponi sat shivering under the mound of boxes, his back crunched against cold bricks. He had his hands wrapped around a coffee thermos and his legs were folded to his chest. He was wearing black jeans, two pullovers, and a thick blue windbreaker. A Red Sox baseball cap rested backward on his head. A hand radio sat by his side.

"You see anything yet?" From the warmth of a parked car around the corner, Detective Tony Clifton's voice came crackling over the radio.