"Just my life flashing before my eyes," Bobby muttered into the box, stretching out his legs and resting the warm thermos between them. "It's early still. These guys never come out till the soap operas are done."

"Caddy still parked down front?" Clifton asked.

"Empty and with the windows down." Bobby stared across the deserted street at the late-model pea-green Cadillac with the Florida plates. "Been there all day."

"That car sticks out like a set of t.i.ts," Clifton said. "You'd think these guys would show some sense."

"It ain't a Mensa reunion, Tony," Bobby said into the radio. "It's a drug deal. Unless your stool gave us the wrong feed time."

"My guy's never been wrong," Clifton said. "Just sit tight, Rev., and let the deal go down."

"Must be warm where you are," Bobby said, rubbing his hands across the tops of his legs.

"Like Miami in July," Clifton said.

"Can't wait till I'm old and slow like you, Tony. Then I can sit in a ratty car, breathing in hot, s.h.i.tty air, while a real cop does all the work."

"Tell you what, Rev. Jim," Clifton said. "If it gets any colder, I'll stop over at the liquor store and pick up some more boxes. Come around and toss 'em on your pile."

"I got only two words for you, Tony," Bobby said, his lower lip shaking. "Carbon monoxide." Then his eyes shifted across the street. "We got movement," he said into the radio.

Three men stood in a narrow doorway, hands inside their coat pockets, eyes scanning the silent street. The pea-green Cadillac was parked directly in front of them. The man in the middle, short and bald with a thick black mustache, stepped out of the shadows, moved to the car, opened the pa.s.senger door, and got in. He put a cigar with a plastic tip in his mouth and lit it.

Bobby kneeled down on a box, watching.

"Any civilians out with them?" Clifton asked.

"I wouldn't worry too much," Bobby said. "Everybody in this neighborhood's a phone call away from an indictment."

"Let's keep it clear," Clifton said. "Just in case."

"Money man's already in the car," Bobby reported.

"His connect can't be too far away," Clifton said. "Dealers hate being out in the cold."

"Tell me something I don't know," Bobby whispered to himself, resting the radio by his leg.

A tan Buick ragtop, lightning bolts painted on its doors, pulled up behind the Cadillac and cut its engine. Five men sat squeezed inside, windows rolled up, breath and smoke clouding the interior.

"Elvis is in the building," Bobby said into the radio, moving his .38 Special out of its holster and into his right hand.

"Sit tight, Rev.," Clifton said. "And let it happen. Won't be long."

The two men in coats stepped out from the litter of the doorway and walked toward the parked cars. The one on the left, head down against the cold, dug a key from his pocket and opened the trunk of the Cadillac. The one on the right, unb.u.t.toned coat flapping in the wind, stood next to the trunk of the Buick, his hand reaching out to lift it up when the driver popped it from the inside.

Bobby pushed aside one of the box lids, watching as the two men each pulled out identical leather briefcases, walked toward one another, and made the transfer.

"Houston, we have liftoff," Bobby said into the radio. "Come and get 'em."

"Hold on to your boxes, Rev.," Clifton said, slamming a red cherry light on top of his unmarked sedan and jamming the car into gear. "We're just a phone call away."

"Try not to hit any innocent bystanders before you get here," Bobby said, turning the baseball cap brim forward.

"Too late," Clifton said with a laugh, tossing the radio onto the dashboard.

Bobby Scarponi didn't see the two teenagers.

Blanketed in the seclusion of his cardboard complex, his only focus was on the two cars, the drug deal, and the bust about to happen. He didn't see the boys carry the red canisters of gasoline down from the corner Mobil station, lids off, their brains pan-fried with an angel dust and glue omelette, looking to torch the cardboard shanty and the b.u.m who lived inside. They moved quiet as cats, first dousing the edges and then the sides of the tenement wall.

One lit a match and the other leaned over the side of the shaky banister and poured gasoline into the small opening Rev. Jim had cleared for a view.

Then they both laughed.

Bobby knew it the second he tasted the gas and smelled the fumes, his body locked in place, a steady calm engulfing him. He watched the match float down past his shoulder and then felt the sudden rush of heat and saw the blue and yellow of the flames.

He jumped out of his inferno, clothes burning, body torched. He was all smoke and light as he rolled onto the sidewalk, leaving shreds of melted skin and burning fabric in his wake.

He heard the sound of sirens, a steady round of gunshots and shouts coming at him from all directions. He caught a glimpse of Tony Clifton running toward him, gun drawn, his mouth forming words, his weary face burdened with fear.

Then Bobby Scarponi stopped his roll and lay still on the streets of a Brooklyn ghetto, less than a hundred feet from a leather bag filled with a drug he once would have killed someone to snort.

The ex-junkie-turned-cop was sprawled on a sidewalk, charred head hanging over a cracked curb, his partner kneeling beside him, holding a gun on his lap and crying in anger to the heavens.

Rev. Jim heard and saw none of it.

He was once again living inside a dark world.

BOOK TWO.

I love war and responsibility and excitement. Peace is going to be h.e.l.l on me.-General George S. Patton

7.

February 21, 1982.

HOLDING A FELT hat with both hands, the man walked through the double wood front doors of Nunzio's. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the candlelit room. He stood next to the bar, scanned the empty stools, and turned to the ten small tables lined in rows of five to his left. He looked past the young couple sharing a cold antipasto platter and the three middle-aged women shoulder-hunched over large gla.s.ses of red wine. hat with both hands, the man walked through the double wood front doors of Nunzio's. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the candlelit room. He stood next to the bar, scanned the empty stools, and turned to the ten small tables lined in rows of five to his left. He looked past the young couple sharing a cold antipasto platter and the three middle-aged women shoulder-hunched over large gla.s.ses of red wine.

The face he was looking for belonged to the man at the last table, whose back was to the wall. Framed pictures of Rocky Marciano, Jersey Joe Walcott, and Carmen Basilio hung just above his head. Steam from a large bowl of lentils and sausage filtered past a set of intense eyes, right hand holding a gla.s.s half-filled with San Pellegrino.

The man at the table lifted his left hand to wave him over.

"You look like you could use something to drink, Carlo," Boomer Frontieri said.

Carlo Santori rested his hat on the counter separating table from window, took off his overcoat, and folded it over the back of a wooden chair. Boomer signaled a waiter with two fingers and a pouring gesture, and the waiter appeared immediately with a bottle of Chianti.

Boomer was happy to see his old friend and was about to make a joke, but the expression on Carlo's face stopped him. The man had come a long way from Jersey to see him, so all Boomer said, very quietly, was "What's the favor?"

"Jenny's gone," Carlo said, his voice cracking, words bursting out, hands gripping the table edge for support.

Boomer put his soup spoon down and took a deep breath, feeling the tinge of pain from the piece of metal still embedded inside a partial lung. Then he stretched out and rubbed the side of his right leg, the one with the scars from three surgeries.

"Tell me what 'gone' means," he said.

"We went away, me and Annie, for the weekend," Carlo told him, eyes welling up. "Down the sh.o.r.e. We left Jenny and Tony alone at the house. I didn't think about anything going wrong. I mean, Jesus, we were only a phone call away. One call, Boomer, that's all."

"What did did go wrong?" Boomer asked. A cop's edge still colored the question and his eyes never left his friend's face. go wrong?" Boomer asked. A cop's edge still colored the question and his eyes never left his friend's face.

"They took a bus into the city," Carlo said, forcing the words out. He struggled now to lift a gla.s.s of wine to his lips. "Tony's idea. You know the routine. Check out the city, have a little fun. Not have parents on your back all the time."

"How far'd they get?" Boomer sipped the Pellegrino, ignoring the wine.

"Port Authority," Carlo said. "Tony went in to use a bathroom. Told Jenny not to move from her spot. When he got out, she was gone."

"How long ago?"

"Three days," Carlo said, biting his lower lip. "Tony raced all over the terminal lookin' for her. When he gave up, he called me. I could barely make him out. Kept screamin' into the phone, 'Daddy, I lost her. I lost her.'"

"Who called the cops?" Boomer asked, finishing off the water. "You or Tony?"

"He did," Carlo said. "By the time we got back, Tony was already over at the midtown precinct. We took him home, sat by the phone, and waited. We were still waiting when Annie told me to call you."

"Who's on it?"

"Maloney's the lead guy," Carlo said. "Somebody you know?"

Boomer shook his head. "But I've been away awhile."

Carlo drained his gla.s.s of wine and sat in silence, his eyes lost in the distance. He looked over at Boomer, his face flushed. "Tell me she's not dead, Boomer," he managed to say. "Please, I beg you. Tell me my baby's not dead."

"I can't tell you what I don't know," Boomer said, reaching a hand across the table and gripping Carlo's forearm. "I'd only be guessing."

"Take the guess," Carlo said, tears sliding down his face.

"You don't have the kind of money that screams ransom." Boomer tightened his grip around Carlo. "And Jenny's not the runaway type. Not from what I remember."

"Which leaves us what?" Carlo wiped his eyes with the back of a sweater sleeve. "The truth, Boomer. I want bulls.h.i.t, I can get it from any other cop."

"Raped and left for dead." Boomer's eyes were like hot magnets burning through Carlo's skin. "Or waiting to be sold to a flesh buyer."

Carlo didn't flinch. He almost looked thankful. "I want you to find out which it is," he said quietly. "I don't want to find out from some f.u.c.kin' stranger."

"I'm a retired cop with half a lung and a limp," Boomer said, releasing his grip. "And I've been off the job closing in on two years. There's not much I can do except put out a few calls, make sure there's the right kind of follow-up."

"She's just another name to them," Carlo said, his sadness bolstered by defiance. "But she's a face to you. I've known you all my life, Boomer. I don't think you'll be happy just making a few phone calls."

Carlo stood, reached for his hat and coat, and looked down at Boomer. "I'll be home with Annie," he said. "She's counting on you too."

"You're betting on an old horse, Carlo." Boomer sighed. "That's not a smart thing to do."

"I'm betting on a friend," Carlo said. Then he turned and left Nunzio's, tables now filled with cold and hungry customers.

Boomer looked away, staring out at the windy streets of a frigid winter night. He rubbed at his leg again, the pain always sharper when the temperature dipped below thirty. He thought back to that day in the hospital bed, his small room at Metropolitan shrouded in darkness. The chief of detectives standing above him, smile on his face, a gold shield and a small medal clutched in his hands. "It's over, Boomer," the chief whispered. "You can rest now."

Resting was all he'd been doing these last two years. There were no more doors for him to kick in, no more junkies to roust, no more dealers to take down. And he missed all of it. The stakeouts, the dives into dark rooms, the split-second walk between life and death. They were now only memories.

Boomer was forty but had enough scars and twisted bones to add another ten years to his body. Carlo had walked in and asked him to go back into a game he might not be able to play anymore. A game he shouldn't be playing. The smart move would be to call his friend and tell him the truth, admit that he was too beat up, in too much pain to do the job he needed done. That he was now a runner who could barely walk.

Admit to his friend, and to himself, that he just wasn't a cop anymore.

Boomer wasn't afraid to die. But he was afraid to fail. He had come to terms with being crippled and tossed from a job he loved. He could never come to terms with being a failure.

He looked up at a night sky filled with rumbling gray clouds and watched the snowflakes start to fall.

DAVIS "D "DEAD-EYE" WINTHROP stood behind the gla.s.s doors and watched the man from apartment 17B double-park a pea-green Jeep in front of the building. He saw him run from the driver's side, slip and dodge his way through slush and ice, then wait as Dead-Eye held the door open. The man was in his early twenties, dressed more for a safari hunt than life on the Upper East Side. He handed Dead-Eye the keys to the Jeep. stood behind the gla.s.s doors and watched the man from apartment 17B double-park a pea-green Jeep in front of the building. He saw him run from the driver's side, slip and dodge his way through slush and ice, then wait as Dead-Eye held the door open. The man was in his early twenties, dressed more for a safari hunt than life on the Upper East Side. He handed Dead-Eye the keys to the Jeep.

"There are a few boxes in the back," he said in a voice that dripped with privilege. "Get them out for me, would you? I'll be waiting upstairs."

"I can't leave the door," Dead-Eye said, watching the man disappear around a wall and toward the elevators.

He lifted the collar of the brown doorman's coat, pushed down his hat, and pulled on a pair of brown gloves. Dead-Eye opened the door and stepped into the cold air. He stared inside the back of the Jeep, crammed with six heavily taped packing boxes. Car horns blared as he swung the trunk lid past his face and reached for the nearest box.

No one cared anymore about who he used to be; they knew him only for what he was. It had taken eight months for Dead-Eye's wounds to heal after the elevator shoot-out. Doctors were forced to remove half his stomach and a kidney. There would always be a numbness in his throat, from a bullet fragment that had shredded pieces of his vocal cords. He had caught two shots to his right hip, which made running painful and walking a ch.o.r.e. The muscles on his right arm would never be the same.

Dead-Eye was no longer a cop, the disability check sent to his home twice a month a constant reminder of that. His only action now was opening and closing doors and reminding old ladies to b.u.t.ton their coats against the winter weather. He never talked about being a doorman, not to anyone, he just did it. He handed out packages and dry-cleaning to smiling faces who didn't need to know his name, buzzed in delivery men dropping off take-out Chinese and pizza boxes and complained about the Knicks and Yankees to the UPS and FedEx drivers on his route. Then he went home to his family and tried to forget it all.

He managed to get the first box to the door, straining for breath, the muscles in his back tight against his coat. Dead-Eye went for physical therapy three times a week, fighting to keep his body in one piece. He still worked out, ignoring the pain it caused, and he ate what little he could hold in what was left of his stomach. He was a cripple, but a d.a.m.n stubborn one.

It took him a full hour to get the boxes up to the front door of 17B. He was sweating and his breath came out in a wheeze as he pressed the buzzer. The man opened the door holding a gla.s.s of white wine.

"I thought you forgot about me," he said. He pointed to the den. "Put them in there. Gently, please."

Dead-Eye did as he was told, refusing to let the man see his struggle, closing his eyes to the pain. He put the last box in the den and walked out the door, tipping the lip of his cap to the man.

"Wait," the man said.