"Nope," Boomer said. "But I know one of you does. The question is, which one."

"That's a good question," Padrone said. "You gonna give us three guesses?"

"I thought you might just want to tell me."

"Think again, badge," Padrone said. "Even if we had the s.h.i.t, which we ain't, we gotta be dumber than sand to tell you."

"Then I've got no choice," Boomer said, lifting the old New York Telephone meter. "Gotta use the machine on you."

All eyes shifted down to the box in Boomer's hand.

"f.u.c.k is that thing?" one of the men asked.

"It's a drug detector," Boomer said. "New. FBI brought it out. There's a sensor in it picks up a drug scent. When that happens, the needle here starts to move. Tell you the truth, I'm not all that sure myself how it works. All I know is that it does does work." work."

"That's bulls.h.i.t," Padrone said, one hand in his pants pocket, nervously jiggling coins.

"You got nothin' to worry about either way," Boomer said, staring directly at Padrone. "You're clean."

Boomer turned to face the man closest to him and pointed the box directly at his torso. Staring intently, he kept his finger away from the white b.u.t.ton.

"Back off," Boomer finally said. "You're just a dope without dope."

Boomer moved through the next two in the circle in the same manner.

Then he came up to Padrone.

"Mr. Clean," Boomer said, smiling. "Time to read your fortune."

Boomer held the box to Padrone's face, slowly moved his finger to the white b.u.t.ton, then pressed down. The needle jumped from green to red. Padrone, sweat already pouring down the sides of his face, swallowed hard, coins in his pocket jiggling at a trotter's pace.

Boomer's smile widened.

"Bingo," Boomer said.

"It's the change," Padrone said, looking around to his men, desperation filling his eyes. "Like at the airport. They make noise, that's all. Empty your pockets and they stop."

"I'll bite," Boomer said. "Empty your pockets."

Padrone hesitated, running a beefy hand across the stubble.

"Like you ain't got all the f.u.c.kin' cards in your hands already," Padrone finally said, lifting the back of his flowered shirt and handing two five-pound heroin bags over to Boomer. "Now you got yourself a f.u.c.kin' machine too. What am I gonna do?"

"Three-to-five," Boomer said, taking the drugs in one hand and pulling Padrone away from his cronies.

BOOMER LIVED IN a well-kept two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a four-story brownstone on West Eighty-fourth Street, between Columbus and Amsterdam. The living room furnishings were simple, boiled down to one frayed blue couch, two dusty-gold wing chairs, and a marble coffee table. He kept his twenty-one-inch Zenith in the bedroom and had small stereo speakers in every room. His extensive record collection, jazz, blues, and Sam Cooke mostly, filled the left side of the living room. A framed photo of Rocky Marciano landing the knock-out blow to Jersey Joe Walcott's chin in their 1952 heavyweight t.i.tle bout hung over the mantel of the shuttered fireplace. A small statue of the Blessed Mother rested on a bureau in the hall, left to him by his mother. a well-kept two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a four-story brownstone on West Eighty-fourth Street, between Columbus and Amsterdam. The living room furnishings were simple, boiled down to one frayed blue couch, two dusty-gold wing chairs, and a marble coffee table. He kept his twenty-one-inch Zenith in the bedroom and had small stereo speakers in every room. His extensive record collection, jazz, blues, and Sam Cooke mostly, filled the left side of the living room. A framed photo of Rocky Marciano landing the knock-out blow to Jersey Joe Walcott's chin in their 1952 heavyweight t.i.tle bout hung over the mantel of the shuttered fireplace. A small statue of the Blessed Mother rested on a bureau in the hall, left to him by his mother.

The kitchen was well stocked, although Boomer was hardly ever home long enough to make himself a meal. He picked up fresh fruits and vegetables from the nearby Fairway market. But for fish he traveled all the way down to the Fulton market and for meat to Murray's on Fourteenth Street. There, old man Hirsch himself would cut up the rib steaks and chops, wrapping them tight in butcher paper. Murray Hirsch had been his father's employer and closest friend. Two immigrants from two different cultures, trying to make a go of it in a new country. Whenever Boomer saw Murray, he always came away with the feeling that Hirsch missed his father as much as he did.

Boomer dated an a.s.sortment of women, staying with them long enough for companionship but never long enough to fall in love. Some were cops, a couple worked in bars he scouted, one was an ex-hooker now earning a living as a meter maid. There was even a college professor he helped clear on a marijuana bust. Of them all, the only woman Boomer Frontieri ever gave any thought to marrying was Theresa.

They met at a cookout at his sister's home in Queens. She was tall and thin, had red hair flowing long down her back, and hazel eyes that twinkled mischievously from an unlined face. She worked in the check reconcilement department of a Wall Street branch of the Chase Manhattan Bank while taking night courses at St. John's, crawling her way toward a business degree. They both spoke Italian, drank coffee with their pizza, and loved music but hated to dance.

She never asked about his work, or complained when he disappeared for days or canceled long-standing dates with last-minute calls. From the go, she understood the nature of his job. Boomer could relax around Theresa, put down his guard as easily as he would slide his gun inside a desk drawer. He felt safe, instinctively knowing she would never betray him and would always be honest with him, tell him what was in her heart whether he wanted to hear it or not. He knew life for a cop's wife was, at best, difficult and lonely. But he trusted Theresa could handle that part. It was the other end of the table that troubled him, the steady gaze of death that hovered above him, the chill of a late night ringing phone or doorbell. It was there that his doubts rested.

"IT LOOKS BAD," Theresa said to him, sitting on a plastic chair across from his hospital bed. Boomer looked back at her and smiled. His hands were bandaged, his chest wrapped tight, and his face marked with bruises, welts, and st.i.tches, the results of a drug raid gone sour.

"Feels worse," he said.

"Who'd you p.i.s.s off?"

"My aunt Grade," Boomer said, still smiling. "You ever meet her? She's got some kind of a temper."

"She's got a knife too," Theresa said, sadness touching her voice.

"It's nothing," Boomer rea.s.sured her. "Doctor says I can be out of here in two, maybe three days."

"They arrest the guy who did it?"

Boomer stared at her through blurry eyes.

"They didn't have to," he said.

She nodded and didn't talk about it anymore. But Boomer saw the look and knew that it was over. It lasted less than a second, and most men wouldn't have noticed, but Boomer stayed alive reading faces, and he knew what this one reflected.

Theresa could handle the parts of the job that most women couldn't, even his dying. But she could not get used to the fact that he would have to kill in order to stay alive. That would haunt her, keep her awake when he wasn't there, make her shudder in her sleep on empty nights.

"It's late," he said to her. "You should get home. One of us has to get up early in the morning, and I know it's not me."

"Will it hurt if I kiss you?" she asked, standing. The force of her beauty now struck him as she stared down at him, less than a foot away. He knew he would never be this close to love again.

"It'll hurt more if you don't," Boomer said.

She leaned down and they kissed for the last time.

IN 1978, 1978, A A small but effective group of radical black extremists bent on overthrowing the government declared war on the cops of New York City. In a span of four weeks, six officers were chosen at random, then shot and killed in cold blood. It was open season on anyone in a blue uniform. Boomer Frontieri, taken off narcotics and a.s.signed to a special unit of the NYPD set up to go after the radicals, quickly and quietly declared his own war. small but effective group of radical black extremists bent on overthrowing the government declared war on the cops of New York City. In a span of four weeks, six officers were chosen at random, then shot and killed in cold blood. It was open season on anyone in a blue uniform. Boomer Frontieri, taken off narcotics and a.s.signed to a special unit of the NYPD set up to go after the radicals, quickly and quietly declared his own war.

Boomer squeezed his street informants. He spread out photos of the suspects to all the hookers who trusted him, the ones he kept off the paddy wagon in return for a tip. He had coffee with organized crime members, mutual respect spread across the table, both sides calling a temporary halt to their separate struggles. He went to see the ministers of the black churches in the neighborhoods he worked, banking on their friendship for answers to a horror that plagued all.

He hit the streets and banged around dealers and pimps, roughed up the chicken hawks and seedy flesh peddlers, tossed Miranda out a nearby window, and let fists and fear take him to where he needed to go.

It was his search for the black extremists that, in 1980, led Boomer to a Brooklyn tenement, where his back was to the wall, gun drawn, flak vest under his black leather jacket. He had a .38 caliber c.o.c.ked in one hand and a .44 semiautomatic in the other. He tilted his head toward a red wooden door only inches away. Across from him was another detective, Davis "Dead-Eye" Winthrop. Boomer nodded at his partner and smiled. Winthrop smiled back. Boomer didn't know much about the man other than that Winthrop was twenty-seven, black, had lost a partner two years earlier in a botched buy-and-bust, had won the NYPD marksmanship award three years running, and was always eager to go through the door first. In Boomer's book, that gave Winthrop points for guts and incentive, but shooting at wooden targets on a gra.s.sy field wasn't the same as a shoot-out in a one-bedroom apartment, lights blown out, six gunmen with nothing to lose on the other side.

A normal cop would have been on the talkie asking for backup. Boomer hated backup. He felt it lessened the odds in his favor. Cops are usually the worst shooters around, most of them lucky enough to get off a couple of rounds in the general direction of the perp. More likely to kill those with badges than the guys without. If Winthrop was as good a shot as they said, he would be all that Boomer needed.

Behind the locked red door, Skeeter Jackson sat at a poker table filled with cash. The apartment was well furnished, with two of Skeeter's men sleeping on a soft leather couch, guns resting across their chests. Three others were in the kitchen off the main room, one smoking dope, two munching on cold heros and drinking from bottles of Bud. Guns were spread across the table next to the cold cuts.

Skeeter was a dope courier working for Jimmy Hash's gang in Bed-Stuy. His take alone was $15,000 a day. Seven days a week. Skeeter hadn't even hit his twenty-first birthday and was already looking at a million-dollar haul.

In his free time, Skeeter Jackson shot young cops in the back, charging $500 for each bullet that pierced flesh. Boomer had known his name and reputation for a long time. A hooker on Nostrand Avenue had given him what he didn't have-an address.

Boomer leaned across the door and crawled toward Dead-Eye.

"You want to put in a call for help, I understand," Boomer whispered.

"How many in there?"

"They tell me six, all heavy," Boomer said. "Probably got more bullets in their pockets than we've got in our guns."

"So, what's the problem?" Dead-Eye asked with a smile.

"Talk to you after the dance," Boomer said.

He crawled back to his position against the wall, checked his watch, and signaled over to Dead-Eye.

One minute till the Fourth of July.

They went in with their guns drawn. Boomer came in high, his shoulder against the door, running right toward Skeeter, who stared back at him, stunned. In his hand was a wad of cash. Dead-Eye came in low, took a short roll into the foyer, and popped up on both legs, guns aimed at the two men on the couch. The three in the kitchen came out running, bites of sandwiches still crammed in their mouths. Their semis were pointed straight at the two cops.

Everyone held his place for what seemed like hours but measured no more than ten seconds. Skeeter was the first to speak.

"Hope you got money on you," he said in a high-pitched voice that bordered on feminine. "'Cause I'm takin' it after you're dead. Pay for the f.u.c.kin' door you just busted up."

"Take my watch," Boomer said. "I'd want you to have it anyway."

"You here for the cash?" Skeeter pointed to the money spread across his table. "If you ain't, then you gonna be dead for the dumbest of f.u.c.kin' reasons."

"You really seem serious about us dyin'," Boomer said.

"All I gots to do is nod my head."

"Your head'll be off before you finish the shake," Boomer said. "Which makes it easy for me to die happy. And you see my partner behind me?"

"Spook with a badge." Skeeter's voice quivered with contempt. "What tree you shake him off of?"

"He takes two of yours before he buys the plot," Boomer said. "That means only three walk out. We can save ourselves all that s.h.i.t and make it easy for you and me."

"I got ears," Skeeter said.

"You let us lead you out of the building," Boomer said. "The manpower walks. It's only you we want."

"Don't think so, white," Skeeter said. "I was born in this f.u.c.kin' building. Just as soon die in it."

"Well, you can't shoot a guy for trying," Boomer said.

Boomer heard the click of the semi before he saw the flash. He jumped to his right, landed on one knee, and fired four quick rounds toward the men by the kitchen door. Behind him, Dead-Eye laid out the two on the couch, fast-pumped them from head to heart without so much as a twitch. It all happened so quickly, Skeeter had no choice but to remain frozen in place, still holding the handful of bills.

Dead-Eye flipped over a coffee table, landed on his feet, and fired three shots into one of the men near the kitchen. He aimed his other gun at a crouched man coming out of the bathroom, had him in his sights, when Skeeter threw the money in the air and came up shooting. His first shot split the wall. His second got Dead-Eye in the shoulder.

"I'm hit, Boom," he said, falling to the ground, shooting his gun at anyone without a badge that could still move.

"Stay down," Boomer shouted through the smoke, gunfire, and moans. "Reload and stay down."

Skeeter jumped over the table and made a run for the door, slipping over the thousands of dollars that were now raining on the faces of dead men.

Boomer followed him out.

"I'm on him," he shouted back to Dead-Eye. "There's two more in the kitchen."

"They're either gonna stay in there or die out here," Dead-Eye said. "Either way, they're mine."

BOOMER CAUGHT S SKEETER in the middle of the third-floor landing. He threw him against the wall and swung a hard left that found the thin man's stomach. Skeeter gave out a grunt loud enough to echo through the halls. He came back with a right hand of his own, grazing the side of Boomer's temple. Then he went for the throat, both hands wrapped tight around Boomer, pushing him hard against a shaky railing. Boomer's hands went up against Skeeter's jaw, pushing the dope dealer's head back, causing his eyes to flutter toward the ceiling. in the middle of the third-floor landing. He threw him against the wall and swung a hard left that found the thin man's stomach. Skeeter gave out a grunt loud enough to echo through the halls. He came back with a right hand of his own, grazing the side of Boomer's temple. Then he went for the throat, both hands wrapped tight around Boomer, pushing him hard against a shaky railing. Boomer's hands went up against Skeeter's jaw, pushing the dope dealer's head back, causing his eyes to flutter toward the ceiling.

"You gonna die, you f.u.c.ker," Skeeter said, tightening his grip. "Gonna die right here. In front of me."

Boomer pulled one hand away from Skeeter's chin, moving it down his chest, trying to reach the .22 he kept in a crotch holster. As his hand found his pants, he heard the wood of the railing behind him start to give way. Skeeter's eyes were bulging now, spittle coming down the sides of his mouth, the strength of his hands cutting the air from Boomer's throat, forcing him to take short breaths through his nose.

Boomer had his hand around the gun when the railing gave way.

The two of them fell together down through the next railing, linked like dancers, wood and rusty iron flying through the air, one shard slashing the right side of Boomer's face. The muzzle of Boomer's gun was flush against Skeeter's stomach.

Boomer felt a sharp pain in his right side the instant his gun went off. He looked at Skeeter's face and knew the man was dead. If it wasn't the bullet that did him, it had to be the iron rail lodged through his throat. Boomer turned his head and saw half a rail hanging through the right side of his own chest, blood flowing out of the hole in his jacket.

He and Skeeter had fallen down three stories, taking every railing with them. There had been a fifteen-minute firefight only minutes earlier. He could still hear Dead-Eye and the kitchen help exchanging shots. Sirens wailed in the distance. Yet despite that, not one apartment door had opened.

Boomer sat there, unmoving, blood oozing from his wound, Skeeter's dead body stretched across his chest. He closed his eyes, willing himself to another place.

The growl of a dog shook him from his dream.

Boomer turned his head to his left and saw a dark gray pit bull. Boomer hated dogs, big or small. But he especially hated pit bulls.

"Let me take a wild guess," he said, pointing to the body on top of him. "This guy belongs to you."

The dog stared and continued to growl and sniff for a minute or two, then turned and walked out of the building.

"Doesn't say much about you, does it, Skeeter?" Boomer said to the dead man. "When your own dog doesn't give a s.h.i.t whether you live or die."

BOOMER STARED AT the retirement papers in his hands, thick triplicate forms filled with numbers and statistics. They were all one big blur, none of the information making any sense. All that was clear to him was the reality of a fall down a set of tenement banisters and half a lung now missing from his chest. That one rusty iron rail had landed him what the beat cops liked to call "the policeman's lotto." A nifty three-quarter, tax-free disability pension doled out for the rest of his life. the retirement papers in his hands, thick triplicate forms filled with numbers and statistics. They were all one big blur, none of the information making any sense. All that was clear to him was the reality of a fall down a set of tenement banisters and half a lung now missing from his chest. That one rusty iron rail had landed him what the beat cops liked to call "the policeman's lotto." A nifty three-quarter, tax-free disability pension doled out for the rest of his life.