Based on his 1980 earnings, complete with overtime and vacation days due him, Boomer's yearly take averaged out to a clean $38,500 a year. Plus full health coverage. Boomer Frontieri was only thirty-eight years old, and there should have been a smile as wide as a canyon on his face. Instead, on that drab early December morning in 1980, all Boomer wanted to do was find someplace quiet and cry.

Boomer had survived dozens of other wounds, healed up and returned to wear the shield once again. Not this time. Not with half a lung slowing his breath and a right leg that couldn't give him more than a quarter of a mile's run without crumbling in pain. Not even Boomer Frontieri could make it on the streets spotting the shooters those handicaps.

He could never be a cop again.

He took three weeks off and traveled to Italy, visiting his father's hometown of Reggio Calabria, talking to the old men and women who remembered the young John Frontieri. He spent his afternoons walking through the nearby hills as the towns below him slept through the heat. He briefly toyed with the notion of moving there full-time, but let the thought escape, knowing it was not truly the place where he belonged.

His first six months of retirement were spent fitfully and without much sleep. He went to movies, plays, museums, read books, even caught an opera at the Met, something he hadn't done since his father was killed. None of it seemed to shake him from his mental slumber. None of what he saw, read, or heard brought him peace. He still jumped with antic.i.p.ation whenever he heard a police siren off in the distance. His instincts still told him which of the faces he pa.s.sed on crowded streets were dirty, which were looking for the easy score. He still carried a gun, his old police revolver, which he bought from the department, and he carried a replica of his detective's badge in his back pocket. He even kept his cuffs, tossed in a desk drawer in his apartment. He often looked at them in the sad way a middle-aged man looks upon a photo of an old girlfriend.

He stayed away from other cops. They would only serve as a reminder of what he so desperately missed. He avoided the bars they drank in and the restaurants he knew they frequented. He limited his nights of eating and drinking to one place, Nunzio's, a small, out-of-the-way Italian restaurant on West Ninety-sixth Street, near the entrance to the Henry Hudson Parkway. The food was excellent, the drink plentiful, and the company just what he wanted it to be-quiet and distant.

Most of the regulars at Nunzio's were made mob guys near the end of their criminal careers. They had taken all the money they could, killed most of their enemies, and done their time. Now they were left alone to watch ball games, argue over old scores and cold feuds. They knew who Boomer was, and there was a time when they would have shunned him. Yet now, in a strange way, the cop was one of them, cast adrift, not a threat to anyone. On occasion they would even send a drink to his table.

The restaurant was owned and managed by an old family friend, Nunzio Goldman. Boomer's father first worked in the meat market for Nunzio's Jewish father, Al, the Fourteenth Street boss who split his proceeds with the uptown Italian mob. On the streets, Al was known as the Rabbi, a man who would kill if he caught a dirty look. At home he was Anna Pasqualini's husband, a quiet, reserved businessman who doted on his family. When the kids were older and Anna got restless, he opened Nunzio's and put her in charge. After she died, their oldest son took over.

"How come you're the only one in the family who's got an Italian name?" Boomer once asked Nunzio, whose two brothers were named Daniel and Jacob.

"Spite," Nunzio said. "My father took one look down at me and said I had too much Italian blood to be Jewish. It was bad enough he fell in love with an Italian woman. Now this. So he let my mother name me. My other brothers, they got lucky. They were given names that fit. But I came out ahead of the game. They don't have a restaurant. They gotta eat the slop their wives cook. You're better off at Frank E. Campbell's than at their dinner table."

Nunzio could always bring a smile to Boomer's face. Make him forget the emptiness that gnawed at his insides. The old man made sure Boomer didn't get too fond of the drink or spend too much time alone. He cared about his friend and didn't want him to fall into the bars and cars cycle he'd seen other cops pursue. A man doesn't have to die to end a life. Nunzio knew that.

BOOMER F FRONTIERI WAS retired for two years before he was able to shake the ghosts that haunted his soul. For most retired cops, the wake-up call never comes. But Boomer Frontieri wasn't just any cop. He was one of the best detectives the city of New York had ever seen. In his eighteen years on the job, he had made a lot of enemies. Many of them were in jail. Many others were dead. Many more walked the streets. Boomer was well aware of who they were and, more important, where they were. retired for two years before he was able to shake the ghosts that haunted his soul. For most retired cops, the wake-up call never comes. But Boomer Frontieri wasn't just any cop. He was one of the best detectives the city of New York had ever seen. In his eighteen years on the job, he had made a lot of enemies. Many of them were in jail. Many others were dead. Many more walked the streets. Boomer was well aware of who they were and, more important, where they were.

But, in the course of those eighteen years, Boomer Frontieri had also made a lot of friends. The helpless victims of those he dragged away in cuffs, the anonymous faces of their neighborhoods. Old or young, they all remembered a cop named Boomer Frontieri.

It was a phone call from one who remembered that changed Boomer's life. A call from a man he hadn't talked to in years. About a little girl he had never met.

Though he didn't know it then, from the moment Boomer's hand took the receiver from Nunzio, his course was set.

2.

Dead-Eye.

HIS MOTHER CRIED when she heard the news. His father didn't speak to him for three months. His two older brothers and younger sister avoided any contact. His friends in the Brooklyn neighborhood where he was born and raised couldn't put together the words to ask him why. His girlfriend turned her back on him and his favorite high school teacher told him he was throwing the promise of a young life into a corner of a room. when she heard the news. His father didn't speak to him for three months. His two older brothers and younger sister avoided any contact. His friends in the Brooklyn neighborhood where he was born and raised couldn't put together the words to ask him why. His girlfriend turned her back on him and his favorite high school teacher told him he was throwing the promise of a young life into a corner of a room.

All this because Davis Winthrop decided to become a cop.

On the streets he called home, a man walking by in a blue uniform or driving past in an unmarked sedan was seen not as friend but as foe. The skin behind that uniform or that wheel was more often than not pasty white. The eyes behind the badges were filled with anger, hate, or, worse, indifference. On the streets of Brownsville, Brooklyn, a policeman was anything but a friend.

But Davis Winthrop didn't feel that way. Never. He saw everything the others had seen. He had a number of friends who died mysteriously after being taken into custody for a minor offense. He heard the verbal abuse heaped on those around him from those protected by the law. He was aware of the looks of scorn, the snide comments mumbled under warm coffee breath, all meant to deride and keep the listener locked in place.

To many people, those sights and sounds built up a well of hate. In Davis Winthrop, it fueled an eagerness to change. Unlike many in his neighborhood, Davis Winthrop wasn't blinded by the abuse of power. He saw the other side as well-the street dealers turning the promise of childhood into the emptiness of a junkie's life; the young men slain by stray bullets in the dark. He saw the abandoned mothers, many wasted by the ravages of white powder, their men nowhere to be found, dragging their children down the streets, too burnt to know that it was more than their own lives they were tossing into the garbage heap.

It wasn't lost on Davis Winthrop that the source of such sadness shared his skin color. That while white might be the enemy, it would often be black that betrayed the trust.

He vowed to do all he could to change that.

And he would do it in the place he knew best-the hard-edged streets of Brownsville.

Davis Winthrop went from uniform to undercover in less than a year. He was put on the street, posing as a gun runner for a South American outfit. He didn't go into the job blind. He made sure no one knew more about guns, from make and caliber to crate price and street value. He studied the weapons most in demand and learned the habits of the big-time buyers. He also realized that if he was going to be selling guns to people in the killing game, he needed to be an expert in handling them. He took cla.s.ses to improve his marksmanship, working not only on accuracy but on speed, control, and range. He read all he could about the guns he sold, and was soon able to tear apart and put together any make or model in a matter of minutes.

Soon enough, to both cops and criminals, Davis Winthrop became the man to see. He was a walking edition of Guns and Ammo Guns and Ammo, his knowledge so detailed, even the feds called him in for advice. His shooting was so proficient, it earned him the well-deserved nickname "Dead-Eye." Put a scope on a rifle and he could split a cantaloupe from 150 yards out. In the dark. Give him a .44 caliber and he could put six through a man's chest as he slid across a bare floor. With a .22 in hand, Dead-Eye could land a clean head shot in the quiet of a darkened room.

Dead-Eye Winthrop was himself a weapon, coiled and let loose. And he loved working the danger zones most other cops avoided. It was where he felt most in control.

DEAD-EYE STOOD IN the center of the bar, lit a cigarette, and looked over at the man with the thick mustache and yellow teeth. Dead-Eye was tall, standing close to six feet three inches, and he towered over the man whose Porkpie was tilted up. the center of the bar, lit a cigarette, and looked over at the man with the thick mustache and yellow teeth. Dead-Eye was tall, standing close to six feet three inches, and he towered over the man whose Porkpie was tilted up.

"You know what it is I want," the man said, his accent cartoon thick. "Correct?"

"I look like f.u.c.kin' Carnac to you?" Dead-Eye said, his eyes making mental notes. "No, I don't know what you want. I don't even know who you are."

"Magoo tell you I'm good for the money?"

"Only reason why I'm here," Dead-Eye said.

Two men were behind him at a table, playing cards, semis tucked tight against their rib cages. A guy too young to be as fat as he was polished gla.s.ses over by the cash register, his hands no doubt within easy reach of a weapon. Dead-Eye heard Spanish voices coming from the kitchen, all male, all loaded.

The man poured vodka into an open can of c.o.ke, then took a long sip. He smiled over at Dead-Eye.

"You drink?" he asked.

"With friends," Dead-Eye said. "Now, why don't you take this where it's going."

"I need magnums," the man said. "At least fifty."

"Three-fifty-sevens do you right?" Dead-Eye asked.

"If those are the best," the man said.

"Best I can get."

"How soon?" the man asked.

"You skipped a spot," Dead-Eye said. "You're supposed to say how much."

"The guns are important," the man said. "Not the price."

"Just so you know, it's five hundred a gun, more if you want ammo," Dead-Eye said. "You give half now. I take the other half when you open the crate."

"What guarantees do my people get?"

Dead-Eye put his cigarette out on the floor, twisting it with the tip of his work boot.

"Delivery of the guns," Dead-Eye said. "They'll be here on the date and time I say."

"That's it?"

"You want more, shop at Sears. I just hand you guns. Straight up for cash. They don't work, don't mean s.h.i.t to me. Trigger falls off in a shoot-out, bullet goes backward 'stead of forward, barrel melts before your eyes, any of that happens, don't call me. Complain to the Better Business Bureau. Write your congressman. I don't give a f.u.c.k what you do. Just don't call me."

"I hope these guns work as well as your mouth," the man said, eyes moving off Dead-Eye to the two behind him.

"And I hope it's true you got the kind of money Magoo says you do," Dead-Eye said. "You don't, I'm a walker."

"Magoo told me something about you," the man said, his voice armed with an edge. "Something I hope is not true."

Dead-Eye felt the tension in the room notch up a few degrees. The fat guy behind the bar had his hands flat across the wood surface. The two behind him let their cards drop to the table. The voices in the kitchen were stifled.

"I'm gonna hate it if you make me guess," Dead-Eye said.

"Magoo thinks you're a cop," the man said with a smile. "He thinks that's a problem. And he wants that problem to go away. That's why he gave me this."

The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash, $25,000 easy, cut green and fresh, white wrapper still around it. The man dropped it on the table and looked up at Dead-Eye.

"He must be pretty serious about this problem," the man said. "Put up money like this for one man. What do you think?"

"I'm touched," Dead-Eye said.

"I get more later," the man said. "When I bring him your heart."

"Magoo always was a romantic son of a b.i.t.c.h," Dead-Eye said. "Too soft for this kind of work."

"Tell me, before you die, my friend," the man said. "Are you what Magoo says? Are you a cop?"

Dead-Eye looked around the room, kept the faces in their places, and turned back to the man.

"Yes," Dead-Eye said.

THE FIRST GUN was in Dead-Eye's right hand, aimed at the man's chest. The second gun, his favorite .38 Special, took out the fat guy behind the bar. The two at the table hadn't even had a chance to move. was in Dead-Eye's right hand, aimed at the man's chest. The second gun, his favorite .38 Special, took out the fat guy behind the bar. The two at the table hadn't even had a chance to move.

"They can live if you let them," Dead-Eye said to the man, nodding his head toward the two behind him. He saw three men stop at the kitchen entrance, guns drawn.

"I'm not armed," the man said.

"That could be a problem," Dead-Eye said. "For you."

Dead-Eye was impressed. The man kept his cool, unfazed by the gun aimed several inches from his heart.

"I know your country," the man said. "Your ways. The police don't kill unarmed people. You are too civilized. It's a shame, but it's true."

"I bet your fat friend behind the bar believed that too," Dead-Eye said.

"He was stupid," the man said. "You won't be."

"That's right, compadre," Dead-Eye said. "I won't be. I just drop you and then take my chances with the rest of your buddies. If I make it out-and, believe me, the odds are in my favor-then I put a drop gun in your hand and walk away clean. n.o.body's gonna give a s.h.i.t."

The man nodded, his eyes finally glancing down to the gun.

"May I light a cigarette?" he asked.

"It won't kill you," Dead-Eye said.

The man took a cigarette from a pack on the table, put one in his mouth, and Ht it. He took a deep drag, let out the smoke through his nose, and smiled.

"It would be an insult to offer you money," the man said. "Cop like you don't care about such things."

"I like money," Dead-Eye said. "Just not your money."

"But you want something," the man said. "And I don't think killing a room full of runners is what you want."

"I wouldn't throw myself over your coffins either," Dead-Eye said.

"We can settle this," the man said. "Just tell me what it is you want."

"Magoo," Dead-Eye said. "I want you to set him up. Deliver him to me."

"That could get me killed faster than the gun in your hand."

"Your kind of work doesn't come with a pension plan," Dead-Eye said. "Die now, die later, it all works out the same to me."

"And if I give you that?" the man asked. "If I give you Magoo?"

"Then it won't be my bullet that kills you," Dead-Eye told him. "Least not today."

The man stared into Dead-Eye's face, looking for signs of weakness.

He came away empty.

"I will give you Magoo," the man said after a few minutes, sending his men back to their places with a quick brush of his hand. "On one condition."

"Let's hear it."

"Have a drink with me," the man said. "Now that we're friends."

EDDIE W WINTHROP WAS a bigger man than his son, the onslaught of age having shaved only half an inch from his powerful six-foot-five frame. He walked with a slight limp, the arthritis having settled in his left knee, the payback for twenty-five years spent working for Con Ed, days and nights in darkness and dampness under the city streets. a bigger man than his son, the onslaught of age having shaved only half an inch from his powerful six-foot-five frame. He walked with a slight limp, the arthritis having settled in his left knee, the payback for twenty-five years spent working for Con Ed, days and nights in darkness and dampness under the city streets.