He seemed to choke on his voice and closed his eyes. When he forced them open there was a deep seriousness to his gaze. I said, "They're good men, Dooley. The best."

"But I'm not a good guy."

"They don't care. You're here and you're their patient."

"Why won't they tell me anything?"

"Maybe they haven't finished their tests yet."

"Baloney, Mike. They gave me something in the IV and I can't feel anything anymore." Now his eyes had an anguished look. "You know where I got . . . shot, don't you?"

"Pat told me," I said.

"Don't lie to me . . . how bad . . . is it?"

"Bad," I told him. There was no sense holding back. He could see it in my face.

"Tell me."

"Three hollow point slugs took you down."

"Tore me apart, didn't it?"

Once again, all I could do was nod.

"Why didn't they tell me that?"

"Because they're doctors. They have hope."

"They're not here . . . now."

"You're supposed to be resting."

"Come off it, Mike. I'm supposed to be . . . dying. I can feel it coming on, so don't give me any c.r.a.p. I got no insides left anymore. My guts are gone, right?"

"Right," I said.

"How much time, Mike." It wasn't a question. He wasn't asking for words of hope or consolation. He had some bigger purpose in mind.

I said, "Any minute, kiddo. You're close. They probably think it's better if you just drifted off alone. It won't hurt."

His smile was brief and there was a small glow of relief on his face. "Listen to me," he said. "What would you do . . . if you had . . . eighty-nine billion dollars?"

"Buy a new car," I told him.

"I said . . . eighty-nine billion, Mike."

Facetious words that started to come out stopped at my lips. His eyes were clear now and stared hard into mine. There was that strange expression on his face too. And he was dying. There was no doubt about that at all. What he said now wouldn't be a lie.

Softly, I said, "Only a government has that kind of money, Dooley."

He didn't argue about it. "That's right," he agreed. "It's a government, all right. It's got people and taxes and soldiers and more money than anyone . . . can imagine. But n.o.body sees it and they . . . don't want to be seen."

When I scowled at him he knew I had gotten the message. Only his eyes smiled back until the pain started showing. It was the diluted agony of a medicated death. He didn't want me to speak because he had more to say and no time to say it in. "They left eighty-nine billion, Mike. Billion, you know? I know where it is. They don't." Before I could speak I saw the spark begin to go out.

His voice was suddenly soft. It had the muted quality of great importance and I leaned forward to hear him better. He said, "You can . . . find out . . . where it is." His eyes never closed. They just quietly got dead.

Pat was waiting for me in the lobby. I didn't have to tell him Dooley was gone. It was written all over my face. The half-healed wounds in my side had a new ache to them, the flesh being drawn tight from the tension of watching while an old buddy died. When I thought of what he had told me a creeping river of pain seemed to flow from my body to my brain and I stopped, holding on to the back of a chair.

Pat said, "You all right?"

"No problems," I lied. "Too much walking."

"Baloney. Sit down."

I took a seat beside him and forced some controlled breaths. A couple of minutes later I felt myself going back to normal.

Pat knew when it happened. "Was it bad?"

I nodded. "He was hurting. d.a.m.n, he was really hurting." I turned my head and looked at him hard. "How'd he get it, Pat?"

"How come you never asked before?"

"I didn't know if I could take it or not. I had just been down that road myself."

"Now you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Pat."

"Okay. He was home alone. He had come in from a solo supper a little after nine o'clock, apparently read the paper and made out four monthly bills. He was on his fifth and last when he died. There were no powder burns on his body, so it wasn't a close-up shot. The impacts knocked him right out of his chair. When he went down he took the phone with him accidentally. The receiver was off the hook, but the base was right beside his hand and he dialed 911 and managed to tell the operator he was shot. They traced the call and got him to the hospital. He was unconscious until a few hours before you got here. The doctors didn't want him to have any visitors."

"He recognize who shot him?"

"Apparently not. It was an easy hit, though. The door was unlocked. Someone just gave it a shove, opened it enough to see Dooley sitting there about fifteen feet away and pumped three slugs into him from a .357. The perp had plenty of time to get away clean and so far no witnesses have come forward with any information."

"Any trace on the slugs?"

"No. Just about any gun shop carries them."

"What did the lab technicians come up with?"

"Nothing. The shooter never set foot in the room. There was powder residue on the door jamb and the edge of the door itself, so it was pretty apparent how it was done."

"What's your opinion, Pat?"

His eyes drooped a moment in thought, then: "Considering the background, somebody was very lucky. He tell you who he worked for?"

"Yeah," I said, "he told me. Lorenzo Ponti was his boss, but his work wasn't inside the mob. He was-"

"I know," Pat cut in. "He was a field hand, a handyman on Ponti's estate. We checked out his social security records first thing and it was all down there. He tell you that?"

"That's right." I didn't add to it. Not yet, anyway. Dooley's last words were meant for me alone. If he had wanted us both to know he would have said so.

"But he said more, didn't he?" Pat stated deliberately.

Again, I nodded. "He told me there was trouble in the ranks."

"There's always trouble there."

"Not like this. The trouble is fraternal, as if the kids were ganging up on the parents."

"We know about that. Something's been brewing for the last six years. There are still guys running the organization who have their feet in the wrong century. Now the younger ones want their share of the power."

"Think they'll get it, Pat?"

"Eventually. If they can't force the issue they'll finally inherit it."

"How many of the old dons are dead or in retirement?"

"You read the papers, Mike. Not more than a handful are around. Some of them went down in odd ways, but old age can do that to a person. Besides, who cared if they kicked off or not?"

Pat let out a grunt and stretched his legs. "What have you got on your mind, Mike?"

"There was a motive for Dooley's death, pal." Pat's nod was very solemn. "He was into a bookie for fifty-five hundred bucks."

"Who?"

"Marty Diamond."

"Nuts, Marty isn't like that and you know it."

"Word had it he used some loan sharks a couple of times."

"A lot of people do. n.o.body messed up Dooley so he probably paid off his debts."

"He was murdered, Mike," Pat reminded me, "so there was a motive. It could have been something he heard or something he saw, but it cost him his life."

I wanted to tell Pat it could have been something he did, but I didn't want to dig any holes in the playing field. Not yet, anyway. "So what's your opinion?" I asked him.

"Well, you knew him as much as I did. He was an okay guy, but he lived with some strange company. Outside of being one h.e.l.l of a soldier, he had no special talents. He never had command duties, but he was great in the field on special a.s.signments. Now where does that get you in civilian life?"

"How much did he make working for Ponti?"

Pat screwed his face up and looked at me. "That was a big surprise. He made more than I do, but I can see why. We had a look at Ponti's work sheets and Dooley really kept his estates in order. He could hire guys to help him if he needed to, any supplies he needed he could order directly, his time was his own, and n.o.body ever complained about his work."

"I guess he was cut out for more than we thought," I said. "What did he do in New York?"

"Not much. Work was out on Long Island or upstate on the apple farm. Ponti had a couple of places in Jersey, but sold them some years ago. Ponti is one old don who likes his Sicilian feet down deep in the earth." He paused, leaned back and gazed at the ceiling for a couple of seconds, then said, "What are you holding back, Mike?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Because you're the only guy I know who always wears crepe rubber soles on his shoes. n.o.body ever hears you walking. The original gumshoe, always sneaking up on somebody."

"Not on you, pal."

"Come on, you've been on top of some pretty big cases and I've always wondered how the h.e.l.l you did it. You've gotten ahead of the local cops, the feds and a few other agencies-"

"Not all the time," I interrupted.

"Enough to make me think about it."

"I try not to get side-tracked, Pat. I only take one problem at a time."

"Yeah, I know. You chew it to pieces until you can swallow it." He gave me that stare again. "Then you shoot somebody," he added.

I knew he was going to say that. He was right, too. And so far so was I. The courts had picked me apart and the press had a field day with me, but that was before I had my guts churned up by .357 slugs. The same kind that killed Dooley. But that was pure coincidence at this point. Magnum-style pistols were all over the streets these days and no matter how many laws were pa.s.sed they were going to stay available to anybody who had the money for them.

"I'm not doing any more shooting, Pat. I can't even carry a piece on that side anymore."

He was going to say something, but stopped and gave me an odd, sideways look. It wasn't what I said, but the way I said it. Finally, he accepted it and got to his feet. But it wasn't an acceptance that lasted very long. He let out a laugh and ran his fingers through his hair. "Man, what a con artist you are," he told me.

I grinned at him and got up myself.

"What're you doing tomorrow, Mike?"

"I'll be at the office. Why?"

"Maybe I'll stop by. We need to do some talking. Sometimes I get to be like you and have one of those feelings that give me a chill."

"Not you, Pat," I said sarcastically.

"Yeah, me, and this is one of them. This time a dead man doesn't put you against the world all by yourself. I'm involved in this too. It's an open NYPD homicide, but there are some angles to it that put a color on it that isn't in the spectrum."

"Like what?" I demanded softly.

"Like you, pal," he said, "like you. If I didn't know you were still one of the walking wounded we'd be talking downtown, but you're getting a break. I'll see you tomorrow in your office. Now get your tail home and try sleeping. You're going to need it. And tell Velda to cool it."

An odd excitement was building in me as I walked toward my office door. The entire floor had been refurbished, pastel-painted and softened with a thick carpet. Nothing had chunks taken out of it and all the gla.s.s in the area was whole. My lease still had another year to run, but it wasn't the kind of place I'd pick for the work I was in. The excitement wasn't about the office at all. It was because Velda would be there.

I pushed open the door and there she was behind her desk, chin propped in her hands, watching me. I said, "Am I supposed to say good afternoon or kiss you?"

"You can do whatever you like." I got that impish grin again.

"No, I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'd get arrested," I told her.