"Hey, Frank. I'm on my own. I don't feel like doing anything. So I'm not going to do anything. You know why Kathy left me? Because of the job."

"There were other reasons, Nick. There always are. Don't blame it all on the job."

"Gimme a break, Frank. Leave it alone."

"Nick, there are some things I have to tell you. I know it's a h.e.l.luva time, but ..."

Kathy's words flashed through his brain. "But there's no good time to tell a bad thing. What have you got to tell me that I don't already know? What could be worse than-"

"A lot of things. Let's take a walk, Nick."

Walking along the cold, rocky, deserted beach, avoiding rushes of foamy water creeping higher and higher along the sh.o.r.e, Frank told Nick what he had never known. How Nick's father, Danny O'Hara, died. And who was responsible for his murder.

"It was an accident, Frank. He fell."

"Have you ever wondered why your mother didn't stay in Brooklyn, near your Ventura relatives? Why she moved in with us, and never went back to the old neighborhood?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know? I was just a kid."

Nick picked up a stone, tossed it as far as he could, watched it disappear as it caught a wave. Then he asked a policeman's question.

"How many guys were working up there-you said, what, twelve, fifteen?"

"Eighteen. Twelve came to me and told me the same story. Exactly the same story. The welsher got roughed up and tossed over the side. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds grabbed your father, to keep him from phoning the police. Your uncle Vincent dialed a number, talked to the only person in the whole world with the authority to give the order. Your grandfather."

"Papa loved my father. He always did. He felt like he was a son."

"What the f.u.c.k was he gonna tell you? And remember, Nick, Vincent was a son."

"You had twelve witnesses come to you? Okay, why the h.e.l.l didn't you make a case?" Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. Who the h.e.l.l would dare testify against the Ventura family?

"Nick, right after your father's funeral, Vincent was sent to Arizona. Heart condition? Yeah, right. It was to keep him out of sight. And the two thugs with him, Nick. Guess what happened to them?"

Nick didn't have to guess.

"An unfortunate car 'incident.' The d.a.m.n Olds blew up just as they started away from a restaurant. h.e.l.luva thing, could happen to anybody, right?"

Nick wiped the cold salty water from his cheeks and eyes. His breath was shallow and painful in his chest. "Okay, Frank. Tell me this." It was the only challenge he could think of. "If what you say is true, that Vinny killed my father, that Papa told him to, if that was true, then why the h.e.l.l did you let me go to see him when I was a kid? I saw him every G.o.dd.a.m.n holiday, his birthday, mine. If he killed my father, why would you ever let me go near him?"

They stopped walking, ignoring wet shoes, damp pants, freezing hands, and stinging faces.

"Nicky, Nicky, you were eight years old. In nine months, you lost both your father and your mother. What the f.u.c.k was I supposed to do, kill off your grandfather for you too? I guess I was wrong, but as much as I hated that b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I couldn't do that to you. The years went by so fast, you didn't see him that often when you were older. Then you were off to the army, you got married. Okay, I guess I was wrong. I should have told you when you were a kid. But you loved him so much. And ... he did love you."

"Then why the h.e.l.l are you telling me this now?"

"I haven't finished, Nick. You've gotta hear all of it."

"All of it? What the h.e.l.l else have you got to tell me?"

Frank turned his face to the ocean, trying to draw strength; wishing he could wash away all reality.

He told Nick how and why Peter was really killed-caught in the middle of a petty, street-level drug deal that went wrong between Sonny Ventura and some maverick Chinese kids who were carrying on their own business.

"Peter wasn't caught in any crossfire. He was shot from a distance of no more than two or three feet. Point-blank."

Nick had known this; of course he had known this. He had looked at his dead son's face; had seen the bullet hole surrounded by powder burns. His policeman's brain had noted that it was a close contact wound. For which there was no reasonable explanation according to Sonny's story.

"You know where Sonny Ventura is right now, Nick? They got him out of the hospital before the kid was fully recovered, so you wouldn't talk to him. Flew him, by private plane, to a hospital in Tucson, Arizona. He'll move in with his grandfather, Vincent. Two of a kind, Nick. They deserve each other."

Frank watched his nephew run along the edge of the beach, unaware of the fact that at some point the water was over his ankles. He became a vague shadow, emerging now and then in the heavy mist that was turning into fog. He waited. Nick was gone for nearly an hour, but Frank knew he would come back.

Obviously, he had slipped at some point: one side of his clothing was soaking wet. They walked up the steep sandy hill, crossed the deserted paved area usually filled with tourists in the spring and summer months, stopped at the benches.

"Nick, you have to go back on the job."

Nick's face was so blank it wasn't even clear that he had heard his uncle's words, but he had.

"Why? What for? Why the f.u.c.k should I go back on the job?"

Frank's body stiffened and he said, through clenched teeth, "To get revenge."

They spent the rest of the weekend at Frank's cottage, and Nick listened as his uncle spelled out, in detail, his plan.

PART 2.

THE PLAN.

CHAPTER 16.

AT NICK'S PRECINCT, THERE was a department legend named Sam Speigel, nicknamed "Singin' Sam." At his mother's behest, he had trained to be a cantor. His pure and beautiful voice brought tears and a sense of wonder to all who heard him sing. But what he had wanted, all his life, was to be a policeman, which his family thought was strange: What nice Jewish boy would want such a job? Sam Speigel did.

His voice earned him a unique place in the police department. Sam Speigel sang at any and every fraternal dinner, convention, picnic, memorial service-in churches and synagogues throughout the city. He sang at weddings and bar mitzvahs, at anniversaries, birthdays, and funerals. He was invited to all parties wherever policemen gathered, and could sing in any language required with a soul-piercing clarity.

Which is why everyone who knew him and thrilled to his gift was shocked beyond words when Sam Speigel was shot in the throat, by a madman who had just killed his wife and children, and before killing himself shot Sam. Everyone rushed to the hospital to give blood, comfort, a.s.sistance of every kind to his family. What no one could give him were new vocal cords.

Sam was a plodder and an optimist and a man who concentrated on whatever needed to be done in order to survive. About a year after his release from his stay at a rehab center, Sam Speigel showed up in the precinct house, where his lifting voice had been heard for years practicing new songs for some party or traditional celebration.

He was warmly greeted, hugged, thumped, surrounded by his former co-workers, and then he waved them back and demonstrated his new way of speaking. Holding a microphonelike device over an implanted box in his throat, breathing in strange gasping sounds, Sam spoke to them. No one could understand a single word. There was a series of gasps and burps and loud electronic feedbacks and Sam grew red in the face with his effort. He scrambled around, found a piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote: "I'm getting better at this every day!" Everyone nodded, patted him on the back, and got very busy.

Sam Speigel was not deterred. Through the years, he would show up unannounced to visit with his chums. Nick had watched their response to his breathless performance. No one actually looked at Sam. They looked past him, around him, through him, but no one caught his eye lest Sam try to start a one-on-one conversation.

Nick O'Hara thought about Sam Speigel for the first time in years after he returned to the job. The precinct had been well represented at his son's wake and funeral. Guys had come to talk with him; kept in touch by telephone. But that was during the mourning period. Now that he was back at work he sensed a sudden quieting whenever he entered the squad room. He was acutely aware that everyone was very careful to gear their conversation away from anything to do with their kids, since his was dead, or to their wives, since his had left him. It was better to avoid him rather than blurt out something about a kid that might be hurtful to Nick.

Eddie Manganaro told him to ease up. The guys all felt so terrible about his son, they just didn't know what the h.e.l.l to do about it. They didn't want to keep bringing it up or say or do anything that would make Nick feel bad.

"I feel bad every day of my life, Eddie. Nothing they can say or do about their own kid can hurt me."

Eddie squeezed Nick's arm. "They're trying, partner. Just let it slide. They'll come around."

"Well, what the f.u.c.k, I'll try real hard to be patient. I don't want to put pressure on anybody."

But Nick knew how Sam Speigel must have felt. He had become, if not quite invisible, someone to look past.

In a way, it worked to Nick's advantage. It gave him the freedom he needed to get on with what he had to do.

None of the men he worked with, except Ed, knew that in the past Nick had had a gambling problem. h.e.l.l, everyone bet on a prize fight, a ball game, an election, played the lottery. No big deal.

Years ago, he had gotten himself into a seriously embarra.s.sing situation. He'd been sent down to Atlantic City to pick up a witness in a domestic murder case. The guy had been hiding out for nearly two months, trying to decide whether or not he should turn in his brother for hacking off his live-in girlfriend's head. According to the A.C. cops, the witness was flat broke and wanted to go home. So, the h.e.l.l with his brother, who he said was a no-good lowlife anyway. Apparently, the murdering brother had failed to come through with a much-needed couple hundred dollars.

Nick got into Atlantic City a few hours early. He just wanted to look around, check it out. Within an hour, he had run up his travel expense and pocket money from two hundred dollars to five thousand. Within the second hour, he was totally wiped out. Not even a coin to call home. He had to walk the couple of miles to the station where his witness waited. Deeply embarra.s.sed, Nick spoke quietly to the detective squad commander. He explained how some light-fingered pro picked him clean when he was standing around, taking in the action at Trump's place. The lieutenant studied him with a knowing look, a slight shake of his head, then smiled and asked Nick if he wanted to make a crime report.

"h.e.l.l, no. The guy was so good I didn't even get a quick look at him."

The squad commander hit the squad's petty cash box, plus threw in a twenty of his own so that Nick could get himself and his witness back to New York. Didn't even ask Nick to sign a tab: he had no doubt at all that Nick would pay him back as soon as he reached home.

The witness who gave up being his brother's keeper complained all the way to New York about the discomfort of the crowded bus-all those old people with their rolls of coins. He had expected, if not a limo, at least a decent car ride.

After paying the money back, Nick vowed never to get in that position again. It was very hard. On the job, you get a lot of tips from people in the know. On the night their son was born, Nick took one look at them, Madonna and child, and promised Kathy he'd never bet again. It was all she asked him for a gift. But it was the night of the NBA playoff, and Nick, in a grand final gesture, made the right bet: He won eight hundred dollars. Kathy wouldn't touch it, so he lost it within two days. After seeing the hurt and disgust and sorrow in his wife's face, Nick never again bet on anything.

For a recovering alcoholic, the first drink is the fatal one. For a recovering heroin addict, the first hit is nirvana, the next moment filled with a need so quickly elevated, so persistent, that the clean years disappear and the horror is back.

For Nick, his return to gambling was ludicrous. He was standing on the elevated IRT platform in Brooklyn on his way back from trying to interview a complainant who never showed. A completely wasted day with an in-basket filled with cases. He stood, absently watching as a construction crew systematically took apart an old four-story industrial building, according to the faded legend on the old brick facade, once the home of "Mina and Mimmi's Customade Corsets."

The crew chief motioned his men away, positioned himself on a rig that operated a large iron wrecking ball suspended by long steel cables. In a jerky motion, the ball swung closer and closer to the standing wall, then hit it with a resounding thud.

He wasn't aware of the guy standing next to him until a raspy voice announced, "He'll take it down in two more hits."

Nick shrugged. "Naw, that's good construction. Take at least four."

"For ten bucks?"

Nick dug out his ten to match the other guy's. "You're on."

It took four more solid slams for the wall to collapse. That was Nick's return to gambling.

It wasn't the winning. No one could ever understand that it had little to do with winning. It was the chance, the dare, the sudden drop in the stomach, the rise in adrenaline, the breath held at the moment of truth: the challenge; the possibility.

It was a lot of things, but whatever it was, Nick was hooked again.

CHAPTER 17.

AS FAR AS HIS partner could tell, Nick had settled into his solitary life without any complaints. Unlike other guys, he didn't blame or accuse his wife. He just never mentioned her name. He came to seem more at ease with the other squad guys-or maybe they grew more at ease with him. On a few occasions, he offered Eddie a tip on a horse race-good odds on an unknown young filly. Eddie laid down twenty alongside Nick's fifty at the local deli, where the book was run by a twitchy winking-blinking waif of a man who kept everything in his head: no slips, no pieces of paper. No evidence. It was Ed's first and last loss; he wouldn't bet again.

"Ed, I got this tip right from the cousin of the trainer down at the Saratoga dog track. These things are fixed, trust me. You can recoup your twenty in less than the minute it takes these dogs to run the course."

Ed Manganaro shook his head. "I hate losing, Nick. Thanks anyway."

The whole squad had been keeping up with the O. J. trial out in L.A. They began making bets on every aspect of the case: what color suit would Cochran wear; what would Marsha do next? Nick won a hundred bucks when she changed her hairstyle. They bet on how many jurors would be replaced; when; who would hit Geraldo for a TV interview. No one would take a bet on the verdict.

"He'll walk," everyone agreed.

Nick reported on his first 4:00 P.M. to 1:00 A.M. tour the day the case went to the jury. He offered odds, ten to one on a guilty verdict; top bet ten dollars. Everyone got in on the action. O'Hara was nuts.

"Hey, Nick, you gotta be kidding. You got some loose money you need to get rid of, give it to me. I'm your partner."

Nick shrugged. "You want a piece of the action."

Ed shook his head. "No way. I'm your friend, right?"

When the jury asked for a readback of the testimony of the limo chauffeur, who the prosecution said was the one totally disinterested witness, Nick offered to up the odds: Twenty to one, but no one took him on.

After the verdict, Ed drove the squad Chevy to the Avenue B location of a triple homicide. He glanced a few times at Nick, who didn't seem the slightest bit disturbed by the thousand bucks he'd just lost.

"C'mon, quit it, will ya, Eddie? I lost more than that on a single card. h.e.l.l, I'll recoup on the next ball game."

They waited for the Homicide Squad to take over, prepared notes and spoke to witnesses. The usual drug dealers' war: a couple of punks crossed to the wrong side of the street, a corner owned by another crew. h.e.l.l, they had to be taught a lesson.

Detective Tom Leary caught the case for Homicide. "Tomorrow, there'll be four dead-payback. Jeez, I wish they'd all get together in Yankee Stadium and have it out once and for all."

Nick grinned at Leary, who hadn't yet spotted him. "What odds would you give and what side: Latin Kings or Island Starboys?"

"Jesus, Nick O'Hara, I haven't seen you in years. You disappeared on me."

"Uh-uh. You moved uptown. They got you back here, huh?"