He lit his Camel and took a long pull, staring hard at me all the while.

"Look here," he said. "Before, when I was talking about what our a.s.signment is, I left one thing out. We were supposed to keep organized crime out of Doomstown. All of a sudden, your boss tells me we got Mafia up to our eyeb.a.l.l.s. How do you think that makes me feel? All of us, the whole bunch. Like monkeys, that's how."

"Cisco didn't invite them down here, y'know. He just recognized a face and turned them up for you, that's all. If it was the Feebies, you can bet your sweet by-and-by they'd be all over town and you couldn't find out what day it is from any of them."

"You're right there."

"So we throw in together and bring them down?"

"If somebody doesn't beat us to it."

"Okay. So tell your boys to forget this college Charlie s.h.i.t," I said, still acting irritated. "This isn't pledge week at the old frat house and I'm not here to impress anybody. If these guys are as tough as you make them sound, it'll help if you give me a vote of confidence off the top."

Not bad, Kilmer, not bad at all. Hard case but not hard nose. They can live with that.

Dutch started laughing.

"Sensitive, ain't you," he said, and led me into the building. We walked through the front door into what looked like the entrance to a prison block: a small boxlike room, a door with a bell on one side, and a mirror in the wall beside it. One-way gla.s.s. Dutch shoved a thumb against the bell. A second later the door buzzed open. Inside, a black, uniformed cop sat in a darkened cubicle, watching the entrance. An Uzi submachine gun was leaning on the wall beside him. I nodded and got a blank stare back.

"Looks like you're expecting an invasion," I said.

"Security. n.o.body gets in here without one of us saying so. That includes everybody from the chief of police and the mayor to the President of the United States."

"Nice weapon," I said, with a nod toward the Uzi.

"We liberated it. My bunch is pretty good at dog-robbing," Dutch said, then added, almost as an afterthought, "among other things. "

Inside, the front of the place had been divided into half a dozen office cubicles. Behind them, in the center of the building, was a fairly sophisticated computer system and a telephone switchboard. Behind that was what appeared to be a large meeting room, walled with chalk- and corkboards. A six-foot television screen was mounted in the wall at the front of the room and twenty or so old-fashioned movable chairs were scattered about, the kind with writing platforms attached, like they had in school when I was a kid-and still do, for all I know.

The big room in back was affectionately known as the Kindergarten.

Two rooms filled the back end of the old supermarket. One was a holding cell that looked big enough to accommodate the entire D-Day invasion force, and the other was behind a door marked simply VIDEO OPERATIONS. I counted three uniformed cops on duty, including the man on the door and a black woman who was operating the switchboard.

A pretty cla.s.sy setup: Morehead's war room.

"Are the uniform people part of your gang or on loan-out?"

"Probation. If they can hack the everyday stuff, they maybe can work their way into the gang. Also we find out pretty quick whether they can keep their mouths shut."

I decided to take one last shot at my immediate problem. "Before the rest of your guys show up," I said, "can we settle this Fed problem?"

"It's settled. We don't have a problem," he said, trying to brush it off.

"Right," I said with more than a little acid. I decided to let him blow off a little steam.

"Okay," he snapped, "let's put it this way. At first we tried workin' with the IRS, but cooperating with the Leper Colony is no different than loanin' your watch to Jesse James. They're either young turks just out of college, in it so they can learn how to beat the system and get rich, or they're misfits none of the other agencies' ll touch. Either way, it's every man for himself. Like workin' in a patch of skunk cabbage."

"No argument," I said.

"A bunch of pfutzlkers!" he bellowed.

"Absolutely," I agreed. "Whatever that means."

"If I broke half the laws they do, I'd be doing time."

"Life plus twenty, at least." Now it was his turn and I let him rage on.

He leaned over me, jabbing his chest with his thumb. "I wouldn't let one of 'em in here, not if he showed up with a court order and the entire Marine Corps to back 'em up!" he roared. "And the Feebies aren't much better! All they wanna do is make nickels in Washington. If it looks good on the daily report and they can get a press conference out of it, that's all they care about. Ask them for a little help, you get senile waitin' for the phone to ring."

"I've had the same experience," I said with sympathy.

"Dips.h.i.ts and robots!" he said. Now his arms were in the act. He was waving them around like a symphony conductor. "b.a.s.t.a.r.ds steal our information, make deals that sour our cases, violate civil rights, and we get the enema. They always ride off with the chick in the end."

I nodded agreement. He was running out of steam.

"All my boys get is to kiss the horse at the fadeout, know what I mean?"

"Sure." Pause. "How about you?"

"How about me what?"

"You feel all you get out of them is to kiss the horse?"

He stopped and stared me up and down and then he figured it all out and started to laugh.

"Aw, h.e.l.l, pal," he said, "I been around so long I'm glad for all the kissin' I can get, even if it's a horse's a.s.s."

"Okay, Dutch," I said quietly. "I'm not looking for any fadeout kisses. If these people are looting your town, I'll help you put them away. All the Freeze wants out of it is information. Connections. How they operate. How did they infiltrate the town? Who did they have to buy? How are they connected with the other mobs? No conflict, okay?"

"We'll just play it by ear," he said, still coy. It was like kicking a brick wall.

"s.h.i.t, if that's the play, that's the play," I said with a shrug.

"You'll do fine. You got a hair up your a.s.s just like the rest of us."

"I just do the best I can," I said, throwing in a little humility.

"According to your boss, that's pretty d.a.m.n good," he said.

"Far as I'm concerned, if we get enough to make a case against somebody, it can go state or federal," I said. "My style is give it to whoever has the strongest case-and the best prosecutor. I get a little crazy when somebody walks on me"

"That's fair enough," he said. "Who doesn't?"

"What kind of DA do you have?"

"A woman. Her name's Galavanti and she's meaner than a three-day hangover."

"On us or them?"

He smiled. "On everybody. You put a case on her with holes in it, you'll hear language would turn a lifer purple."

"Good. Maybe we can help each other."

"Thing of it is, I never heard of your bunch until a couple months ago. This guy Mazzola shows up one day outta the blue, buys me lunch, gives me the same buck and wing you're givin' me."

Mazzola was Cisco Mazzola, my boss in the Freeze. He had told me Dutch Morehead was a man who said his piece and I was beginning to believe him.

"Which you sneezed off," I said.

"Not exactly. For starters, he put something in the pot."

"Like what?"

"Like the Stick."

"The Stick? What's the Stick?"

He looked at me kind of funny, one of those "what year were you born" looks.

"Not what, who. You know . . . the Stick. Parver. So far he fits right in."

I didn't have the foggiest idea what he was talking about and before I could pursue it any further, he picked up a bright red bullhorn, turned up the volume, and summoned his men to the back room.

I took the opportunity to step into an empty office and call the hotel. They patched me through to Cisco, who was in the restaurant, eating. He had flown in from Washington to brief me on the local situation. Since it had changed radically in the last couple of hours, I didn't know what to expect.

Cisco and I were friends in a remote kind of way. He was one of several shadows that wove in and out of my life, altering its course without ever touching me directly, our main connection provided by the telephone company. In the seven or so years I had known him, I had never seen the inside of his house, never met his family, and knew little about his personal tastes other than that he had a penchant for vitamins and health food. He also had an obsession about saving his hair, most of which was gone.

It took him a minute to get to the phone.

"Sorry to take you away from dinner," I said. "I would have called sooner but I've been busy. There's been a takeout. Tagliani, Stinetto, and Tagliani's wife."

"Yes, I've heard," he said in his flat, no-nonsense voice. "Any details yet?"

"At his place, about three hours ago. Pistols and a fire bomb. The woman was killed by the bomb. Whoever scratched the other two knew what he, or they, were doing. It looks like a couple of Petes to me."

"I want you to stay with this," he said.

"Good. How many have you made so far?"

"The whole mob's here except for Tuna Chevos and his gunslinger-"

"Nance," I hissed, cutting him off. Anger roiled inside me at the mention of Turk Nance. We went back a ways, Nance and I, and it wasn't a friendly trip. "They're here too," I said. "I'll give you odds."

"Maybe so, but this isn't a vendetta. Nance is just a tinhorn shooter. Forget him."

"Right."

"Forget him, Jake."

"I heard you!"

"What are you so edgy about?"

"Oh, nothing at all. I've been houndd.o.g.g.i.ng this mob for what, four, five years?"

"Closer to five," he sighed.

"I'm just a little burned that the iceman beat me to it."

"Understandable. Just remember why you're here. I want information. Where are you now?"

"Morehead's war room."

"A good man," Cisco said. "A little short on procedure, maybe."

That was the understatement of the year.

I said, "So far he's treating me like I just broke his leg."

"Cautious," said Cisco. "Give him a little time."

"What happens if things pick up speed and I need some backup?" I asked.

"Mickey Parver will help you," he said.

"He the one they call Stick?"

"Right. "

"I felt a little like an idiot. How come I never heard of this guy before now?"

"Because you never read the weekly report, that's why," he snapped. "He files a report every-"

I cut him off, trying to change the subject.

"Oh, yeah, I do seem to remember- "

"Don't bulls.h.i.t me," said Cisco. "You haven't read the weekly p.o.o.p sheet since the pope was a plumber."

"How long's he been in the squad?" I asked, trying to avoid that issue.

"He's been in the squad for a year or so," Cisco said, with annoyance. "You'll like him. He's young and not too jaded yet. Please don't spoil him by getting lost out in left field someplace. He's a lot like you, a lone wolf. You two can be good for each other. "

"I don't have time to baby-sit some- "

"Who said anything about baby-sitting? Did I say that?"

"It sounded like- "