"Like you care."

"No, no, I've always been very concerned with your well-being."

Frank Ache laughed a little too long and hard at that one. "You're lucky I never whacked you. My brother always stopped me, you know."

Win did know. He looked into the dark eyes and saw blankness.

"I'm on Zoloft now," Frank said as if reading his mind. "You believe that? They have me on suicide watch. Don't much see the point, do you?"

Win didn't know if he meant the point of taking the drug or committing suicide or even trying to prevent the suicide. He also didn't care. "I have a favor to ask," Win said.

"Were we ever buddies?"

"No."

"So?"

"Favor," Win said again. "As in, you do one for me, I do one for you."

Frank Ache stopped. He sniffled, used a once-giant hand to wipe his face. His receding hairline was gone now, though big tufts stayed on the side. His dark olive skin was now the gray of a city street after a rainstorm.

"What makes you think I could use a favor?"

Win did not answer that. There was no reason to elaborate. "How did your brother slither out of an indictment?"

"That's what you want to know?"

Win said nothing.

"What difference does that make?"

"Humor me, Frank."

"You know Herman. He looked cla.s.sy. Me, I looked like a dago."

"Gotti looked cla.s.sy."

"No, he didn't. He looked like a goomba dressed up in expensive suits."

Frank Ache looked off now, his eyes wet. He put his hand up to his face again. It started with another sniffle and then the big, scary man's face crumbled. He started to cry. Win waited for him to regain his composure. Ache cried some more.

Finally: "You got a tissue or something?"

"Use your neon orange sleeve," Win said.

"You know what it's like in here?"

Win said nothing.

"I sit alone in a six-by-eight cell. I sit in it twenty-three hours a day. Alone. I eat my meals in there. I c.r.a.p in there. When I go out in the yard for one hour, no one else is outside. I go days without hearing a voice. I try sometimes to talk to the guards. They won't say a word back to me. Day after day. I sit alone. I talk to no one. That's how it's gonna be till the day I die." He started sobbing again.

Win was tempted to take out his air violin, but he refrained. The man was talking-needed to talk, it seemed. This was a good thing. Still: "How many people did you kill, Frank?"

He stopped crying for a moment. "Me myself or that I ordered?"

"Your pick."

"Got me. I personally whacked, what, twenty, thirty guys."

Like he was talking about parking tickets he beat. "I'm feeling sorrier for you by the moment," Win said.

If Frank took offense, he didn't show it. "Hey, Win, you want to hear something funny?"

He kept leaning forward as he talked, desperate for any kind of conversation or contact. Amazing what humans, even ones as wanton as Frank Ache, crave when left alone-other humans. "The floor is yours, Frank."

"You remember one of my men named Bobby Fern?"

"Hmm, perhaps."

"Big fat guy? Used to run underage girls out of the Meatpacking District?"

Win remembered. "What about him?"

"You see me crying in here, right? I don't try to hide it anymore. I mean, what's the point? You know what I mean. I cry. So what? Truth is, I always did. I used to kinda go off and cry alone. Even back in the day. I don't know why either. Hurting people actually made me feel good, so that wasn't it, but then, like one time, I was watching Family Ties Family Ties. You remember that show? With the kid who's got that shaking disease now?"

"Michael J. Fox."

"Right. Loved that show. That sister Mallory was a hot number. So I'm watching it and it must be the last season and the father on the show has a heart attack. It's kinda sad and see, that's how my old man died. It's no big deal, I mean, it's a dumb sitcom, and next thing I know I'm bawling like a baby. Used to happen to me like that all the time. So I'd make an excuse and go off. I'd never let anyone see me. You know my world, right?"

"Right."

"So one day when I go off like that, Bobby walks in on me and sees me crying." Frank smiled now. "Now me and Bobby, we go back. His sister was the first girl who let me go to third base. Eighth grade. It was awesome." He looked off, lost in this happy moment. "So anyway, Bobby walks in and I'm crying, and man, you should have seen his face. He didn't know what to do. Bobby, he kept swearing he'd never tell anyone, not to worry, h.e.l.l, he cried all the time. I loved Bobby. He was a good man. Nice family. So I thought I'd let it slide, you know."

"You were always such a prince," Win said.

"Right, sure, I tried. But see, now, whenever I was with Bobby, I felt, I don't know, ashamed or something. He didn't do or say nothing, but now suddenly he was jumpy around me. Wouldn't meet my eye, that kinda thing. And Bobby smiled a lot, you know, he had this big smile and loud laugh. But now, when he smiled and laughed, I'm thinking maybe he was making fun of me, you get what I'm saying?"

"So you killed him," Win said.

Frank nodded. "Used a fish-line garrote. I don't use that too often. Nearly sliced Bobby's head off. But I mean, can you blame me?"

Win spread his hands. "How could anyone?"

Frank laughed too hard again. "Nice having you visit."

"Oh yes, good times."

Frank laughed some more.

He just wanted to talk, Win thought again. It was pathetic, really. This former mountain of a man was that broken, desperate, and thus Win could use it. "You said before that Herman looked cla.s.sy. That he appeared to be more legitimate than you."

"Right, so?"

"Could you elaborate?"

"You were there, you know how it was with me and Herman. Herman wanted to be legit. He wanted to go to fancy parties and play old golf clubs like yours and he got the midtown office in the nice high-rise. He put dirty money into real businesses, like that suddenly made the money clean or something. So toward the end, Herman only wanted to handle gambling and loan sharking. Guess why?"

Win said, "Because there was less violence?"

"No, if anything, they're more violent, what with collecting and stuff." Frank Ache leaned forward, and Win could smell the decay on his breath. "Gambling and loan sharking felt legit to him. Casinos do gambling and they're legit. Banks do loans and they're legit. So why can't Herman do the same?"

"And you?"

"I handled the other stuff. Wh.o.r.es, drugs, like that, though let me tell you, if Zoloft ain't a drug that don't work better than blow, I'll suck off a hyena. And don't get me started on wh.o.r.es being illegal. Oldest profession. And when you think about it, what man doesn't pay for s.e.x in the end?"

Win did not argue.

"So why you here?" Frank smiled and the sight was still eerie. Win wondered how many people had died, their last sight being that smile. "Or maybe I should ask, whose a.s.s has Myron stuck his finger up now?"

Time to show his hand. "Evan Crisp's."

That widened Frank's eyes. "Whoa."

"Yes."

"Myron met up with Crisp?"

"That he did."

"Crisp is nearly as deadly as you," Frank said.

"I'm flattered."

"Man, you going up against Crisp. Should be fun watching that."

"I'll send you the DVD."

Something dark ran across Frank's face. "Evan Crisp," he said slowly, "is one of the main reasons I'm here."

"How's that?"

"See, one of us-me or Herman-had to go down. You know how RICO is. They needed a scapegoat."

Scapegoat, Win thought. The man has no idea how many people he personally murdered, including one for seeing him cry. But he's a scapegoat.

"So it was either me or Herman. Crisp worked for Herman. Suddenly Herman's witnesses vanish or recant. Mine didn't. The end."

"So you went down for the crimes?"

Frank leaned forward again. "I got thrown under the bus."

"Meanwhile, Herman lives on, happy and legit," Win said.

"Yep," Frank said.

Their eyes met for a moment. Frank gave Win the smallest nod.

"Evan Crisp," Win said, "is now working for Gabriel Wire. Do you know who that is?"

"Wire? Sure. His music is pure, one hundred percent, grade-A c.r.a.p. Does Myron rep him?"

"No, his partner."

"Lex something, right? Another no-talent."

"Any clue why Crisp might be working for Gabriel Wire?"

Frank smiled with small teeth that looked like Tic Tacs. "In the old days, Gabriel Wire did it all. Blow, wh.o.r.es-but mostly gambling."

Win arched an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"The favor?"

"Done."

Nothing else said on that. Nothing else needed.

"Wire owed Herman big," Frank said. "At one point-now I'm going back before he started the Howard Hughes act, what, fifteen, twenty years-his tab was more than half a million."

Win considered that for a moment. "There are rumors that someone messed up Wire's face."

"Not Herman," Frank said with a headshake. "He ain't that stupid. Wire can't sing a lick, but his smile could unsnap a bra from thirty paces. So no, Herman wouldn't mess with the breadwinner."

Outside the room and down the hall, a man screamed. The guard by the door did not move. Neither did Frank. The screaming continued, grew louder, and then it was cut off as though with a switch.

Win asked, "Do you have any thoughts on why Crisp would be working for Wire?"

"Oh, I doubt he's working for Wire," Frank said. "My bet? Crisp is there for Herman. He's probably on the scene making sure Mr. Rock 'n' Roll pays up."

Win sat back, crossed his legs. "So you believe that your brother is still involved with Gabriel Wire then?"

"Why else would Crisp be watching him?"

"We thought that perhaps Evan Crisp had gone legit. Perhaps he took a cushy security job for a recluse."

Frank smiled again. "Yeah, I can see how you might think that."

"But I'm wrong?"