"What you want."

"Right. And you know what I want right now?"

"To fit into size-34 pants."

Joey said, "You see, Charlie? You see? A wisea.s.s."

Charlie DeLuca's eyes went dark and he looked at me the way you look at a parking ticket you've found under your wiper blade. He said, "I want you to watch this." He turned and made the little hand move to Joey Putata. "Come here, piece of s.h.i.t."

Joey glanced at the short, muscular guy and then at the bartender, and then he walked out to stand in front of Charlie DeLuca's table. The princ.i.p.al's office. "What?"

"You told me you got rid of him. I sent you on the job to get rid of him, and here he is. I don't like f.u.c.kups, piece of s.h.i.t."

Charlie wasn't looking at Joey; he was looking at me. Joey was staring at Charlie, sweating now, scared and wondering what was going to happen, and everyone else was staring at Joey. Except for Ric. Ric made a nice, smooth shot and the clack clack of the b.a.l.l.s was the only sound in the bar. of the b.a.l.l.s was the only sound in the bar.

Charlie said, "Smack yourself, piece of s.h.i.t."

Joey said, "C'mon, Charlie, please. I took Lenny and Phil. We gave him the word."

Charlie still didn't look at him; he stared at me. "Do it, piece of s.h.i.t. Hit yourself in the face."

Joey sort of slowly raised his right hand and looked at it, then slapped himself in the face. It wasn't very hard.

"Close your hand."

Joey started to cry. "Hey, c'mon, Charlie."

"Piece of s.h.i.t."

Joey closed his hand and sort of punched at his jaw.

"Harder."

Joey hit himself harder, but it still wasn't very hard.

Charlie said, "Ric, this piece of s.h.i.t needs some help."

Ric put down the pool cue and moved up by the bar, head still bobbing to music only he could hear. When he moved, he sort of glided, as if the tight pale skin were laid over steel cables and servo motors instead of muscle. He took off the Wayfarers and put them away in the black shirt and then he took out a stainless-steel Smith & Wesson 10mm automatic. You don't see many 10-mils. Style.

Joey said, "Hey, Charlie, hey, I'll do it, look at this." This time his lip split.

Charlie nodded. "That's better, piece of s.h.i.t. Now a couple more."

Joey hit himself twice more. The second time opened the split and blood ran down Joey's chin and dripped onto his shirt. Ric put away the 10mm. Charlie DeLuca got up from the little table and came around and looked at me. "You see the way it is."

I said, "Sure."

"I want you gone. Ric, you and Tudi walk this f.u.c.k outta here and show him that I get what I want."

I said, "Does this mean I can't stay for lunch?"

Ric peeled himself away from the bar and the guy with the big arms took out a short-barreled Ruger .38 revolver. He showed it to me, then put it in his coat pocket just like they do in the movies. Ric didn't bother with the 10mm. I guess he just brought it out on special occasions.

Charlie DeLuca was turning away as if he were going around the table to finish his tongue when he hit Joey Putata a wide, looping right hand that caught Joey blind and knocked him over a couple of chairs and down to the floor. Joey covered up and DeLuca kicked him in the kidneys and the back and the legs, yelling, "Piece of s.h.i.t, rotten piece of s.h.i.t." He grabbed a fork from somebody's plate and stabbed Joey in the fleshy part of the shoulder. Joey Putata screamed and Charlie went back to kicking him. Tudi and the bartender and the other guys watched, but took a step back as if they didn't like what they were seeing and they were frightened that they might be pulled into it. Except for Ric. Ric glided up behind Charlie and put his hands on Charlie's shoulders and mumbled until Charlie stopped kicking and cursing and was finally standing there, breathing hard and finished with it. Ric the cooler, talking down the nut case. Charlie went back to the table, sat, but stared at the plate as if he didn't recognize what was in front of him.

The little bartender said, "Jesus."

Ric straightened his jacket, then came back over to me and pushed me through the red naugahyde door out into the light. It took Tudi a couple of steps to catch up. I said, "He gets sort of carried away, doesn't he?"

Ric said, "Shut up and let's go."

We went up along the street, then turned into a little alley. The alley was black and wet and gritty, with dumpsters and steel garbage drums sprouting like mushrooms along the base of the buildings. A couple of six-wheeler vegetable trucks were parked to the side, enveloped by restaurant steam venting from greasy pipes. Surly white kids and Puerto Rican kids in dirty ap.r.o.ns hung around outside of the kitchen doors, smoking and scratching at tattoos that someone had cut into them with Bic pens and sewing needles. Rotten cabbage was the big smell. I said, "Gee, fellas, I think I can find my way from here."

Tudi said, "We get finished with you, mook, you ain't even gonna be able to find the hospital."

Ric didn't say anything.

Tudi took the little .38 out of his coat pocket and pointed it at me and that's when Joe Pike stepped out from behind one of the vegetable trucks, twisted the gun out of Tudi's hand, c.o.c.ked it, and pressed it against Tudi's right temple. It had taken him maybe a tenth of a second.

Pike said, "Do you want to die?"

Seventeen.

It happened quickly and without apparent effort, as if Pike had somehow a.s.sembled himself from the air and the trucks and the earth.

Tudi blinked and looked confused, response lagging behind event, and then his eyes bulged and he sucked in a single sharp breath. "Jesus Christ." His right hand stayed up and out, as if he were still holding the gun.

I said, "You're five minutes too soon. I was just about to let these guys have it."

Pike's mouth twitched. He never smiles, but sometimes he'll give the twitch.

Pike is maybe six-one and lean, all taut cords and veins. He was in straight-legged blue jeans and Nike running shoes and an olive-green Marine Corps parka over a gray sweatshirt and G.I. pilot's gla.s.ses so dark that they were without depth or dimension. He c.o.c.ked his head to look at Ric. He had to look up.

Ric lifted his hands to the sides, letting Pike see that they were empty. He moved with great care, but he didn't look scared. Outside in the light, his skin was so pale I wondered if he used makeup, his eyes black dots set far back in dark hollows, angry weasels staring out of ice caves.

Pike said, "Your call."

Ric smiled. His teeth were small and yellow and angled backward like a snake's. If he bit you, you'd have a h.e.l.luva time getting away from him. He reached out and pushed Tudi's gun hand down. "He's got your gun, stupid. All you're holding is air."

Tudi looked at his hand, maybe wondering where his gun had gone. "The guy j.a.pped me."

Pike stepped back and lowered the gun.

I gave Tudi the tsk-tsk. "First Joey the Potato, now you. Charlie's gonna love it."

Tudi's face was red and angry. He looked at his empty hand again like maybe he had made a mistake the first time, like maybe if he looked again, it wouldn't be empty and he could shoot Pike and me and he wouldn't have to tell Charlie that he'd been j.a.pped by a guy who came out of nowhere. Only when he looked, the hand was still empty. He looked back at Pike, then grunted and charged, head down. Pike's right knee snapped up hard, and Tudi popped over as if he'd been jerked backward by a leash. He hit the ground flat on his back with a loud slapping sound and that was the end of it.

"Dumb," I said. "This man has the market cornered on dumb."

Ric smiled some more. "He thinks he's good. All these guys, they think they're good."

Pike was back to looking at Ric. "How about you?"

Ric reached down with the emaciated white scarecrow arm and picked up Tudi and lifted him over his shoulder like a bag of dirty laundry. Tudi had to go two-thirty-five, at least. It was a long way to lift two-thirty-five. "We'll talk again," he said.

Pike nodded, then opened Tudi's gun, shook out the bullets, and dropped the gun into a steel garbage drum. We walked away, me leading and Pike walking backward, keeping an eye on Ric until we got to the street, then we moved against the traffic down toward Broome, trying to blend in with the natives.

I said, "How'd you find me?"

"Went by Rollie's when I got in and dropped off my stuff. He said you'd be here. He said you were going to go one-on-one with the mafia." He shook his head, unimpressed. "The mafia."

"What they lack in skill, they make up for in numbers. Except for Ric. Ric is maybe pretty good."

Pike shrugged, still giving it unimpressed. You want to impress Pike, you've got to use the neutron bomb.

We picked up a cab at the corner of Mott and Broome. The cabbie was an older guy with a bald, misshapen head and a lot of ear hair. He said, "Where to?"

I told him an intersection near Rollie's. "You know where that is?"

He flipped down the flag on the meter. "Hey, I'm driving the Big Apple thirty-five years."

We went west on Broome.

The cabbie said, "You guys here on business?"

"Yeah."

"You from California?"

I said, "We're from Queens."

The cabbie laughed. "Yeah, right. I got you made for somewhere out west, L.A. or maybe San Diego." So much for blending with the natives.

We picked up Pike's things and the Taurus from the parking garage across from Roland George's building, and worked our way out of the city and then north through the countryside to Connecticut and Chelam. While we drove I told Pike about Peter Alan Nelsen and Karen Lloyd and their son, and Karen's involvement with the DeLuca family. Pike sat in the pa.s.senger seat and never once moved or spoke or acknowledged what I was saying. As if he weren't even in the car. Maybe he wasn't. You hang around Pike enough, you begin to believe in out-of-body experience.

Twenty minutes after four we pulled off the highway into the Ho Jo, and I used the phone in my room to call Karen Lloyd at the bank. She said, "Charlie called." Her voice was low, as if Joyce Steuben might be outside the door, listening.

"I thought he might."

"He was livid. He told me I shouldn't have brought you in."

I said, "It's not anything we didn't expect, but we had to try. Did you print out a record of the transactions for me?"

"Yes. I have them here."

"Okay. I need to see them."

"Don't come to the bank." There was a pause, as if she had to think through the variables and find the best one. "Come to the house, say at seven-thirty. We'll be finished with dinner then and Toby will be doing his homework. Is that all right?"

"Fine."

There was another pause and then she said, "Thank you for trying."

"Don't mention it."

I put down the phone and looked at Pike. "We'll go out to her place at seven-thirty."

Pike nodded, then went out to the lobby and checked in, taking one of the rooms adjoining mine. I stood in the door and watched him bring in an olive-green Marine Corps duffel bag and a long metal gun case that looked like something for a Vox guitar. Anyone saw it, they'd think Pike played ba.s.s for Lou Reed. After he was settled he came back into my room and we looked at each other. It was four-forty-five. He said, "Anything around here to do until seven?"

"Nope."

"Any good places to eat?"

I shook my head.

Pike looked out of my window down onto the parking lot and crossed his arms. "Well," he said. "We didn't have it this good in Southeast Asia."

Nothing like support from your friends.

At five o'clock we went down to the bar and drank beer, then enjoyed an early dinner in the restaurant. I had a very nice chicken-fried steak. Pike had lentil soup and a large mixed vegetable salad and four slices of whole-wheat toast and a thick wedge of Jarlsberg cheese. Vegetarian.

The female bartender who was thinking about moving to California came in from the bar and kidded around with us until two older couples in heavy coats and loud shirts walked in and then she had to go back to the bar. The two older couples didn't eat. They just drank.

After a while we bought four beers to go and took them back to my room and watched the local New York news. The weather forecast said that the skies would continue to clear for the next few days, but that then another front would move down from Canada bringing cold and snow. The sports report was fine, but the hard news stories were mostly about subways and city strikes and local personalities and things indigenous to New York. They seemed alien and sort of empty.

Midway through the newscast, a male anchor with a lantern jaw and a rough-hewn face and squinty eyes reported a federal study that concluded that the L.A. basin had the dirtiest air in the country. He grinned when he said it. The black female co-anchor grinned, too, and reported a corollary story that Angelenos drive more than urbanites in any other major American city. The jut-jawed anchor grinned even harder and said that maybe Los Angeles wouldn't have such a bad smog problem if they put in a subway to the beach. That got a big laugh from everybody. Especially the weatherman.

Joe Pike said, "a.s.sholes."

I turned off the television.

It was ten minutes before six.

We sat and stared, neither of us saying much, and then Joe Pike went into his room. After a while I heard his water running. I took off my clothes and did a little yoga, stretching to warm myself, then working through the cobra, and the locust, and the wheel pose, but I couldn't concentrate. I tried doing push-ups and sit-ups instead, but with no better luck. I kept losing count. After a while I got off the floor and called the local news station in New York and told a young woman that I wanted to speak to the jut-jawed anchor. When the young woman asked me why, I said that I wanted to call him a p.r.i.c.k. She wouldn't put me through.

Pike stayed in his room and I stayed in mine, and at twenty minutes after seven we went down to the Taurus and drove to Karen Lloyd's.

Tough guys like me never miss home.

Eighteen The air was crisp and cold and the sky was a velvety black as we parked in Karen Lloyd's drive and walked up to the door. I rang the bell and Karen Lloyd answered. When she saw Joe Pike, she said, "Oh."