Thirty.

When I woke the next morning, the sky was dark with clouds and the air was as cold as the edge of a hunting knife. The snow above us waiting to fall was a physical thing, heavy and damp and alive with turbulence.

Toby was sullen and Karen was unhappy and n.o.body said very much as we went through the house and prepared for the day. Karen drove into the office early and I took Toby to school. Pike stayed at the house, waiting for Roland George to call. Neither Toby nor I spoke on the way to school, but when I dropped him off I told him to have a good day. He didn't answer. It was as if the bad feelings and restless, logy sleep had carried over into wakefulness.

At nine-forty-two that morning Roland George called. I took it in the living room. Pike picked up in the kitchen. Roland George said, "The Jag you saw is registered to a Jamaican named Urethro Mubata. Came up here in 1981. Fourteen arrests, two convictions, a.s.sault, armed robbery, like that. He's mostly in the dope business."

"Not exactly a good-will amba.s.sador."

"Unh-unh. He did eight months at Rikers for possession with intent and another fourteen at Sing Sing for attempted murder. When he was at Ossining, he did cell time with a man named Jesus Santiago, another Jamaican. Santiago served out, but Mubata's on parole."

"Santiago in for pimping?"

"That's it. Sorta curious how this guy Mubata got the forty grand for a new Jaguar when his employment of record is being a busboy at Arturo's Tapas Stand in Jackson Heights."

Pike said, "What about Sealy and the cop?"

"Sealy is a hype, registered in the methadone program at St. Vincent's. He's a n.o.body with a string of minor busts, mostly hijack and street boosting, run a little policy, steal a few stereos, that kind of thing."

"Is he part of DeLuca's crew?"

"It's not in the files, but it's possible. The guy's a drop of pus, but he's a known a.s.sociate. Hard to figure, though. Hype like this, Charlie DeLuca shouldn't be having anything to do with him."

Pike said, "He shouldn't be having anything to do with a police officer, either."

"Yeah." Something hard came into Roland's voice. "The officer in question is employed by Kennedy Airport Security. He is not undercover."

"Okay."

I hung up. Joe Pike came into the living room from the kitchen and said, "I make it for a hijacking setup. Something coming into Kennedy."

"It sounds right, but why's Charlie sneaking around? He gets a tip that something worth stealing is coming in, he uses the Jamaicans to pull the heist, then they split the take with him. Big deal. Why does he want to keep it from Sal?"

"Because he doesn't want to split the money."

I thought about it some more and shook my head. "It's not a world breaker. Charlie shows a little initiative, he makes a few extra bucks. What's Daddy going to do?"

Pike said, "There's the hype."

I nodded. The hype didn't figure. You want to keep secrets, you don't do business with a hype. "Maybe Charlie doesn't have a choice. Maybe, whatever he's doing, he can't do it without the hype."

Pike grunted. "Makes you wonder what he's got going, that he can't do it without a hype."

I said, "Yes, it does. Maybe we should ask the hype and find out."

"What if the hype won't cooperate?"

"He'll cooperate. Everyone knows that a hype can't keep secrets. They have low self-esteem."

We put on our coats and our guns and made the drive into Manhattan in less than fifty minutes.

We parked by a subway entrance near 92nd Street and Central Park West, then walked two blocks to an eight-story gray-stone building with painted windows and a lot of crummy shops on the ground floor and a fire escape.

Pike said, "Third floor in the back. Three-F."

We entered the lobby of the apartment building between a place that sold discount clothing and a place that sold donuts. The lobby had a white and black linoleum floor, circa 1952, probably the last year it had been waxed, and someone had scotch-taped a little handwritten sign that said out of service out of service to the elevator. Someone else had urinated on the floor. You watch to the elevator. Someone else had urinated on the floor. You watch Miami Vice Miami Vice or or Wiseguy Wiseguy, the criminals always live in palatial apartments and drive Ferraris. So much for verisimilitude.

We walked up the two flights, then down a dingy hall past a stack of newspapers four feet tall, Pike leading. An empty plastic Cup-A-Soup was lying on its side atop the newspapers. Three-F was the third apartment on the left side of the hall. When Pike got to the door, he stood there a moment, head c.o.c.ked to the side, and then he shook his head. "Not home."

"How do you know?"

Shrug. "Knock and see."

I knocked, then knocked again. Nothing.

Pike spread his hands.

I said, "Why don't we be sure?"

Pike shook his head, giving me bored.

There was only one lock and it was cheap. I let us into a studio apartment that was just as attractive as the rest of the building. Bags of fast-food wrappers and potato-chip empties in the kitchenette, stacks of the New York Post New York Post and the and the National Enquirer National Enquirer along the walls, paper cups packed with dead cigarettes by a throw-pillow couch, and the sour smell of body odor and wet matches. Nice. No Richard Francis Sealy, though. Maybe Pike could see through walls. along the walls, paper cups packed with dead cigarettes by a throw-pillow couch, and the sour smell of body odor and wet matches. Nice. No Richard Francis Sealy, though. Maybe Pike could see through walls.

We went back down to the mail drop in the lobby. Most of the little mailbox doors had been jimmied-junkies looking for checks-and most of the boxes were empty. The top box had a little plastic sticker on it that said: Sal Cohen, 2A, mgr Sal Cohen, 2A, mgr.

We went back up to the second floor and found 2-A. I knocked hard on the door three times. Somebody threw a series of bolts and then Sal Cohen scowled out at us from behind what looked like eight security chains. He was little and dark, and he had a Sunbeam steam iron in his right hand. He said, "The f.u.c.k you're knocking so loud?"

New York, New York. The att.i.tude capital of the universe.

I said, "Richard Sealy in three-F, he's a pal of ours. He was supposed to meet us here and he's not around."

"So what?" Mr. Helpful.

"We're movie producers. We're going to produce a movie and we want him to be the star. We thought you might know when he'd be around so we could get him in on this."

Sal Cohen blinked at me and then he blinked at Joe Pike. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Sal smirked. "What bull. I know cops when I see'm."

Pike walked away down the hall.

I stepped closer to the door, lowered my voice, and tried to look furtive. I have never in my life met a cop who looked furtive, but there you go. "Okay," I said, "we're on the cops. We need your help in locating Richard Sealy so that we might topple the organized crime structure in our city."

He said, "You find him, you get me the eight months' back rent the little bag of s.h.i.t owes."

"You got any idea when he'll be around?"

"No."

"You know where he works?"

"That lazy sonofab.i.t.c.h, work? If he worked, he wouldn't be eight months back on the rent. None of these lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds work."

"You know where he spends his time?"

"Look down at Dillard's. He's always down there, shooting pool and trying to buy dope, else he's running around with those crazy Gamboza b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Gamboza b.a.s.t.a.r.ds?" Pike came back and stood next to me.

Sal nodded and squinted out at us. "Yeah."

"As in the Gamboza family?"

"Yeah." More squinting.

I said, "Richard Sealy hangs out with the DeLuca family."

Sal laughed, and it came out like a series of sharp hacks. "Hey, you just fall off the lamebrain truck, or what? I run this building thirty-five years. Those f.u.c.king Gamboza b.a.s.t.a.r.ds grew up right over there on Wilmont Street and so did Richie Sealy. They useta throw rocks at the n.i.g.g.e.rs and steal their money, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, Richie Sealy and Nick and Tommy Gamboza and that nut case Vincent Ricci. Jesus Christ, the DeLucas." More of the hacking laugh. "Richie's about as close to being a Gamboza as you can be without the blood. Why else you think I gotta put up with a junkie eight months back on his rent? I heave him out, those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds would cut out my heart and fry it in a pan."

I said, "But how does he fit in with the DeLucas?"

Sal squinted at me past the security chains like I was a new release from Bellevue. "He don't. n.o.body around here got anything to do with the f.u.c.king DeLucas. The Upper West Side is owned lock, stock, and short hairs by the Gamboza family. DeLucas got lower Manhattan. This look like lower Manhattan to you?"

I was seeing it. "Sonofab.i.t.c.h."

Sal Cohen said, "No wonder this city's down the toilet, f.u.c.king cops like you." Then he slammed the door.

Joe Pike and I walked down the flight of stairs and out onto the street and looked around at deepest, darkest Gamboza country. Nary a DeLuca in sight.

"Well, well, well," I said. "Now I'm beginning to see why Charlie's keeping this secret."

Pike nodded.

"The Delucas and the Gambozas hate each other, but they have an agreement. They're supposed to be standing together against the foreign gangs."

Pike's mouth twitched. "Doesn't look that way, does it?"

"Nope."

Pike's mouth twitched a second time. Hysterics, for Pike. "You think whatever these guys are stealing at Kennedy, it's something that would make a lot of people mad?"

"I've got some guesses."

Pike nodded again. "Let's go down to Dillard's and see if your guesses are right."

Thirty-one.

You had to walk up a long wooden flight of stairs to get to Dillard's. The stairs were dark and the finish was worn off the center of each tread. A sign at the bottom of the stairs said DILLARD'S POOL & BILLIARDS, LADIES WELCOME DILLARD'S POOL & BILLIARDS, LADIES WELCOME. Another sign said NO MINORS, UNDER 21 NOT ALLOWED NO MINORS, UNDER 21 NOT ALLOWED.

We went up the stairs and into a big room with a high ceiling and maybe twenty tables and a splintered floor that went pretty well with the stairs. A dozen kids in black leather jackets over white T-shirts shot pool and smoked and sucked on red cans of Coca-Cola as if this were still 1957, only most of them had long s.h.a.ggy hair or buzz cuts. Pool cues like prison bars stood upright on racks against the walls, and fluorescent lights on the ceiling made everyone look dead. One of the lights flickered. A sixty-year-old bald guy with knotty arms sat behind a short bar where you could get beer or soft drinks. He was reading a copy of Sporting Times Sporting Times. I didn't see any ladies and no one except the guy behind the bar looked over sixteen. I didn't see Richie Sealy, either. Pike said, "I'll check the back."

Pike went across the big room and into a little alcove where a couple of signs said restrooms restrooms and and exit exit. I walked over to the guy behind the bar.

He watched me come over the top of his paper and squirmed around on his stool. Nervous. I said, "We're looking for Richard Sealy. Is he around?"

The old guy glanced toward the rear of his place, where Pike had gone, then back to me. He didn't fold the paper or put it down. "You guys with the cops?" First Sal Cohen, now him. Maybe if we let our hair grow.

I said, "Richard Sealy."

More of the nervous. "Look, I'm straight now, okay? I did the nickel and I'm good at my parole and I live straight, so whatever Richie's got going, I don't know." He shot little glances at the kids and kept his voice down, hoping no one would hear. They probably thought he was tough, and he didn't want them to know he wasn't.

I gave him a hard cop look like I'd seen Robert Stack give in old Untouchables Untouchables reruns. "We just want Sealy." reruns. "We just want Sealy."

In the back, a fat kid with gla.s.ses laughed too loud and then a gray metal door that said GENTLEMEN GENTLEMEN opened next to a pay phone and Richard Sealy came out. He was wearing the same two sweatshirts and the same fingerless gloves and he was smiling. Thirty-five years old and he was hanging out with kids. opened next to a pay phone and Richard Sealy came out. He was wearing the same two sweatshirts and the same fingerless gloves and he was smiling. Thirty-five years old and he was hanging out with kids.

The old guy said, "No shooting."

I looked at him. Life at the Longbranch.

Pike came out of the back as Richie went over to a green table where a couple of kids were shooting eight-ball. Richie grabbed a pack of Marlboros off the edge of the table, lipped out a cigarette, fired up, then bent over to line up a shot. Someone had taped a poster of Heather Thomas in a bikini onto the wall. Heather looked okay.

Pike moved along the far wall past the pool cues and came up behind Richie. When he was ten feet from Heather Thomas, I walked over and came up from the near side. "Hey, Richie."

Richie let out a cloud of the Marlboro and looked at me. "I know you?"

"Sure."

Richie squinted through the smoke and rubbed at the inside of his left arm. He looked sleepy. "Where I know you from, Gino's?"

I said, "Let's take a little walk. We got something to talk about."

Joe Pike came up from the other side and stood very close to Richie without expression. The kids shooting eight-ball stopped and looked over.

Richie glanced at Pike, then me. "What the f.u.c.k? I don't know you."

"Come on." I put my hand on his arm. "We've got mutual friends."

"Hey, I'm in the middle of a game here." Eyes flicking faster now, Pike to me, Pike to me.