"It's too late."

"Whaddaya mean, too late? Give it a little time, f'r Chrissake. This guy Flannagan at the News News will play as long as we wanna play. The Brit, Fallow, at will play as long as we wanna play. The Brit, Fallow, at The City Light The City Light, been beating his brains out with this story. So he'll take whatever I give him. This f.u.c.king story he just wrote couldn'ta come out any better if I dictated it to him. He not only identifies Auburn, he uses the mug shot Quigley got!" Killian was hugely delighted. "And he got in the fact that two weeks ago Weiss was calling Auburn the Crack King of Evergreen Avenue."

"What difference does that make?"

"It don't look good. If you got a guy in jail on a major felony and he suddenly comes forward to give evidence in return for dropping the charge or knocking it down, it don't look good. It don't look good to a jury, and it don't look good to the press. If he's in on a misdemeanor or an E felony or something, it don't make so much difference, because the presumption is, it don't matter that much to him, the time he's facing."

Sherman said, "One thing I've always wondered about, Tommy. Why did Auburn, when he made up his story-why did he have me driving the car? Why not Maria, who was actually driving the car when Lamb got hit? What difference did it make to Auburn?"

"He had to do it that way. He didn't know what witnesses might have seen your car just before Lamb got hit and just after he got hit, and he has to have some explanation for why you were driving up to the point where the thing happened and she was the one who drove away from there. If he says you stopped, and then you and her changed places and she drove off and hit Lamb, then the logical question is 'Why did they stop?' and the logical answer is 'Because some lowlife like Roland Auburn put up a barricade and tried to take them off.' "

"What's his name?-Flannagan-doesn't get into any of that."

"That's right. You'll notice I didn't give him anything about a woman being in the car one way or the other. When the time comes, we want Maria on our side. You'll also notice that Flannagan wrote the whole f.u.c.king story without even making any big deal about the 'mystery woman.'"

"Very obliging fellow. Why is that?"

"Oh, I know the guy. He's another Donkey, same as me, just trying to make his way in America. He makes his deposits in the Favor Bank. America is a wonderful country."

For a moment Sherman's spirits rose a calibration or two, but then they sank lower than ever. It was Killian's obvious elation that did it. Killian was crowing over his strategic genius in "the war." He had conducted a successful sortie of some kind. To Killian this was a game. If he won, terrific. If he lost...well, on to the next war. For him, Sherman, there was nothing to be won. He had already lost almost everything, irretrievably. At best, he could only keep from losing all.

The telephone rang in the library. Sherman braced once more, but soon Occhioni was at the doorway again.

"It's some guy named Pollard Browning, Mr. McCoy."

"Who's he?" asked Killian.

"He lives here in the building. He's the president of the co-op board."

He went into the library and picked up the telephone. From the street below, another roar, more bellowing on the bullhorn...McCOY!...McCOY!...No doubt it was just as audible chez chez Browning. He could imagine what Pollard thought. Browning. He could imagine what Pollard thought.

But his voice was friendly enough. "How you bearing up, Sherman?"

"Oh, all right, Pollard, I suppose."

"I'd like to drop up and see you, if that wouldn't be too much of an imposition."

"You're home?" asked Sherman.

"Just got here. It wasn't easy, getting into the building, but I made it. Would that be all right?"

"Sure. Come on up."

"I'll just walk on up the fire stairs, if that's okay. Eddie's got his hands full down at the front door. I don't know if he can even hear the buzzer."

"I'll meet you back there."

He told Killian he was going back to the kitchen to let Browning in.

"Ayyyy," said Killian. "See? They haven't forgotten you."

"We'll see," said Sherman. "You're about to meet Wall Street in its pure form."

Back in the big silent kitchen, with the door open, Sherman could hear Pollard clanging up the metal treads of the fire stairs. Soon he came into view, puffing, from his climb of all of two flights, but impeccable. Pollard was the sort of plump forty-year-old who looks tonier than any athlete the same age. His smooth jowls welled up from out of a white shirt of a l.u.s.trous Sea Island cotton. A beautifully made gray worsted suit lay upon every square inch of his b.u.t.tery body without a ripple. He wore a navy tie with the Yacht Club insignia and a pair of black shoes so well cut they made his feet look tiny. He was as sleek as a beaver.

Sherman led him out of the kitchen and into the entry gallery, where the Irishman, McCarthy, sat in the Thomas Hope chair. The door to the library was open and Occhioni was plainly visible in there.

"Bodyguards," Sherman felt compelled to say to Pollard, in a low voice. "I bet you never thought you'd know anybody who had bodyguards."

"One of my clients-you know Cleve Joyner of United Carborundum?"

"I don't know him."

"He's had bodyguards for six or seven years now. Go with him everywhere."

In the living room, Pollard gave Killian's fancy clothes a quick once-over, and a pained, pinched look came over his face. Pollard said, "How do you do?" which came out as "Howja do?" and Killian said, "How are you?" which came out as "Hehwaya?" Pollard's nostrils twitched slightly, the same way Sherman's father's had when he mentioned the name Dershkin, Bellavita, Fishbein & Schlossel.

Sherman and Pollard sat down in one of the cl.u.s.ters of furniture Judy had arranged in order to fill up the vast room. Killian went off into the library to talk to Occhioni.

"Well, Sherman," said Pollard, "I've been in touch with all the members of the executive committee, except for Jack Morrissey, and I want you to know you have our support, and we'll do anything we can. I know this must be a terrible situation for you and Judy and Campbell." He shook his smooth round head.

"Well, thank you, Pollard. It hasn't been too terrific."

"Now, I've been in touch with the inspector at the Nineteenth Precinct myself, and they'll provide protection for the front door, so that we can get in and out, but he says he can't keep the demonstrators away from the building altogether. I thought they could make them stay back five hundred feet, but he maintains they can't do that. I think it's outrageous, frankly. That bunch of..." Sherman could see Pollard ransacking his smooth round head for some courtly way to express a racial epithet. He abandoned the effort: "...that mob." He shook his head a great deal more.

"It's a political football, Pollard. I'm I'm a political football. That's what you've got living up over your head." Sherman tried a smile. Against all his better instincts, he wanted Pollard to like him and sympathize with him. "I hope you read the a political football. That's what you've got living up over your head." Sherman tried a smile. Against all his better instincts, he wanted Pollard to like him and sympathize with him. "I hope you read the Daily News Daily News today, Pollard." today, Pollard."

"No, I hardly ever see the Daily News Daily News. I did read the Times Times."

"Well, read the story in the Daily News Daily News, if you can. It's the first piece that gives any idea of what's really going on."

Pollard shook his head more woefully still. "The press is as bad as the demonstrators, Sherman. They're downright abusive. They waylay you. They waylay anybody who tries to come in here. I had to walk a G.o.dd.a.m.ned gauntlet just now to get in my own building. And then they were all over my driver! They're insolent! They're a bunch of filthy little wogs." Wogs Wogs? "And of course the police won't do anything about it. It's as if you're fair game just because you're fortunate enough to be living in a building like this."

"I don't know what to say. I'm sorry about everything, Pollard."

"Well, unfortunately..." He dropped that. "There's never been anything like this on Park Avenue, Sherman. I mean, a demonstration aimed at Park Avenue at Park Avenue as a residential area. It's intolerable. It's as if because this as a residential area. It's intolerable. It's as if because this is is Park Avenue, we're denied the sanct.i.ty of our homes. And Park Avenue, we're denied the sanct.i.ty of our homes. And our our building is the focus of it." building is the focus of it."

Sherman experienced a neural alert as to what might be coming, but he couldn't be sure. He began shaking his head in time with Pollard's, to show his heart was in the right place.

Pollard said, "Apparently they intend to come here every day or stay around the clock, until-until I don't know what." His head was really going now.

Sherman picked up the tempo of his own head. "Who told you that?"

"Eddie."

"Eddie, the doorman?"

"Yes. Also Tony, who was on duty until Eddie came on at four. He told Eddie the same thing."

"I can't believe they'll do that, Pollard."

"Until today you couldn't have believed a bunch of-that they'd hold a demonstration in front of our building on Park Avenue, could you? I mean, there you are."

"That's true."

"Sherman, we've been friends a long time. We went to Buckley together. That was an innocent era, wasn't it?" He smiled a small brittle smile. "My father knew your father. So I'm talking to you as an old friend who wants to do what he can for you. But I'm also president of the board for all the tenants of the building, and I have a responsibility to them that has to take precedence over my personal preferences."

Sherman could feel his face getting hot. "Which means what, Pollard?"

"Well, just this. I can't imagine this is in any way a comfortable situation for you, being held virtual prisoner in this building. Have you considered...changing residence? Until things quiet down a bit?"

"Oh, I've thought about it. Judy and Campbell and our housekeeper and the nanny are staying over at my parents' now. Frankly, I'm already terrified that those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds out there are going to find out and go over there there and do something, and a town house is and do something, and a town house is completely completely exposed. I've thought about going out to Long Island, but you've seen our house. It's wide open. French doors everywhere. It wouldn't keep a chipmunk out. I've thought of a hotel, but there's no such thing as security in a hotel. I've thought of staying at the Leash, but that's a town house, too. Pollard, I'm getting death threats. exposed. I've thought about going out to Long Island, but you've seen our house. It's wide open. French doors everywhere. It wouldn't keep a chipmunk out. I've thought of a hotel, but there's no such thing as security in a hotel. I've thought of staying at the Leash, but that's a town house, too. Pollard, I'm getting death threats. Death Death threats. There've been at least a dozen calls today." threats. There've been at least a dozen calls today."

Pollard's little eyes swiveled swiftly about the room, as if They They might be coming in the windows. "Well, frankly...all the more reason, Sherman." might be coming in the windows. "Well, frankly...all the more reason, Sherman."

"Reason for what?"

"Well, that you should consider...making some arrangements. You know, it's not just yourself who is at risk. Everyone in this building is at risk, Sherman. I realize it's not your fault, not directly, certainly, but that doesn't alter the facts."

Sherman knew his face was blazing red. "Alter the facts! The facts are that my life is being threatened, and this is the most secure place available to me, and it also happens to be my home, if I may remind you of that fact that fact."

"Well, let me remind you-and again, I'm only doing this because I have a higher responsibility-let me remind you that you have a home here because you are a shareholder in a cooperative cooperative residential venture. It's called a cooperative for a reason, and certain obligations, on your part and the board's part, proceed from the contract you executed when you purchased your shares. There's no way I can alter residential venture. It's called a cooperative for a reason, and certain obligations, on your part and the board's part, proceed from the contract you executed when you purchased your shares. There's no way I can alter those those facts." facts."

"I'm at the most critical juncture in my life-and you're spouting contract law?"

"Sherman..." Pollard cast his eyes down and threw his hands up, most sadly. "I have to think not only of you and your family but of thirteen other families in this building. And we're not asking you to do anything of a permanent nature."

We! We the Jury We the Jury-inside the walls! the walls!

"Well, why don't you you move out, Pollard, if you're so f.u.c.king terrified? Why don't you and the entire executive committee move out? I'm sure your shining example will inspire the others, and they'll move out, and no one will be at risk in your beloved building except the d.a.m.nable McCoys, who created all the problems in the first place, right!" move out, Pollard, if you're so f.u.c.king terrified? Why don't you and the entire executive committee move out? I'm sure your shining example will inspire the others, and they'll move out, and no one will be at risk in your beloved building except the d.a.m.nable McCoys, who created all the problems in the first place, right!"

Occhioni and Killian were peering in from the doorway to the library, and McCarthy was looking in from out in the entry gallery. But he couldn't rein himself in.

"Sherman-"

"Move...out? Have you any idea what a pompous preposterous Have you any idea what a pompous preposterous jerk jerk you are? Coming in here, scared to death, and telling me the board in its wisdom deems it proper for me to you are? Coming in here, scared to death, and telling me the board in its wisdom deems it proper for me to...move out?"

"Sherman, I know you're excited-"

"Move...out? The only one who's moving out, Pollard, is you! You're moving out of this apartment-right now! And you're going out the way you came-out the kitchen door!" He pointed a ramrod arm and forefinger in the direction of the kitchen. The only one who's moving out, Pollard, is you! You're moving out of this apartment-right now! And you're going out the way you came-out the kitchen door!" He pointed a ramrod arm and forefinger in the direction of the kitchen.

"Sherman, I came up here in good faith."

"Awwwwww, Pollard...You were a ridiculous fat blowhard at Buckley and you're a ridiculous fat blowhard now. I've got enough on my mind without your good faith good faith. Goodbye, Pollard." He took him by the elbow and tried to turn him toward the kitchen.

"Don't you put a hand on me!"

Sherman took his hand away. Seething: "Then get out."

"Sherman, you're not leaving us any choice but to enforce the provision concerning Unacceptable Situations."

The ramrod pointed to the kitchen and said softly: "March, Pollard. If I hear one more word from you between here and those fire stairs, there's gonna be an unacceptable situation sure enough."

Pollard's head seemed to swell up apoplectically. Then he turned and strode rapidly through the entry gallery and into the kitchen. Sherman followed him, as noisily as he could.

When Pollard reached the sanctuary of the fire stairs, he turned and, furious, said: "Just remember, Sherman. You You called the tune." called the tune."

" 'Called the tune.' Terrific. You're a real phrasemaker, Pollard!" He slammed the kitchen's old metal fire door.

Almost immediately he regretted the whole thing. As he walked back to the living room, his heart was beating violently. He was trembling. The three men, Killian, Occhioni, and McCarthy, were standing about with a mime-show nonchalance.

Sherman made himself smile, just to show everything was all right.

"Friend a yours?" said Killian.

"Yes, an old friend. I went to school with him. He wants to throw me out of the building."

"Fat chance," said Killian. "We can f.u.c.king tie him up in knots for the next ten years."

"You know, I have a confession to make," said Sherman. He made himself smile again. "Until that sonofab.i.t.c.h came up here, I was thinking of blowing my brains out. Now I wouldn't dream of it. That would solve all his problems, and he'd dine out on it for a month and be d.a.m.ned sanctimonious while he was at it. He'd tell everybody how we grew up together, and he'd shake that big round bubble head of his. I think I'll invite those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds"-he motioned toward the streets-"on up here and let 'em dance the mazurka right over his big bubble head."

"Ayyyyyy," said Killian. "That's better. Now you're turning f.u.c.king Irish Irish. The Irish been living the last twelve hundred years on dreams of revenge. Now you're talking talking, bro."

Another roar rose from Park Avenue in the heat of June...McCOY!...McCOY!...McCOY!

26. Death New York Style

It was the Dead Mouse himself, Sir Gerald Steiner, who got the bright idea. Steiner, Brian Highridge, and Fallow were meeting in Steiner's office. Just being here, breathing the Mouse's own eminent air, gave Fallow a warm feeling. Thanks to his triumphs with the McCoy case, the upper rooms and inner circles of The City Light The City Light were open to him. Steiner's office was a big corner room overlooking the Hudson River. There was a large wooden desk, a Mission-style worktable, six armchairs, and that necessary proof of high corporate position, a couch. Otherwise the decor was Working Newspaperman. Steiner kept promiscuous heaps of newspapers, reference books, and copy paper on his desk and the worktable. A computer terminal and a manual typewriter stood on workmanlike metal stands near his swivel chair. A Reuters wire-service machine chattered away in a corner. A police radio was in another. It was now silent, but he had kept the thing on for a year before its yawps and bursts of static finally wore him out. The plate-gla.s.s windows, which offered a sweeping view of the river and the clam-gray Hoboken sh.o.r.e, had no curtains, only venetian blinds. The venetian blinds gave the vista a Light Industry, Working Newspaperman aspect. were open to him. Steiner's office was a big corner room overlooking the Hudson River. There was a large wooden desk, a Mission-style worktable, six armchairs, and that necessary proof of high corporate position, a couch. Otherwise the decor was Working Newspaperman. Steiner kept promiscuous heaps of newspapers, reference books, and copy paper on his desk and the worktable. A computer terminal and a manual typewriter stood on workmanlike metal stands near his swivel chair. A Reuters wire-service machine chattered away in a corner. A police radio was in another. It was now silent, but he had kept the thing on for a year before its yawps and bursts of static finally wore him out. The plate-gla.s.s windows, which offered a sweeping view of the river and the clam-gray Hoboken sh.o.r.e, had no curtains, only venetian blinds. The venetian blinds gave the vista a Light Industry, Working Newspaperman aspect.

The purpose of this summit meeting was to figure out how to proceed with Fallow's smoking-hot tip: namely, that Maria Ruskin was the mystery woman, the foxy brunette who took the wheel of McCoy's Mercedes roadster after McCoy ran down Henry Lamb. Four reporters-including, Fallow was happy to see, Robert Goldman-had been a.s.signed to do legwork on the story. Legwork for him for him; they were his drudges. So far they had established only that Maria Ruskin was out of the country, probably in Italy. As for the young artist, Filippo Chirazzi, they had been unable to find any trace of him at all.

Steiner was sitting at his desk with his jacket off, his tie pulled down, and his red felt suspenders blazing away on his striped shirt, when it came to him, his bright idea. The City Light The City Light's business section was currently running a series on "The New Tyc.o.o.ns." Steiner's scheme was to approach Arthur Ruskin as a subject for the series. This would not be entirely devious, since Ruskin was in fact typical of the "new tyc.o.o.n" of latter-day New York, the man of immense, new, inexplicable wealth. The interviewer of the new tyc.o.o.n would be Fallow. If he could get close to the old man, he would play it by ear. At the very least, he might find out where Maria Ruskin was.

"But do you think he'll go for it, Jerry?" asked Brian Highridge.

"Oh, I know these chaps," said Steiner, "and the old ones are the worst. They've made their fifty million or their hundred million-that's what the Texans call a unit. Did you know that? They call a hundred million dollars a unit. I think that's delightful. A unit, of course, is a starting starting point. In any case, this sort of chap makes his great colossal pile, and he goes to a dinner party, and he's sitting next to some pretty young thing, and he's getting a bit of the old tingle-but she hasn't the faintest notion who he is. A hundred million dollars!-and she's never even heard his name, and she isn't interested in who he is when he tries to tell her. What can he do? He can't very well go about with a sign around his neck saying point. In any case, this sort of chap makes his great colossal pile, and he goes to a dinner party, and he's sitting next to some pretty young thing, and he's getting a bit of the old tingle-but she hasn't the faintest notion who he is. A hundred million dollars!-and she's never even heard his name, and she isn't interested in who he is when he tries to tell her. What can he do? He can't very well go about with a sign around his neck saying FINANCIAL GIANT FINANCIAL GIANT. At that point, believe me, they begin to lose some of their purported scruples concerning publicity."

Fallow believed him. It was not for nothing that Steiner had founded The City Light The City Light and kept it going at an operating loss of about ten million dollars a year. No longer was he merely another financier. He was the dread buccaneer of the dread and kept it going at an operating loss of about ten million dollars a year. No longer was he merely another financier. He was the dread buccaneer of the dread City Light City Light.

The Mouse proved to be an able psychologist of the newly and anonymously rich. Two telephone calls from Brian Highridge and it was all set. Ruskin said he generally avoided publicity, but in this case he would make an exception. He told Highridge he would like for the writer-what was his name? Mr. Fallow?-to be his guest for dinner at La Boue d'Argent.