"I want to turn him up, Mr. C. All I want to know is how to go about it."

"Must be real personal," Costello said with a chuckle.

"You hit it on the button."

There was a pause, a long pause. Vaguely in the background he could hear the sound of a razor being drawn across a whiskered face, the sound of an emery board on fingernails and, way in the background, H. V. Kaltenborn was delivering his daily news broadcast on the radio. Finally Costello spoke again.

"It could cost you a bundle, the guy I got in mind."

"The cost doesn't figure in."

"Jesus, you really do want this guy bad. You got a pencil handy?"

"Right."

"Eddie Tangier. GRamercy 56608. It's a candy store on the East Side. They'll take a message. You can use my name."

"Thanks. That's one I owe you."

"You're okay, Frankie Kee, I'll remember that. Maybe someday you hear from me."

"Grazie. Addio. "

"Addio. "

At four o'clock a man entered the saloon. He stood in the doorway for a moment, a hazy shape, haloed by sharp sunlight from outside. He was short and square, a boxy little man who kept his hands in his overcoat pockets as he strolled slowly around the room, checking the booths. He went to the back, opened the men's room door with one hand, leaned over and looked under the booth doors. He did the same with the ladies' room, then went back to the front. A moment later a second man, a slender man nearly six feet tall dressed in black, entered followed by two others who stood on either side of the entrance like palace guards.

Keegan sat in his rear booth reading the afternoon paper. He watched the little drama at the door with casual interest, then turned back to the tabloid.

The tall man in black walked cautiously toward the booth. He did everything cautiously. He walked cautiously, he looked around cautiously, he talked cautiously and he sat down as if he expected the seat to be cushioned with nails. He was a dapper man with a pencil mustache and he wore a vested suit under a black chesterfield coat. He walked down the length of the bar, stopped at its corner and stared across the room at Keegan before he finally approached the booth.

"Frankie Kee?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

He sat across from Keegan, shook out his shoulders and stared at him for ten or fifteen seconds. Then he smiled.

"Eddie Tangier." His voice was low and soft, almost a monotone.

"Thanks for coming."

"This your joint?"

"It's one of my enterprises."

"One of my enterprises, I like that. That uptown talk tickles me to death. So . . . ?"

He held his hands out and wagged his fingers toward Keegan. "I need some advice," Keegan began.

"From me?"

"Yeah."

"What kind of advice?"

"I'm looking for a guy."

"Whoa, whoa, what do you think, you see any feathers on me? I am not a vocalist."

"It's not like that. This guy isn't connected in any way."

"So why would I know him?"

"You don't. Hear me out a minute, okay? I talked to Mr. C., he told me you were the man. He told me you could find God if the price was right."

"Costello said that?" Tangier smiled, obviously flattered. He stretched his neck and sat up a little straighter in the booth. "Well . . . yeah, that's true. Mr. C. says the truth."

"Let me set up a hypothetical case for you."

"Hypowhat?"

"A make-believe situation. I'm looking for a guy and I've got very little to go on. I want to pick your brains, maybe I can figure where to start."

"This ain't a job then, you looking for something for nothin', huh?"

"I'll pay whatever you think it's worth."

Tangier sat sideways in the booth and looked past his shoulder at Keegan. He drummed his fingers on the table.

"You really do got big ones, call me in off the range like that, I think it's something important, you blow smoke up my ass."

"I'll pay you five grand now and five G's bonus if I find the guy."

"Jesus, that's okay. I'll have a glass of wine. Red. My throat's dry."

"Sure. Tiny, a bottle of the best red in the house for Mr. Tangier. Two glasses."

"Yes sir, comin' right up."

"Okay, so you wanna ride with Eddie Tangier. Shoot, what's the game?"

"You might look at it as if . . . as if it's a patriotic thing."

"Uh huh. Right. We gonna salute the flag here in a minute?"

"I'm looking for a guy. I don't know his name, I don't know what he looks like and I don't know where he is except he's in America someplace. Where do I start?"

"What is this, some kinda gag or somethin'? You're lookin' for a guy, you don't know his name, don't even know what he looks like. What'd this phantom do?"

"Nothing yet. I want to stop him before he does."

"What's he gonna do?"

"I have no idea."

"Shit, you're wacky. You got bees in your bonnet there, Frankie Kee. I shoulda known."

"I'm dead serious, Eddie."

"I didn't say you weren't. What I said, you're nutty as a fuckin' peanut farm is what I said."

Tiny came with two glasses and put them on the table with the bottle of red wine.

"Yeah, thanks," Tangier said. He poured an inch or so in the bottom of the glass, held it up, peered at it through the light, took a sip and nodded approvingly.

"Good dago red," he said and filled both glasses.

"Just let me set it up for you, okay? Hear me out. You still think I'm around the bend, you and your boys have a steak on me, we forget all about it."

"You're one strange dude there, you know that? Anybody ever tell you that?"

"Almost everybody."

Tangier chuckled.

"Okay, so you know it. So talk to me." He waved his two men away from the door and pointed to a booth. They sat down. "Feed 'em while we talk, they been on their feet most of the day."

Keegan nodded to Tiny, then toward the two bodyguards.

"Okay," Keegan said, "here it is. Let's say you want to get lost. Disappear, start over someplace else. You need an identity, license, whatever. How would you go about that? What's the procedure?"

"Somebody could still recognize you."

"No. The Phantom's from across the pond. A foreigner."

"Hey, this ain't some kinda spy stuff? Look, I'm not about to screw around with the feds."

"Thing is, Eddie, he doesn't have to worry about his face. What he needs is an identity. I mean, can you buy that kind of thing?"

Tangier leaned back and caressed his lower lip with the rim of the wineglass. He took a sip and put the glass back on the table.

"Look, whyn't you take this to the G-boys? They got the moxie, got the people."

"I tried that."

"And?"

"It's too vague. They don't have the time or the people. They think I'm a crackpot. They're just not interested, blah, blah, blah. Take your pick."

"So forget it."

"I don't want to forget it."

"This a personal thing?"

"Very."

"You gonna whack this guy when you find him?"

"Probably."

"I heard you don't even carry a piece."

"I know how to use one."

Tangier looked around the saloon for a moment, then said, "Okay, tell me everything you do know about this turkey."

"Then you forget it, okay?"

"Hey, I got the worst memory you ever met."

Keegan sighed. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

"The mark is highly trained. A very smart guy. He came here in '33, spent a year someplace. Then sometime in the spring or early summer of '34 he got in a mix-up with the feds. It wasn't something he did personally, it was like he was maybe an innocent bystander, something like that. Anyway, he had to cool off, disappear, start all over. So now he's got a new identity and I don't know where the hell he is. That's all I know."

"No description at all?"

Keegan shook his head.

"That's a bitch."

"Tell me about it."

Tangier finished his wine and poured himself another. He thought for several seconds.

"Once there's this guy called Speed Cicorella, who's a numbers boss up in the Bronx only he's shaving off the top and the boys get wind of it and they put his feet to the fire and it's like, y'know, cough up thirty big ones, Speedy, or it's curtains, so Speed turns rabbit and Mr. C calls me in.

"Now this Speed is a very bright guy except when it comes to tearing a piece off don't belong to him. I got to figure, scheduled for a box like that, he's gonna get real lost. The easiest way to do this, you go to a town, not a big town, not a small town, an in-between town, like, uh, Trenton or Rochester, and you go to the cemetery and you look over the stones and you find where a baby cashed in right after it was hatched, a week or so old, and this mark died about the same time you was born. You know, Baby Smith, born on Tuesday, died on Thursday, we miss you, that kinda thing. The reason you don't wanna pick a small town, probably everybody in the courthouse knows about Baby Smith. You pick a big town like New York, you get lost in paperwork. So anyways you pick a medium town and you find your mark and you go to the courthouse and you get a birth certificate. And you become Baby Smith only now you're like thirty years old."

"How about death certificates?"

"They don't match 'em up. You get born, your stuff is in one place, you die, it's someplace else. They don't match 'em up 'cause it's too much trouble plus who cares, okay? What I'm sayin', it ain't a problem, matchin' up birth papers and death papers. It don't happen."

"Okay."

"So now you got a new ID. You get a driver's license. You get a passport. You get a job. You're Baby Smith, now age thirty. You can do it and do it and do it, man. You can set up three, four IDs, switch back and forth. What it is, you're gone, okay?