The night was young.

They found Gus Mondalvo in an underground club a largely Hispanic section of Riverhead. This was a little past four in the morning. His mother, refused to open the door of her apartment repeated declarations that they were police, told them they could find her son at the Club Fajardo "up block," which is where they were now, trying to convince the heavyset man who opened the door that they weren't here to bust the place.

The man protested in Spanish that they weren't serving liquor here, anyway, so what was there bust? This was just a friendly neighborhood club having a little party, they could come in and see for themselves, all of this while incriminating bottles and glasses were being whisked from behind the bar and off the table tops By the time he took off the some five minutes later, you would have thought it was a teenage corner malt shop instead of a club selling booze after hours to a clientele that included

kids. The man who let them in told them Gus was sitting at the bar drinking... "But nothing alcoholic," he added hastily. and pointed him out to them. A Christmas tree stood in the corner near the bar, elaborately decorated, extravagantly lighted. The detectives made their way across a small dance floor packed with teenagers dancing and groping to Ponce's Golden Oldies, moved past tables where boys and girls, men and women alike were all miraculously drinking Coca-Cola in bottles, and approached the stool where Gus Mondalvo sat sipping what looked like a lemonade.

"Mr. Mondalvo?" Hawes asked.

Mondalvo kept sipping his drink.

"Police," Hawes said, and flipped a leather case open to show his shield.

There are various ways to express cool when responding to a police presence. One is to feign total indifference to the fact that cops are actually here and may be about to cause trouble. Like "I've been through this a hundred times before, man, and it don't faze me, so what can I do for you?" Another is to display indignation. As, for example, "Do you realize who I am? How dare you embarrass me this way in a public place?" The third is to pretend complete ignorance. Cops.

Are you really cops? Gee. What business on earth could cops possibly have with me?" Mondalvo turned slowly on his stool. "Hi," he said, and smiled.

They had seen it all and heard it all.

This time around, it would be pleasant indifference.

"Mr. Mondalvo," Hawes said, "we understand you worked on the engine of a Cadillac belonging to a Rodney Pratt on Friday, would you remember doing that?"

"Oh, sure," Mondalvo said. "Listen, do you think we'd be more comfortable at a table? Something to drink? A Coke? A ginger ale?"

He slid off the stood to reveal his full height five-six, five-seven, shorter than he'd looked while sitting, a little man with broad shoulders and a waist, sporting a close-cropped haircut and mustache.

Carella wondered if he'd acquired the weight lifter build in prison, and then realized he was someone who was, after all, gainfully employed as automobile mechanic. They moved to a table near the dance floor. Hawes noticed that the club was discreetly and gradually beginning to clear out, slipping into their overcoats and out the door. If a bust was on the cards, nobody wanted to be here when it came down. Some foolhardy couples, enjoying music and maybe even the sense of imminent clan.

flitted past on the dance floor, trying to ignore them but everyone knew The Law was here, and sideswiped them with covert glances.

"We'll get right to the point," Carella said. "Did you happen to notice a gun in the glove compartment of that car?"

"I didn't go in the glove compartment," Mondalvo said. "I had to put in a new engine, why would I go in the glove compartment?"

"I don't know. Why would you?"

"Right. Why would I? Is that what this is about?"

"Yes."

"Because I already told Jimmy I didn't know anything about that guy's gun."

"Jimmy Jackson?"

"Yeah, the day manager. He asked me did I see a gun, I told him what gun? I didn't see no gun."

"But you did work on the Caddy all day Friday." "Yeah. Well not all day. It was a three-, four-hour job. What it was, somebody put styrene in the crankcase."

"So we understand."

"Styrene is what they use to make fiberglass. It's this oily shit you can buy at any marine or boat supply store, people use it to patch their fiberglass boats. But if you want to fuck up a guy's engine, all you do you mix a pint of it with three, four quarts of oil and pour it in his crankcase. The car'll run maybe fifty, sixty miles, a hundred max, before the oil breaks down and the engine binds. Pratt's engine was shot. We had to order a new one for him. Somebody didn't like this guy so much, to do something like that to his car, huh?

Maybe that's why he packed a gun."

Maybe, Carella was thinking.

"Anybody else go near that car while you were working on it?"

"Not that I saw."

"Give us some approximate times here," Hawes said. "When did you start working on it?"

"After lunch sometime Friday. I had a Buick in needed a brake job, and then I had a Beamer had something wrong with the electrical system. I didn't

get to the Caddy till maybe twelve-thirty, one o'clock.

That's when I put it up on the lift."

"Where was it until then?"

"Sitting out front. There's like a little parking space out front, near where the air hose is?" "Was the car locked?" "I don't know."

"Well, were you the one who drove it into the bay and onto the lift?"

"Yeah."

"So, was the car locked when you... ?"

"Come to think of it, no."

"You just got into it without having to unlock the door."

"That's right."

"Was the key in the ignition?"

"No, I took it from the cabinet near the cash register."

"And went to the car..."

"Yeah."

"And found it unlocked." "Right. I just got in and started it."

"What time did you finish work on it?" "Around four, four-thirty."

"Then what?"

"Drove it off the lift, parked it outside again." "Did you lock it?"

"I think so."

"Yes or no? Would you remember?"