Which was exactly what w.i.l.l.y wanted to hear.

Several hours later, w.i.l.l.y Kunkle and Riley c.o.x entered a restaurant/bar on Bedford Avenue in the Northside section of Brooklyn. The Waldorf Astoria it wasn't, but it did have the relaxed, well-used feel of a popular neighborhood dive. Thankfully, it was also not a place so wholly given over to one race, creed, or s.e.x that their sudden appearance caused any notice.

Riley led them to the bar and to two stools either side of a heavyset, bearded man nursing a half-empty beer.

"Hey, Zeke," Riley said softly.

Zeke looked up at the row of bottles against the wall opposite him, as if he'd just heard a distant alarm bell that made him only mildly curious. "Who's your friend?"

His voice was gravelly and low-pitched, somewhere in the suburbs of Louis Armstrong, except that he was white.

"He's shy," Riley answered. "You got what I'm after?"

"Sure." Zeke took a long pull on his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What d'you want with an old dog like Manotti? He's barely breathin' anymore."

The bartender approached. Riley ordered a beer, w.i.l.l.y a black coffee. Riley slid two twenties in front of Zeke, who had them enveloped in his fist almost before they touched the bar top.

Zeke, still staring at the bottles before him, said, "He's the one in the corner booth, facing the door like anyone cared about him anymore. Fat guy with the three hairs combed over the top."

w.i.l.l.y glanced at the man as he reached for some pretzels. Manotti was eating alone, and seemed almost done with his meal.

"He in a car or on foot?" he asked.

The bearded man slowly swung his head around to look at him and raised his eyebrows. "Wow. It talks."

"It can also shove that bottle up your a.s.s."

Zeke returned to his earlier, meditative posture. "I liked you better before. He's on foot."

"What's his address?" Riley asked.

"My, my, you boys are demanding," he said, but he gave them an address nearby.

"Now leave," w.i.l.l.y ordered.

From his body language, Zeke looked ready to protest, or at least proffer up some face-saving witticism, but he apparently thought better of it, and muttered, "Next time you're shoppin', don't call me, okay?" as he slid off the stool.

Riley waited until he'd left the bar, and then told w.i.l.l.y, "That was useful. Thanks."

w.i.l.l.y drank from his coffee. "Too G.o.dd.a.m.ned chatty," he said, and as if to set an example, stopped at that.

Riley smiled and shook his head slightly. "You always this much fun?"

w.i.l.l.y didn't answer.

"There was a guy like you in the neighborhood when I was a kid," Riley told him. "Real sour, never had anything good to say. We stayed out of his way or we cranked him up, depending on how many there were of us. My grandmother used to let me have it when she heard me criticizing him, though. They weren't friends or anything, but she said anyone like that had to have had things a lot tougher than we did, 'cause n.o.body gets born that way."

w.i.l.l.y kept at his coffee. He'd thought about that, of course, blaming his father for abandoning them, his mother for never owning up to it. And, in fact, it had been a little weird-one day the old man had been in the house, the next he wasn't, not a single person anywhere saying a word about it. Not once. The last communication w.i.l.l.y remembered-the night before his father left-was being slapped across the face by him because w.i.l.l.y had dropped his spoon at the table.

But lots of kids lost their fathers, or were turned into punching bags, or who knew what else. w.i.l.l.y hadn't suffered as much as most of them.

What people didn't understand was that it was kind of liberating to speak his mind when he felt like it, to live with his curmudgeon's reputation. It disentangled him from other people, and he'd come to see that as a blessing.

w.i.l.l.y put his cup down and rubbed his eyes with his hand, pushing hard enough to cause stars.

"Looks like he's on the move," Riley said, breaking into w.i.l.l.y's meditations.

w.i.l.l.y turned discreetly to see Lenny Manotti settling his bill.

So much for deep thinking.

They let Manotti get halfway down the block before leaving the bar and tailing him. If there ever had been a period when the old man had shoved his weight around and needed protection, it was apparently a long time back. Now he sauntered along nonchalantly, one hand working a toothpick, the other buried in a pocket, occasionally waving to some acquaintance on the street. Another retiree enjoying the twilight years.

They'd discussed what approach to take, the most obvious being the one w.i.l.l.y had used on Carlos Barzun. Riley's information was that despite Manotti's current inoffensiveness, he hadn't been a gentle player when he'd been in the game. But he was toothless now, unlike La Culebra, and capable of striking a time-wasting toughguy pose from pure nostalgia.

As a result, w.i.l.l.y had decided not to give him the option.

Riley hadn't argued the point. Odd as it appeared, he'd discovered in w.i.l.l.y a man whose combat sense he could trust. It had been for him the rediscovery of one Vietnam experience he hadn't expected to ever feel again: a bonding not based on shared backgrounds or cultures, but on the other guy's proven ability to get the job done. Riley had no delusions about w.i.l.l.y's survival skills-the latter seemed devoted to his own self-destruction in a loopy, roundabout way-but Riley did believe that following his lead might well result in avenging Nate's death, while leaving his own skin intact.

Any further sentiment didn't apply, and clearly wasn't asked for.

Manotti lived in a bland apartment building of no architectural merit-merely one of those square brick blocks with dozens of windows, reminiscent of a child's drawing. w.i.l.l.y picked up his pace, leaving Riley behind, and reached the lobby just as Manotti was digging into his pocket for his keys. w.i.l.l.y was holding his dead pager up to his ear as if it were a cell phone.

"Look," he said in a slightly argumentative tone as he came up behind the old man, "I don't care what he told you. We settled on that price a week ago. He can't expect me to move this kind of deal and then have all the numbers change.... Hang on a sec. I gotta get my door key."

He made a show of trying to keep the fake phone wedged against his cheek while fumbling deep in his pocket for the fictional keys. Manotti noticed the effort as he unlocked the door, correctly interpreting w.i.l.l.y's pleading expression, and held the door open for him to pa.s.s through.

"Thanks, man," w.i.l.l.y murmured with a quick smile. "It's been a h.e.l.l of a day."

He regained control of the pager and said, "No, I was talking to somebody else. Harry, tell me exactly what he told you. I wanna hear if maybe I missed something the first time around, like maybe what a crook this guy is."

Together, Manotti and w.i.l.l.y walked the length of the building's inner foyer and arrived at the waiting elevator around the corner.

"He said what?" w.i.l.l.y said eventually, his voice rising. "That doesn't sound even vaguely right. I got the contract upstairs, unless he sent me something new in the meantime.... s.h.i.t." He held the pager against his chest as Manotti pushed the b.u.t.ton for the third floor. "Mister," he explained, "I hate to be a pain, especially after you helped me out, but I forgot to check my mail and I gotta get to my apartment fast. Could you hold the door?"

After a pleasant dinner out, and being flattered for his courtesy, Manotti wasn't inclined to turn him down. He nodded, said, "Sure," and placed his hand against the doorjamb.

w.i.l.l.y jogged back the way they'd come, opened the door for the waiting Riley, gave him the floor number, and retraced his steps, pretending as he rounded the corner to be stuffing something into his inner pocket. "Hang on, Harry. I'm doing two things at once." He rejoined the old man, nodded his thanks, and said, "Four. I really appreciate it," as Manotti waved inquiringly at the elevator's control panel. w.i.l.l.y then spoke into his fake phone, "No. Just junk mail and a bill. All right, tell me exactly what he said."

For the rest of the trip up, all w.i.l.l.y had to do was make facial expressions and an occasional comment to fulfill what remained of his charade. On the third floor, he raised his eyebrows in grateful parting to Manotti, who waved back, and waited for the doors to close before replacing the pager on his belt. On the next floor, he ran down the hallway, found the stairwell, and doublestepped down one flight.

He carefully poked his head into the hallway, looking both ways, and saw Riley leaning against the wall to the left, out of breath from his quick climb up three stories.

Riley met him halfway. "Number 340," he said in an undertone. "Lucky for me he doesn't live on the top floor. No dog met him at the door and all the lights were out when he opened the door. He's gotta live alone. You want to hit him now?"

w.i.l.l.y shrugged. "No reason not to."

They quietly returned to Manotti's apartment door. w.i.l.l.y stood directly opposite the peephole. Riley flattened against the wall near the doork.n.o.b.

w.i.l.l.y rang the buzzer.

They heard a man's heavy tread approach. "Yeah?"

"It's Randy," w.i.l.l.y said brightly. "Remember? From the elevator just now. You dropped this just as you stepped out. At least it has your address on it." He held a checkbook up too close to the peephole for anyone to see what it was.

It didn't matter in any case. The lock was already being snapped open. As the door swung back, Riley whipped around from where he'd been hiding and charged through the opening, his shoulder leading, with w.i.l.l.y close behind. They were both inside, the door closed behind them, before Lenny Manotti had stopped sliding across the floor on his back.

Riley was down on one knee beside him, one large hand clamped across his mouth, before he'd been able to utter a sound. w.i.l.l.y stood at his feet, pointing a gun at him.

"Hi, Lenny," he said in a quiet voice. "We're the ghosts from Christmas past. You wanna play ball, or should I shoot you right now? Nod if it's the first."

Manotti nodded once. Slowly, Riley removed his hand. At that, Manotti narrowed his eyes. "Who are you f.u.c.kin' a.s.sholes? I don't know you."

w.i.l.l.y put on a disappointed look. "You hear what he called us? Guess we better turn up the heat."

Riley grabbed Manotti by the scruff of the neck and yanked him up like a mannequin. He dragged him into the living room beyond the entrance hall and slammed him down into a chair. He then pulled some duct tape from his coat pocket and began strapping the older man down.

Manotti licked his lips. "What the h.e.l.l d'you want? Maybe we can make a deal."

w.i.l.l.y smiled, moving a chair opposite his victim and sitting in it so they were virtually knee to knee. "I like that. We're not after much. Problem is, I want it to be the truth. You could tell us anything you wanted to get us out of your hair, and by the time we found that out, you'd have rounded up some of your old buddies."

"I'm retired," Manotti protested. "What do I give a f.u.c.k about that s.h.i.t anymore? What d'ya wanna know, fer Christ's sake? This is stupid."

w.i.l.l.y laughed. "Makes me wonder how many times you did the same thing in your prime. Or did Cashman do it for you?"

Manotti scowled. "You friends with that b.u.m? I shoulda guessed. Couple of f.u.c.kin' leg breakers. No style."

"Right. So says the artist. Spare me, Lenny. Actually, we're not friends of Cashman. Haven't seen him in a long time. What's he up to?"

"Who cares?"

w.i.l.l.y leaned forward, suddenly menacing. A switchblade had appeared in his hand and was now resting on Manotti's upper lip, forcing him to cross his eyes as he stared at it.

"What the-"

w.i.l.l.y interrupted him with a tiny jab. "That's the question, Lenny. Truth or consequences. Where do we find Cashman?"

The other man's eyes widened. "That's what this is about? That a.s.shole? s.h.i.t. You coulda asked me that in the elevator, I woulda told you. You guys're crazy. f.u.c.kin' boneheads."

w.i.l.l.y was losing patience. The knife tip eased into one of Manotti's nostrils.

"Hey, hey," he said, careful not to move.

"Don't give me etiquette," w.i.l.l.y said menacingly. "Give me what I want."

"All right, all right. Jesus Christ. Last I knew, he was hanging around the Carroll Gardens area, either on Clinton or Henry. I don't keep in touch."

w.i.l.l.y laughed at the cliche. "Doesn't mean you won't drop a dime and let him know we came asking."

Despite his precarious position, Manotti flared, "What's with you? You dumb and ugly both? I told you I think the guy's an a.s.shole. You wanna take him out, be my frigging guest." He leaned forward slightly, making his nose bleed, and yelled, "I don't give a f.u.c.k."

w.i.l.l.y sat back and glanced at Riley. "You believe him, Reuben?"

Riley was standing out of Manotti's view and rolled his eyes at the name. He spoke for the first time since entering the apartment. "Sure."

"I guess I do, too. Who's Cashman working for nowadays?"

"He's a freelance," Manotti answered, calmer now that he felt he'd made his point. "That's the biggest reason we split up. I thought he was ripping me off; he thought I was too much the big boss. It's not like I miss him, the guy was a thug."

w.i.l.l.y stood up and moved the chair he'd been sitting on. "Wild guess: You wouldn't want us coming back. Am I right?"

Riley had removed enough duct tape so Manotti could bring his hand up to his nose and touch it gingerly.

"No s.h.i.t."

"You got anything to add, then? Some way we could find Cashman extra fast?"

Manotti examined his fingertips for blood, finding only a drop. "Go to that neighborhood and ask for a cold gun. That oughtta flush him out. He's into guns big time."

w.i.l.l.y pocketed his knife and stuck out his hand. "Thanks, Lenny. You're a stand-up guy."

Manotti shook his head, but he also took w.i.l.l.y's hand in grudging respect. "And you're an a.s.shole. Close the door on the way out."

Chapter 20.

Sammie Martens intoned, "Nancy Hidalgo," and gave an address.

Jim Berhle, Ward Ogden's young partner, typed the name into the computer and waited a few moments for it to respond. "A shoplifting rap six years ago. Otherwise clean," he read back to her.

"Anthony Mallon," Sammie said next, and followed it with another address. She was reading from a list in her hand.

Berhle repeated his part of the exercise.

"Wonder if that's one of the boyfriends," Joe Gunther said, standing by the coffee machine they'd smuggled into the room. The three of them were upstairs in the precinct house, far from the Whip's prying eyes, or anyone else from the detective squad. Ogden was where he was supposed to be, satisfying the powers by catching up on some of his other cases. He'd been taken "off the chart" for any new cases, but Mary Kunkle hadn't been declared worthy of undivided attention.

"Clean as a whistle," Berhle reported.

"Last one," Sammie announced. "Michael Annunzio."

Jim Berhle waited for the address and typed in the name. After the usual pause, he said, "Little more interesting: Mr. Annunzio's been busted for possession twice, disorderly twice, and once for domestic a.s.sault. He might stand a friendly chat."

They'd been closeted for hours, Sammie and Gunther scrounging through all the Metro cards, bills, sales receipts, and credit card slips, building what they could of a timeline and linking it to a geographical chart on one hand-where Mary had been each time she'd generated one of these mundane doc.u.ments-and to a list of names and addresses of everyone she'd phoned over the past six months on the other.