THE POOL PARLOR was looking like a crack house, R.C. decided.

He'd talk to his father about it.

The thirty-year-old pressed his pale hands around his beer bottle, watching the games at the pool tables. Snuck a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the exhaust vent. That smoking law was fucking stupid. His father said the socialists in Washington were to blame. They didn't mind sending kids to get killed in places with names you couldn't pronounce but they had to say, fuck you, no smoking.

Eyes on the pool tables. The fast one on the end might be trouble-there was serious money on it-but Stipp had the baseball bat behind the bar. And he liked to swing.

Speaking of which. Goddamn Mets. He grabbed the remote.

Boston didn't make him feel any better.

Then he put on the news about the crazy man screwing around with electricity. R.C.'s brother was handy and did a fair amount of electrical work, but wiring always scared him.

And now people around town were getting fried.

"You hear about that shit?" he asked Stipp.

"Yeah, which shit is that?" He had a cast eye, or one that didn't look right at you, if that's what a cast eye was.

"About the electricity thing? Some dude hooking up wires at that hotel? You touched the door handle and, zzzzzzz, you're dead."

"Oh, that shit." Stipp coughed a funky laugh. "Like the electric chair."

"Like that. Only it could be stairs or a puddle or those metal doors on the sidewalk. Elevators to the basements."

"You walk on them and get zapped?"

"I guess. Fuck. And you push those metal WALK buttons in the crosswalks. That's it. You're fucked."

"What's he doing it for?"

"Fuck knows… The electric chair, you piss your pants and your hair catches fire. You know that? That's what kills you sometimes, the fire. Burns you to death."

"Most states got injection." Stipp frowned. "You probably still piss your pants."

R.C. was eyeing Janie in her tight blouse and trying to remember when his wife was coming by to pick up the grocery money, when the door opened and a couple of people came in. Two guys in delivery company uniforms, maybe early shifters, which was good, because they'd be spending money now that their day was over.

Then right behind them, a homeless guy pushed inside too.

Fuck.

The black guy, in filthy clothes, had abandoned a grocery cart of empties on the sidewalk and more or less run in here. He was now turning his back, staring out the window, scratching his leg. And then his head, under a disgusting cap.

R.C. caught the bartender's eye and shook his head no.

"Hey, mister," Stipp called. "Help you?"

"Something weird out there," the man muttered. He talked to himself for a moment. Then louder: "Something I saw. Something I don' like." And he gave a high-pitched laugh that R.C. thought was pretty weird in itself.

"Yeah, well, take it outside, okay?"

"You see that?" the bum asked no one.

"Come on, buddy."

But the man tottered to the bar, sat down. Spent a moment digging out some damp bills and a ton of change. He counted the coins carefully.

"Sorry, sir. I think you've had plenty."

"I ain't had no drink. You see that guy? The guy with the wire?"

Wire?

R.C. and Stipp eyed each other.

"Crazy shit going down in this town." He turned his mad eyes on R.C. "Fucker was right outside. By that, you know, lamppost. He was doing something. Playing with the wires. You hear what's going down around here? Peoples gettin' their asses fried."

R.C. wandered to the window past the guy, who stank so bad he felt like puking. But he looked out and saw the lamppost. Was that a wire attached? He couldn't tell. Was that terrorist around here? The Lower East Side?

Well, why not?

If he wanted to kill innocent citizens, this was as good a place as any.

R.C. said to the homeless guy, "Listen, man, get outa here."

"I wanna drink."

"Well, you're not getting a drink." Eyes outside again. R.C. was thinking he did see some cables or wires or shit. What was going on? Was somebody fucking with the bar itself? R.C. was thinking of all the metal in the place. The bar footrest, the sinks, the doorknobs, the register. Hell, the urinal was metal. If you peed, would the current run up the stream to your dick?

"You don't unnerstand, don't unnerstand!" the homeless guy was wailing, getting even weirder. "It ain't safe out there. Look outside. Ain't safe. That asshole with the wires… I'ma staying in here till it safe."

R.C., the bartender, Janie, the pool players and the delivery guys were all staring out the window now. The games had been suspended. R.C.'s interest in Janie had shriveled.

"Not safe, man. Gimme a vodka and Coke."

"Out. I'm not telling you again."

"You don't think I can pay you. I got fucking money here. What you call this?"

The man's odor had wafted throughout the bar. It was repulsive.

Sometimes you burn to death…

"The wire man, the wire man…"

"Get the fuck out. Somebody's going to steal your fucking grocery cart."

"I ain't going out there. You can't make me go. I ain't getting burnt up."

"Out."

"No!" The disgusting asshole slammed his fist down on the bar. "You ain't service… you ain't serving me," he corrected, "'cause I'm black."

R.C. saw a flash on the street. He gasped. Then he relaxed. It was just a reflection off the windshield of a passing car. Getting spooked like that made him all the angrier. "We ain't servicing you 'cause you stink and you're a prick. Out."

The man had assembled all his wet bills and sticky coins. He must've had twenty dollars. He muttered, "You the prick. You throwing me out and I'll go out there and get burnt up."

"Just take your money and get out." Stipp picked up the bat and displayed it.

The man didn't care. "You throw me out I'ma tell ever'body what goes on here. I know what goes on here, you think I don't? I seen you looking at Miss Titty over there. An', shame on you, you got a wedding ring on. Whatta Mrs. Prick think 'bout-"

R.C. grabbed the guy's disgusting jacket with both hands.

When the black guy winced in panic and cried, "Don' hit me! I'm a, you know, a cop! I'm a agent!"

"You're no fucking law." R.C. drew back for a head butt.

In a fraction of a second the FBI ID appeared in his face, and the Glock wasn't far behind.

"Oh, fuck me," R.C. muttered.

One of the two white guys who'd come in just before him said, "Duly witnessed, Fred. He attempted to cause bodily harm after you identified yourself as a law enforcement officer. We get back to work now?"

"Thanks, gentlemen. I'll take it from here."

IN THE CORNER of the pool parlor, Fred Dellray sat on a wobbly chair, the back turned around, facing the youngster. It was a little less intimidating-the back of the chair in between them-but that was okay because the agent didn't need R.C. to be so afraid he couldn't think straight.

Though he needed him to be a little afraid.

"You know what I am, R.C.?"

The sigh shook the skinny kid's entire body. "No, I mean, I know you're an FBI agent and you're undercover. But I don't know why you're hassling me."

Dellray kept right on going, "What I am is a walking lie detector. I been in the business so long I can look at a girl and hear her say, 'Let's go home and we can fuck,' and I know she's thinking, He'll be so drunk by the time we get there I can just get some sleep."

"I was just protecting myself. You were intimidating me."

"Fuck, yes, I was intimidating you. And you can just close your lips and not say a word and wait for a lawyer to come by and hold your hand. You can even call the federal building and complain about me. But, either which way, word's going to get to your daddy in Sing-Sing that his kid hassled an FBI agent. And he's going to think that running this shithole bar, the one thing he left to you to keep an eye on while he's inside and hoped you didn't fuck up, you fucked up."