"Vinnie?" I said, thinking that I'd have to get the car painted and some new license plates.

"The guy who delivered the money to you from Julio."

"I don't know what you're talking about, lady."

"I told Julio why I needed to talk to you. He said it was none of his business-not family. He probably knew you'd never return my calls. So I told Vinnie to ask you for me.

"Nobody asked me anything."

"I know. He told me you wouldn't talk to him."

"I don't know what he told you. I don't care. I don't like people threatening me."

"Vinnie threatened you?"

"I don't know any Vinnie. You threatened me. In the parking lot, right? Either I talk to you or you keep hounding me."

"I didn't mean to threaten you."

"You're threatening me with this whole conversation. Julio's got his people on the street looking for me? Very fucking nice."

"Julio doesn't know anything about this. Vinnie did me a personal favor-and so did the guy who spotted you this morning."

"People like to do you these favors?"

She moved her lips in something between a smile and a sneer. "Men like to do me favors. You find that very surprising?"

"If this Vinnie is your idea of a man, no."

"You don't like any of us, do you?"

"Who's this 'us' you're talking about? An old man with a loose mouth? A punk kid? A woman who threatens me?"

"Us Italians."

"I don't like people who don't mean me any good, okay?"

"Okay," she said in a quiet voice, "but now that I went to all this trouble-now that we're here-will you listen to me and see if you're interested?"

"And if I'm not?"

"Then that's your decision. I won't bother you anymore.

"On your word of honor, right?"

Her eyes narrowed in on me. I thought I saw a tiny red dot in each one-it must have been the reflection from her hair. "You don't know me," she said.

"I don't want to know you," I told her.

She reached in her purse, fumbled around with her hand. Her eyes never left my face. "I'll pay you five hundred dollars to listen to what I have to say-why I want you to work for me. You don't take the case, you still keep the money. Okay?"

I took a minute to think about it. If I listened to her story and told her I wasn't interested, there was at least the chance that she'd go someplace else. And there was a filly pacer running at Yonkers that night that I just knew was going to break her maiden with a big win. She was due to snap a long string of losses. So was I.

"Okay," I told her.

The redhead. ran her fingers through her hair in an absent-minded gesture. The diamond flashed on her hand. "My best friend has a…"

"Hold it," I told her. "Where's the money?"

"You listen to me first."

"No way."

"I thought only lawyers got money up front. You're only a private detective."

"Lady, you don't have the slightest idea what I am," I said, "but I'll give you a hint. I'm a man who's going to listen to your story-after you put five hundred dollars on the table."

Her hand darted into her purse. Out came five new century notes. She fanned them out-held them up. "Is this what you want?" she snapped.

"It's half of what I want."

"You mean you want a thousand?"

"I mean I want you to tell me your story and then get out of my life-like we agreed," I told her.

She released her grip on the money. It dropped to the seat between us. The street was still quiet-plenty of people around, but no problems. I picked up the money and pocketed it.

"So?" I asked her.

"My best friend, Ann-Marie. She has a little boy, only two years older than my daughter. He was in like a nursery-school thing during the day. Someone there did something to him. A sex thing. And they took pictures of him. We didn't even know about the pictures until the therapist. explained it to us. But the boy, Scotty, he keeps saying they have his picture. Like they have his soul."

"This picture…he's doing something in it?"

"I think he must have been doing something…but he won't tell us. The therapist is working on it. I think if he got that picture, and we tore it up right in front of him…then maybe he'd be okay again."

"Just one picture?"

"That's what he said-he saw the flash."

"Lady, that picture's either in some freak's private collection or it's out on the street. For sale, you understand? It's just about impossible to come up with the stuff you want. And even if I found one print, the people who do the marketing make thousands of copies. It's a better business than cocaine: as long as you have the negative, you can make as many copies as you want."

"All we want is one picture…he's too young to know about making copies. I want to be there when we tear it up in front of him."

"It's a real long shot, you understand?"

"Yes. But it has to be done."

I looked directly at her-the little gangster princess wasn't going to take no for an answer. She wasn't used to it. "Why come to me?" I asked.

She had the answer ready. "Because you're friends with the Nazis."

I LOOKED straight ahead through the windshield, trying to get a grip on what she just said. If she knew about the Nazis, then she knew about some of the scores I'd pulled over the past few years-home-grown Nazis are a con man's delight. Knowing an old hotel address was nothing, it wasn't the trump card she thought it was. But the Nazi thing-she could hurt me. A cold wind blew through my chest. She held better cards than I thought.

Nothing moved in my face. I lit a cigarette, throwing the question at her out of the side of my mouth. "What're you talking about, lady?"

"Julio said you were friends with them. In prison. He saw it himself."

The weight came off my chest. Those Nazis were a different breed.

"Julio's got a lot of medical problems, doesn't he?" I asked.

"What medical problems? He's in perfect health, specially for an old man.

"No, he's not," I told her, my voice quiet and calm now. "His eyesight hasn't been good for a long time. He's losing his memory. And his mouth is out of control."

She understood what I was saying. I wouldn't have to do anything to the old man myself-if some of his bloody brothers got the word that Julio was writing his memoirs, he was gone.

"He only told me," said the redhead, her voice tight with tension, trying to convince me. "He wouldn't tell anyone else."

"Sure."

"I mean it. I made him tell me. I was desperate, okay?"

It wasn't okay. I took a close look at her. I might have to describe her someday and I didn't think she'd pose for a picture. The red hair framed a small, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were big and set far apart, the color of factory smoke. Her makeup looked like it was done by an expert: dark-red lipstick outlined in black, eye shadow that went from blue to black as it flowed from her eyebrows to the lashes, blended blusher on her cheeks, breaking right at the cheekbones for emphasis. Her teeth were tiny pearls-they looked too small for a grown woman, and too perfect to be real. Her nose was small and sharply bridged, slightly turned up at the tip. Piece by piece, she wasn't beautiful, but the combination worked. It was hard to think of that red slash of a mouth kissing anyone. Her hands were small, but the fingers were long, capped with long, manicured nails in the same shade as her lipstick. The redhead's eyes followed mine as they traveled over her-she was used to this.

"And you're still desperate, right?"

"Right," she said, as if that settled everything.

It didn't settle anything for me. I turned the ignition key, listened to the motor catch, and moved the lever into Drive. The Plymouth rolled off the pier, headed back to the courts.