When Peter Plennary hung up, he was convinced he was on to something. He had a big story. A Mafia mayor and that was obvious because he had an Italian name. Some wonderful person risking his own life to try to fight the Mafia. A gang of Chinese heroin-peddlers. The children probably were not children at all but cleverly disguised midgets. It could be a really exciting story. Peter Plennary started work on it right away. He wrote two hundred and fourteen pages. When he turned it in seven weeks later, his editor had forgotten what it was about and threw it in the garbage. Plennary retrieved it late at night when the editor had gone home and decided to use it as his doctoral thesis: "Crime and Corruption in a Typical Racist Right Wing Hate-Filled American Slum City Ruined by Rampant Capitalism and Suppressing Minorities."

After he had gotten the reporter off the phone, Nobile shook his head as he turned to Remo.

"It's getting too close," he said. "We've got to find this nut-case before he blows everything. I need a couple more weeks, without trouble, and I'll have every goddam big Mafia fish in the country in here."

"And when that's all done, what'll you do?" Remo asked.

Rocco Nobile shrugged.

"You know your life's not worth a can of warm beer," Remo said.

"I know," Nobile said. He rubbed his hand through his thick bushy hair. "Oh, I know. They're going to give me a new identity and send me somewhere else, but that's bullshit. Some clown with a hard-on for the government and a peek at the files is going to make himself rich by handing me up. I give myself three months. At least, it's three months I won't have to dye my hair or wear pinky rings or pinstripe suits." He paused and thought. "Maybe less than three months."

"Then why do you do it?" Remo asked.

"Wouldn't you?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. But if I did it, I'd do it for me, not for the government."

"That's the difference between us," Nobile said. He turned around and looked out the window at the tired dull streets of Bay City. He turned down the roar of the rock station which always filled the office. "I guess you could call it a generation gap. But I grew up believing America was worth a life. Even my own."

Remo sat up in his chair. He recognized that. He thought back to Conrad MacCleary, a one-handed man who had brought him into the secret organization CURE. When he lay dying and asked Remo to kill him, he had said the same thing: "America is worth a life."

"I know somebody who said that once," Remo said.

"Federal man?" Nobile asked.

Remo nodded.

"We were taught it," Nobile said. "Can you tell me your friend's name?"

"No. Hell, why not? Conrad MacCleary."

"MacCleary? That one-armed drunken whoremonger?" The words were hard but the face of Rocco Nobile was soft, exuding good memories as he thought back over his life.

Remo nodded.

"Conn and I went through O.S.S. training together." Nobile chuckled. We both learned that line from one of our meanest, tight-assed bastard instructors that ever lived. We used to make fun of him. Then one day he vanished."

"What happened to him?" Remo asked casually.

"We lost track of him," Nobile said. "And it was World War II, and we had other things to think about. Then I found myself in Germany, doing spy work, and I was captured. They had me in the cellar of an old castle and they were going to kill me. Suddenly, this guy comes into the cellar and orders everybody out. It was my old instructor. What it was was that he'd become a spy behind German lines. He was supposed to be a high-ranking Nazi. Well, he got me out of there. He killed six people on the way. And when he put me on a plane to get me out of Germany, I asked him, 'Aren't you coming?' He said no. He had more work to do. And that was the last I saw of him. That was his line. 'America is worth a life.' Old Graham-Cracker Smith. Dry as dust but a helluva man."

"What was his name?" Remo asked.

"Smith. Harold W. Smith."

"What happened to him?"

"Don't know. He switched to the CIA when it was first set up. He was one of those gray people that you don't notice much but you always get the feeling that he's running things while somebody else takes the credit. Then he just kind of vanished and I heard he had put in his papers. He's probably dead now. Or maybe farming rocks some place up in New Hampshire. Bravest man I ever met."

He looked out the window over his city, musing about old times, then he looked back at Remo, almost in surprise, as if noticing him for the first time.

"What were we talking about? Oh, yeah, MacCleary. He still alive?"

"No," Remo said.

"What happened to him?"

"They' sent me to kill him," Remo said.

"Did you?"

"No. I couldn't do it."

"Neither could I. But Harold Smith could've. That was the difference between us. I guess that was the bravery he had that I didn't."

"Sounds like a good man," Remo said. "Someday I'd like to meet him."

When there was no story in the Post the next day, Sam Gregory slammed the paper to the floor of his motel room.

"That's it," he snarled.

"What's it?" asked Al Baker nervously. Mort Tolan was at the window, pointing his trigger finger at passing cars. He smiled only when a pedestrian came into range. He practiced seeing how many shots he could squeeze off mentally before the body crumpled and hit the sidewalk. The Lizzard sat at the dressing table, looking at his face for pimples. In front of him was a tumbler filled with Vodka.

"We're going to have to make a different hit," said Gregory. "Something the papers can't ignore."

"It passeth understanding," said Lizzard. "Do we do this thing because 'tis right or because we look for plaudits from the world? That thing is noblest done that is done with no one there to cheer."

"Dammit, I don't want cheers. I want press coverage," Gregory said. "I want the word to go out: we're taking on the Mafia."

"When do we get paid?" asked Baker. "I don't have two cents."

"Nor do I and empty pockets impel a man to dangerous acts," said Lizzard.

"Today," Gregory said in disgust. "I've got money for you all."

"Keep your money," said Tolan from the window.

"Not so fast," said Baker. "It's about time we got paid."

"Truly spoken," said Lizzard. "Truly spoken."

"What do we do next?" Tolan asked.

Gregory looked at the tall husky man. "We're going to hit the Bay City Improvement Association. Rocco Nobile's own club."

"When?"

"Tonight. When those crooked cops drop off their gambling protection money. The press can't ignore that."

"Good," said Tolan. "I'm tired of marking time like this." Yeah, he thought, looking out the window. Life was important and money was important but death was more important, especially when it was the death of bad people. And if there weren't any bad people, yeah, well, then he'd settle for any people. Yeah.

"Marking time?" said Baker. "You shot five people yesterday. Three of them kids."

"Just a warm-up," Tolan said. "Don't you know we're warring on the evil-doers, no matter what disguises they may wear?" He turned toward Baker's eyes. "Bang, bang," he said softly.

"Stop that, will you, looney?" Baker said. "Sam, make him stop doing that."

"Don't call me Sam. I'm The Eraser. You're The Baker. He's The Lizzard."

"And I'm The Exterminator," Tolan said. "Bang, bang." He moved his index finger to point at Lizzard's left temple. "Bang, bang." He pointed his ringer at Gregory's forehead. "Bang, bang."

"A looney," said Baker. "A freaking refugee from the rubber room."

"Stop the bickering," Gregory said. "I've got to draw a plan of attack for tonight." He reached for a large yellow pad. From a dresser drawer, he took a box of yellow wooden pencils.