"I work freelance now."

"So Frank just brought you in?"

"As of this morning."

"Must be something big," Myron said. "You don't come cheap."

Aaron gave him the teeth again, adjusted the jacket of his suit. "You want the best, you have to pay."

"So why's Frank so bent out of shape about this?"

"I have no idea. But make no mistake about it: Frank wants your investigation to end. Now. No excuses. Look, Myron, we both know you've been something of a pain in the ass to Frank. He doesn't like you. To be honest he'd like to ace you. That's no bullshit. I'm talking man to man here. Friend to friend. We're friends, right? Buddies?"

"Best of chums," Myron added. Shovel, shovel.

"But Frank is showing incredible restraint with you. Generosity even. He knows, for example, that you took Eddie Crane out to dinner. That alone would be reason for Frank to want you roughed up a bit. But he doesn't. In fact he's decided that if Eddie Crane chooses your agency, he won't get in the way."

"Big of him."

"But it is big of him," Aaron insisted. "He owns the kid's coach, for crying out loud. By all rights he belongs to TruPro. But Frank is willing to let him go, and he's willing to help you bring in Roger Quincy. Two very big favors. Gifts really. In exchange, you do nothing."

Myron turned his palms up. "How can I pass up a deal like that?"

"Do I sense a whiff of sarcasm?"

Myron shrugged.

"Frank's trying to be fair, Myron."

"Yeah, the man's a prince."

"Don't push him on this. It's not worth it"

"Can I leave now?"

"I'd like your answer first."

"I'll have to think about it," Myron said. "But I'd be much more willing to let go if I knew what Frank was trying to hide."

Aaron shook his head. "Still the same old Myron, huh? You never change. I'm surprised no one has wasted you yet."

"I'm not easy to kill," Myron said.

"Maybe not."

"And I'm also a snazzy dancer. No one likes to kill a snazzy dancer. There're so few us left."

Aaron put his hand on Myron's knee and leaned toward him. "Can we stop the lunatic routine for a moment?"

Myron's eyes flicked down to the knee, then back to Aaron. "Uh, your hand?"

"You know about the carrot and the stick, Myron?"

"The what?"

"The carrot and the stick." The hand was still on Myron's knee.

"Oh. Sure. The carrot and the stick." What?

"So far I have shown you only the carrot. I would feel amiss if I did not also show a bit of stick."

In the front seat Fishnet and Jim shared a chuckle.

Aaron's fingers gave the knee a little squeeze. Like a hawk's talons. "Now you know me. I'm not a stick man. I'm the gentle sort. I'm kind. I'm nice. I'm…" He looked up as though searching for the word.

"A carrot," Myron finished.

"Right. A carrot."

Myron had seen Aaron kill a man. Snap his neck as though it were a twig. He'd also seen the results of Aaron's work in venues ranging from boxing rings to morgues. Some carrot.

"But nonetheless I need to add a bit of stick. Just for the record, you understand. It's expected. I know it's not necessary in your case. The stick, I mean."

"I'm listening," Myron said.

"Yeah," Fishnet added, "tell him, Aaron." Fishnet and Jim restarted the chuckle. Louder.

"Shut up," Aaron said softly.

Again immediate silence. Like they'd both been shot in the head.

Aaron swung his line of vision to Myron. His eyes were suddenly dark and hard. "There will be no further warnings. We will simply strike. I know you don't scare easily. I explained that to Frank. He doesn't care. He suggested striking places that another man might consider taboo."

"Like?"

"I understand Duane Richwood is playing well. I'd hate to see his career cut short." He gave the knee a harder squeeze. "Or take your beautiful Jessica, for example. Now I know she's out of the country right now. In Athens, in case you don't know. The Grand Bretagne Hotel. Room 207. Frank has friends in Greece."

Myron felt a cold chill. "Don't even think about it, Aaron."

"Not my decision." He finally let go of the knee. "It's Frank. He's adamant about this. He wants you to let go now. You know what they say about grabbing a tiger by the tail."

"If he touches her-"

Aaron waved him off. "Please, Myron, no threats. There's no reason for threats here. You can't win. You know that. The price of victory is too high. You and Win are only two men. Two good men. Two of the best. Worthy adversaries. But Frank has me, for one. And he has others. Many others. As many men as he needs. Men with no scruples. Men who would break into Jessica's room, take turns with her, and then blow her away. Men who would jump Esperanza on her way home from work. Men who would even do unspeakable things to your mother."

Myron stared at Aaron. Aaron did not blink. "You can't win, Myron. No matter how tough you are, you can't stand up to that kind of thing. We both know it."

Silence. The Caddy pulled up to the front of Myron's building.

"Can I have your answer now?" Aaron asked.

Myron tried not to shake as he got out of the car. Without glancing behind him he walked inside.

Win worked the heavy bag. He was snapping side kicks that bent the eighty-pound bag almost in half. He threw kicks at every level. The opponent's knee. The abdomen. The neck. The face. He struck with his heel, his toes angled down. Myron went though several katas, or forms, concentrating on the precision of his strikes, imagining a person in front of him rather than the air. Sometimes the person was Aaron.

They were at Master Kwon's new downtown location. The dojang was divided into two sections. One looked like a dance studio. Hardwood floor and lots of mirrors. The other section had matted floors, dumbbells, a speed bag, a heavy bag, a jump rope. On the shelf were rubber knives and guns to practice take-away techniques. The American flag and Korean flag were hung near the doorway. Each student bowed to them as they entered and left. School rules were listed on a poster. Myron knew them by heart. His favorite was rule number ten. Always finish what you start.

Hmm. Good advice? Hard to say right now.

There were fourteen school rules in all. Every once in a while Master Kwon added a new one. Number fourteen had been put up two months ago: Do not overeat. "Students too fat," Master Kwon had explained. "Too much put in mouth." In the twenty years since Win had helped Kwon relocate to the United States, Kwon's English had continually degenerated. Myron suspected it was part of his image as a wise old man from the Far East. Playing Mr. Miyagi from the Karate Kid movies.

Win stopped. "Here," he said, gesturing to the bag. "You need this more than I do."

Myron began to hit the bag. Hard. He started with some punches. Tae kwon do's fighting stance is simple and practical, not all that different from a boxer's. Anyone who tried that crane-stance bullshit on the streets usually ended up on their ass. Myron followed up with some elbow and knee strikes. Elbows and knees were useful, particularly for fighting in close. Martial arts movies showed lots of spinning kicks to the head, jumping kicks to the chest, stuff like that. But street fighting was far simpler. You aimed for the groin, the knee, the neck, the nose, the eyes. Occasionally the solar plexus. The rest was wasteful. You get in a real life-or-death situation, you twist the guy's balls. You stick your fingers in his eyes. You throw an elbow to his throat.

Win walked over to a full-length mirror. "Let's review what we've learned so far," he said in the mock voice of a kindergarten teacher. He began to play air-golf, practicing his swing in the mirror. He did that a lot. "One, the esteemed senator from Pennsylvania wants you off this case. Two, a major mobster from New York wants you off this case. Three, your client, the womanizing Duane Richwood, wants you off this case. Have I left anybody out?"