The neon signs around the Square were washed out and dull during the day. If his connection didn't show up soon, he might pick up a whore for some fun. Seeing the tombstones rolled up in some cheap hooker's eyes would give him a few moments' relief from the pain. It wouldn't be great, like the girl in the subway, but it would be distraction. God, he had wanted to kill her. At least hurt her enough to get a reaction out of her. Better to just get drunk and watch the ball game on television, though. A low profile for the rest of the day was not an entirely bad idea.

"Fuck it," he said, walking away from the statue. "Those Shadow Fist boys are going to have to do better than this."

"Don't go away mad," said a deep, nasty voice from behind.

Spector turned. There was a joker a few paces behind him, closing the distance with slow, measured strides. There was dried blood smeared on his shirt. He had a single eye set in the center of his forehead.

"You're late."

"It's been a busy morning. Had a little business to attend to down at the waterfront." The cyclops made a fist, showing his badly bruised knuckles. "You must be Spector."

"Right. So tell me something."

"It's like this." He looked over his shoulder. "The Gambiones are having dinner at the Haiphong Lily tonight. Family meeting, you know. The don is in the way. He has to be taken care of' That's where you come in."

"Tonight, huh? What's the job pay?"

"Five grand."

Spector ran his tongue around his teeth, cleaning away more dried blood. He figured this punk had been given a ceiling amount by someone higher up and could keep the rest for himself. The joker didn't have the brains to snow a six-year-old. "No way. Do it yourself."

"Okay, okay. Seven-five."

"Ten, or get somebody else. We're not talking about an easy target here. This is the don you want iced." Spector took a step back and looked away. He wanted to push this guy hard, so the organization wouldn't take him for a fool.

The joker put his hands on his hips. "You got it."

"I'll want two of that right now." Spector extended his hand.

"What? Right here? You've got to be kidding." He glanced around again, this time in melodramatic fashion.

Spector had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. This moron needed acting lessons and the brains to use them. "They wouldn't send you here with just change in your pocket. Now pay up, or find me somebody who will." Spector liked leaning on the punk a little, watching him squirm.

The cyclops pulled a thick brown envelope from his coat and shoved it in Spector's face. "Just to show we trust you." Spector tucked the envelope in his coat pocket and smiled. "I won't even count it. Yet. Now, what time is dinner fbr our friend the don?"

"Around eight, so you'll need to get there a little before. You can eat pretty well, now," he said, tapping the envelope in Spector's pocket.

"When do I get the rest?"

"Tomorrow night. We'll let you know where." He leaned in close. His breath stank of decay. "By the way, if you happen to hear anything about some missing stockbooks, let me know"

He pulled out a small spiral notebook and pen, then wrote a phone number on the top sheet. "You can reach me here for the next few hours," he said, tearing out the sheet and handing it to Spector "It's the Bowery Wild Card Dime Museum. I do security work there in my spare time."

"You keep an eye on the place, right?"

The cyclops ignored his joke. "Hey, you have to have a legit job for tax reasons. That's what the boss says. Looks suspicious otherwise."

"Sure. Sure. What did you say your name was? Just in case?"

"Eye."

"And if I can't get hold of you?"

"Call the Twisted Dragon. Ask for Danny Mao. Tell him you were born in the year of the fire horse. He'll take it from there."

"How would you like to come with me tonight? Just so you'll be completely sure the contract was filled." Spector put his arm around the joker and walked him down the sidewalk.

Eye shrugged him off. "Just do your fucking job. And keep your faggot hands off "

"Pleasure doing business." Spector watched him walk away. There was time to hit a bar and watch the game before he went to work. The Dodgers had better fucking win today or the don would have plenty of company.

12:00 Noon

The Dodgers were taking batting practice when Jennifer found her seat in the bleachers. The late summer sun was soothing on her bare arms and face. She closed her eyes and listened to the friendly sounds of the stadium, the call of the vendors, the conversation of the fans, the unmistakable crack of bat hitting ball.

She suddenly realized that it'd been two years since she'd been to a ball game, two years since her father had died. Her father had loved the Dodgers and he'd taken her to many games. She wasn't that big a fan herself, but she'd always been happy to accompany him. It was a good excuse to get out into the sunshine or the cool evening air.

She remembered, in fact, the first Wild Card Day game her father had taken her to. It had been in 1969, the Dodgers against the Cardinals. The proud Dodger franchise had fallen on hard times in the mid-1960s, finishing at or near the bottom of the league for five straight years, but in 1969 the incomparable Pete Reiser, who had been in center field for the Dodgers that day in 1946 when the Wild Card virus had rained down from the sky, had come out of retirement to manage his old team. When Reiser played for the Dodgers they'd been a collection of glorious names. In 1969 they were a bunch of castoffs, never-has-beens, and untried rookies. Reiser, the center fielder nonpareil of the '40s and '50s, the man who had made the most hits, scored the most runs, and compiled the highest batting average in history, took a ragamuffin team that had finished last in 1968 and led them to first place with a miraculous combination of managerial insight and inspiration.

Tom Seaver, Brooklyn's only bona fide star, had pitched on that day in 1969, and beat Bob Gibson, 2-0. The Dodgers' runs had come, she remembered, on solo home runs by the elderly third baseman, Ed "The Glider" Charles. That game had clinched the division flag for the Dodgers, and they went on to beat Milwaukee in the National League's first divisional playoffs, and then demolished the vaunted Baltimore Orioles in the World Series.

Memories of the exultation of that day, when an entire city had roared a collective shout of glee, brought a smile to her face. It had been a rare moment, and, looking back, she wished that she'd been old enough to appreciate the absolute and pure joy, untainted by any other emotion or thought. She'd rarely experienced that feeling since, and never with tens of thousands of other people.

The loud crack of a bat meeting a ball brought her back to the present, and she wiped the smile off her face. These reminiscences weren't doing any good. Fleeing the perilous present by taking refuge in pleasant memories of the past was no way, she realized, to solve anything. Men were after her, and she had to figure out why. Well, actually she knew why. Obviously they wanted the books back. But how had they tracked her down so quickly? And why did they kill Gruber? No, that's not right. They thought she had killed Gruber. She hadn't. If they hadn't, and she knew that she hadn't, who had?

Something strange was going on and Jennifer was caught in the middle of it. She suppressed a shiver. Suddenly the sunlight wasn't as warm. The people around her didn't seem as innocent. Kien's men had tracked her to the Happy Hocker. They could very well track her here. Any one of these "Dodger fans" sitting around her could be a killer.

She glanced around and froze when her worst fear seemed to be confirmed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the darkhaired man who had been watching her in the ticket line. He was sitting two rows behind her and to her right. He was pretending to be looking at his scorecard, but he was also surreptitiously studying her.