".. long time since you last called, Maria."

"Yes, it has been a long time. But I am still a Gambione.° "Don Frederico has passed on," Max said after a pause. "Perhaps an accident, perhaps the damned-excuse me,

"Maria-Chinamen. I do miss your father, Maria. This never would have happened if he were still with us."

"My father was a good don, Max. Is there someone in line to become the new don?"

"No, the Butcher-excuse me, Maria-thought he would live forever."

"What will happen with the Family?"

Bagabond looked up sharply at Rosemary. The assistant DA's tone held more than intellectual concern, and she looked worried. Her hands were curled, the knuckles livid.

"There is a meeting tonight at eight at the Haiphong Lily-the younger capos find it amusing to meet there, and the food is good. The capos will decide who will be the next don. Forgive my impertinence, but I hope they choose more wisely this time."

"I'm sure they will, Max."

"Maria, if you give me your phone number, I could let you know what happens."

"No, no, I'm never at home and I hate answering machines."

"I can't believe that a nice girl like you hasn't found a husband yet. You can't mourn Lombardo Lucchese forever, you know. Don't let that tragedy ruin your life."

"Thank you, Max. I'm riot. You know how picky I am. My father's daughter."

"Yes, you are. Strong and smart like him. Please don't be such a stranger, Rosa Maria. We all miss you."

Bagabond's eyes widened as she listened to Rosemary's conversation. Rosemary picked up a ballpoint from her deak and threw it at her.

"Take care, Max. I'll speak to you soon. Ciao."

"Ciao, Maria."

The phone squealed when Rosemary switched off the speaker.

"And what's so funny, Suzanne?"

"'Oh, Max, I'm just too busy being a district attorney to have a family.' They really don't know?"

"Suzanne Melotti, God will get you for that. Of course they don't know. Rosemary Muldoon is black Irish and doesn't look a thing like Maria Gambione, the only twentieth-century Madonna. I haven't seen any of them in person since my mother's funeral years ago, and I wore a wig, veil, and no makeup for that." Rosemary shook her head. "Why would they make the connection? Everybody around here just figures I read the right books in school and somehow know the right people to be an expert on the Families. They also allow me the factor of good luck."

"God already has." Bagabond leaned back in her chair and tilted her head to one side. "You really are worried about the Gambiones' welfare, aren't you? The Gambiones are still your family."

"If the balance of power shifts, we'll have a disaster." Rosemary stood up.

"Bullshit. Let's go get Jack."

Rosemary opened her mouth to reply, but the phone beeped at her and the disembodied receptionists voice spoke. "Ms. Muldoon, I've got a problem here. Sergeant FitzGerald is calling from the Tombs. It seems that someone, um, 'teleported,' I think he said, an alleged criminal into the Tombs."

"Mother of God, why today!" Rosemary stared at the phone as if she wanted it to explode. "Patricia, isn't Tomlinson on call this afternoon?"

"Well, yes, Ms. Muldoon, that's what my sheet says. But he's still out to a late lunch and everyone else I've tried is either in conference or away from their desk."

"I'll just bet they're in conference." Rosemary sighed and sat down again. "I'll take it."

Bagabond didn't believe Rosemary's protests of uninvolvement with the Gambiones. The books had become an excuse for Rosemary to be reunited with her real family. It angered Bagabond that she had been maneuvered into aiding Rosemary in that goal. It also made her jealous of Rosemary's past. Bagabond blocked out the office and tracked down Jack, still treading his reptilian path toward his prey. It took time to scan for him, even at his current slow pace. When she located him, she returned to the office to find Rosemary watching her balefully.

"Sergeant FitzGerald, soon to be Officer FitzGerald, is hysterical. He is also incoherent. I've got to get down there now. Why don't you come along and we'll leave from there?"

Bagabond nodded at her as Rosemary reached for the intercom. "Patricia, try and find Goldberg for me. Tell him to meet me at the elevator." Rosemary grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair. "Let's go before anything else happens. I want to make this quick."

"Why him?" Bagabond put her shoes back on and winced. She walked through the door Rosemary held open for her. "Your buddy, Goldberg? Because he's new and he's got to learn how to handle this sort of thing. And besides, I like spreading misery around. Come on."

Goldberg waited at the elevator, apparently nervously watching for Rosemary. He nodded at Bagabond as the pair walked up.

"Suzanne, I believe you've met Paul Goldberg." Rosemary waved at Bagabond. "Paul, Suzanne Melotti, a friend and associate of mine."

"I'm pleased to meet you officially, Ms. Melotti." He smiled at her. "I hope I wasn't too abrupt earlier."

"No." Bagabond punched the Down button.

"Um, good. Good." Paul turned to Rosemary. "Ms. Muldoon, may I ask why I'm here'?" He spread his hands and looked inquisitive.

"Today is not a good day to give me straight lines, Paul." Rosemary glanced at Bagabond, who was watching the floor numbers change. "I'll tell you on the way."

"Yes, ma'am," said Paul.

Altobelli met Fortunato at the barricades across the south entrance to Fort Tryon Park. The barricades had been up so long, what with the kid gangs and then the damage the aces had done rooting out the Masons, they'd become permanent fixtures.

There were cops everywhere. As one paddywagon pulled away another crawled up to take its place. They were down to the dregs now, skinny, underage kids in jeans and T-shirts, handcuffed and sweaty, some of them bleeding from the face and hands. Altobelli shook his head. He was short, graying at the temples, thin except around the middle.

"PC's idea," he said. The police commissioner had been on the radio all last week, taking a hard line about Wild Card Day. "Nice, huh? Of all the fuckin' times to pull this kind of stunt. If we'd been on the streets where we were supposed to be, instead of up here kickin' a few kids' asses, maybe we could have saved the Howler or that kid. Not to mention the Turtle."

"What?"

"It just come over the wire," Altobelli said. "Couldn't fuckin' believe it myself. Couple of punk aces took him out with some sort of scrambler or somethin'. Then they napalmed the poor bastard. Went into the Hudson. They're dragging for the shell. No sign yet."

"Jesus. The Turtle." If they can get him, Fortunato thought, then we're all finished. There's no hope for any of us. I'm going to die, he thought.

In a way losing all hope made it easier. Now it was just a question of grace under pressure. Saving what he could and letting the rest go.

Sometime, he thought, before four o'clock, you're going to get your shot. What you have to do is wait for it. Be ready. Don't even think about saving yourself, because you're already lost. What you have to do is kill him. Whatever it costs you, you have to kill him, or die trying.

His hands were shaking. Not fear, not really. More like sick, helpless rage. He made them into fists. He was squeezing so tight he thought he was going to hurt himself. Before he knew he was going to do it he had turned around and put his fist through the back window of one of the squad cars. Chunks of safety glass rolled across the back seat like uncut jewels.

"Jesus Christ, Fortunato!" Altobelli ran to the car and then looked back at Fortunato's hand. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Christ, how am I gonna explain this window?"

"Say one of the kids did it. I don't care." He flexed his fingers, went through a couple of calming mantras in his head. "Forget the window, okay, Altobelli? Tell me why you wanted me here."