Andre is dressed in pleated navy slacks and a matching silk shirt open at the collar. A heavy chain hangs down to the smooth crease of his chest muscles. He’s treated himself to a Rolex and in his hand is a crystal decanter. He hands Russo a large snifter, fills it with bourbon, and then refills his own.

“Drink?” he asks, raising the decanter.

I sit down behind my desk and say, “No. Have a seat, Prince.”

“Yeah,” he says, half his mouth pulled up in a smile. He throws himself down sideways in a leather chair with his legs over the arm. “I like that. And we’ve got some business to discuss.”

He glares at me until I nod my head.

“My former partner here is down on his luck. So, he naturally sees how things are going for me and he wonders if he can get in on some of the good fortune. I guess you two know each other anyway, right?”

Russo won’t look at me, but he is nodding his head so that his dorsal-fin nose cuts the air. Under his breath, he says, “Yep, that’s Arthur Bell.”

I slip open the top drawer of my desk and wrap my fingers around a Glock 9mm that has been fitted with a silencer. Everything is too close to happening for my plan to be disrupted by these two. I’ve got my in to Frank. Villay is on the edge. Rangle’s financial empire is about to crash. I expected Andre to run off with Rangle’s daughter or at least drag her down into addiction; she is Rangle’s brightest jewel, and that would make his ruin complete. But I can’t be greedy. I’ll have to do without these two.

“You’re a lot of people at once, apparently,” Andre says, grinning at me and raising his glass before taking a swig. “And that’s okay with us. We just want to get paid for the information, same as we would if we sold it to, say, the Post or someone. You’re becoming an important man, Quick Buck-Seth Cole-Arthur Bell-Running Deer. Owning the Jets and all that.”

“I think I have something that will make everyone happy,” I say. “Bert, would you get that small suitcase that I keep in the upstairs vault?”

“The…”

“The brown alligator suitcase,” I say. “In the vault. If you go, you’ll find it.”

Andre sets down his snifter and shifts in his seat. From his waist, he pulls out a jet black Colt.45 and points it at my head.

“Nothing funny, Bert,” he says, curling his lip up away from his teeth. “I’m not here to fuck around.”

“You’ll like what he’s got,” I say, letting go of the Glock and easing back in my chair.

Russo stands up and says, “Andre, we-”

“Sit down! You just sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. You wanted some payout,” Andre says without taking his eyes off me. “I’m getting it for you. With the money this guy’s got, you sure as fuck don’t need mine.”

Bert returns and sets down the suitcase on the coffee table between Andre and Russo.

“Open it,” Andre tells his partner.

Russo fumbles with the latch and pops it open. His eyes get wide and shiny. He takes a small knife from his pocket, nicks a bag, and touches his finger to the white powder inside. He puts his finger in his mouth, looks at Andre, and says, “Heroin. It’s pure.”

“About five million dollars’ worth,” I say. “A gift from me to you. To help keep your partner from having to sell a story that wouldn’t help any of us.”

“Yeah,” Andre says, nodding his head and getting to his feet. “A gift. We can all still get along. We’re having a good time, you and me, aren’t we, Seth Cole?”

“Things are going very well,” I say.

Russo closes the suitcase. Andre and he back out of the room.

“No hard feelings,” Andre says. “You know I’m working on that guitar.”

“No problem. You two are doing me a favor. Our deal still stands,” I say, and they’re gone.

Bert stands looking at me for a moment, then says, “I thought you were going to kill those snakes.”

“I thought about it,” I say. “But I think this will work even better. I got the heroin from the Russians who run the market. Under the circumstances, I didn’t want to refuse it, and now I’ve put it to good use.”

I pick up the phone and call my contact at Vance International, asking them to put two agents on Andre, twenty-four hours a day.

“Just watch him. If he hurts anyone,” I say into the phone, “then just tell your men to point the police his way and stay out of sight.”

When I put down the phone, Bert says, “You know they’ll be back for more.”

“Well, it will take even Andre some time to work through that,” I say. “And by then, a lot of things can happen.”

BERT AND I RIDE in the back of my limousine down the steep ramp and into the dark gut of Giants Stadium. At the head of the tunnel leading out onto the field, we get out and watch as Ramo Capozza’s long car pulls to a stop behind ours. An eight-year-old boy wearing a Kevin Mawae jersey gets out, followed by a burly gray-haired man with thick eyeglasses and a stooped, shuffling gait. The boy is Joey Capozza and he holds his great-grandfather’s hand without shame. There are three other men in suits who surround the Capozzas, carefully examining the tunnel with their scowling eyes. Their mouths are clenched tight and you can see the muscles rippling in their jaws.

I greet the old man and the boy warmly and introduce Bert as my good friend and business associate Mr. Washington. Capozza eyes him carefully up and down. Bert smiles and winks at the kid and we all walk out of the tunnel together with the three suits creating a perimeter.

As we step out onto the turf, a security guard in a yellow windbreaker touches my hand and says, “No one on the field.”

Another guard grabs him and yanks him away, saying, “That’s Mr. Cole.”

“Sorry, Mr. Cole,” the man says, and I nod to him.

Our little group is the only one on the field besides the Jets players and their opponents, who warm up in their football pants and jerseys without the shoulder pads. The white glow of the stadium lights give the turf a false hue, and you can smell that it’s not real. The air is still warm, but a cool breeze makes it pleasant to be outside.

“Pappa,” the boy says, tugging his great-grandfather’s sleeve. “It’s Kevin Mawae and Dave Szott. Look.”

“Come on,” I say, “let’s talk to them.”

“Can we?” the boy asks.

“Sure.”

The two enormous players are all grins. They sign the boy’s shirt and call Chad Pennington over to meet him too. The boy bounces on his toes and makes circles around his great-grandfather as we walk back inside the tunnel to make our way upstairs. Ramo Capozza wears a silent grin. He nods to me and quietly says thank you.

Inside the suite, we sit in the front row of the box with the Capozza muscle standing behind us drinking cans of Diet Coke. The game begins, and Joey informs Bert and me who all the players are and what they do.

“I’m sorry,” Ramo Capozza says, his brown eyes large but twinkling behind their thick lenses. “Joey, I’m sure Mr. Cole knows his own team.”

“Not as well as some people,” I say, ruffling the boy’s hair. “It’s more of an investment for me.”

“I understand you’re doing quite well with your investing since you’ve come to New York,” he says.

I nod and say, “I’ve certainly expanded what I’m involved in. It used to be just art. Bert is interested in diversifying too.”

“I understand that from you,” Ramo says, “but we weren’t able to find out much more about Mr. Washington.”

“The Akwesasne are a secretive group by nature,” I say with a soft laugh. “But I know that when you see Bert’s financials, you’ll be comfortable bringing his group in as investors. I understand you have a partner who’s looking to get out and I just thought… well, that it would be good to put the two of you together, Mr. Capozza.”

The older man says nothing more. We watch the game until the second half. Since it’s a preseason game, the first-team players are taken out. The boy’s eyelids begin to droop and he puts his head on his great-grandfather’s shoulder. Ramo Capozza nods to one of the men in back and he scoops the boy out of the seat, cradling him in his arms.