Woody is pale again. He says lamely, “I’m in Washington Monday.”

“Then cancel. Get a bad case of the flu. Ten Monday, gentlemen,” I say as I open the door.

12.

Naomi is not too impressed with my rented Mazda. As we make our way downtown toward the auditorium, I explain what happened to my other vehicle. She is shocked that there are bad guys loose in the City who would attach an explosive device to my van to intimidate me and kill Partner. She wants to know how soon the police will catch these guys and bring them to justice. She doesn’t understand when I explain that (1) the police have no real interest in catching them because I am who I am and (2) the police can’t catch them because these guys don’t leave behind clues.

She asks if she’s safe in my company. When I tell her I have a gun strapped to my torso and wedged just under my left armpit, she takes a deep breath and gazes out the window. Sure, we’re safe, I promise her.

In an effort at full disclosure, I tell her about my last office and the firebombing. No, the police have not solved that crime either, primarily because they were probably involved in the act. Either them or some drug dealers.

“No wonder you struggle with women,” she observes. And she’s right. Most of them get spooked early in the game and gravitate toward safer men. Naomi, though, has a gleam in her eye and seems to enjoy the threat of danger. After all, the cage fights were her idea.

I’ve pulled strings and our seats are ringside, third row back. I buy two tall beers and we settle in to watch the crowd. Unlike the theater or cinema, or the opera or symphony, or even a basketball game, the fans arrive in a rowdy mood, many of them already half-drunk. It’s another nice crowd, probably three to four thousand, and I marvel at the speed with which the sport has gained popularity. I also think of Tadeo, a talented kid now sitting in jail when he should be at the top of tonight’s card. His trial is just around the corner and he still expects me to pull a miracle and walk him out, a free man. For Naomi, I recount, in great graphic detail, the night not too long ago when Tadeo attacked the referee and this entire place turned into a riot. Starcher thought it was cool and wants to return for more fun.

She thinks that’s a bad idea.

A trainer recognizes me and stops by for a chat. His kid is a 150-pounder who fights in the second match and has not lost in his last six. As he talks he can’t keep his eyes off Naomi. Because she’s a knockout and dressed fashionably, she’s getting plenty of looks.

The trainer thinks his kid has a future and they need some backing. Since I’m viewed as a big-shot lawyer with plenty of cash, at least in this world, I’m a player who can make a career. I tell the guy we can talk later. Let me watch the kid for a couple of fights and then we’ll meet. The trainer asks about Tadeo and shakes his head sadly. What a waste.

When the place is packed, the lights go down and the crowd becomes frantic. The first two fighters enter the cage and introductions are made.

“You know these guys?” Naomi asks excitedly.

“Yes, just a couple of brawlers, not much talent. Street fighters really.”

The bell sounds, the brawl is on, and my hot little schoolteacher sits on the edge of her seat and starts yelling.

13.

At midnight we’re in a pizza dive, tucked into a narrow booth and sitting very close together. There has been some touching and hand-holding and there seems to be a mutual attraction. I certainly hope it’s mutual. She nibbles on a slice of pepperoni and prattles on about the main event, a heavyweight blood-fest that ended with a vicious choke hold. The loser stayed on the mat for a long time. Eventually, she gets around to the kidnapping and wants to know how much I know. I explain that the FBI is digging and I can’t say anything.

Was there a ransom demand? I can’t say. A suspect? Not that I know of. What was he doing at that truck stop? Eating ice cream. I’d like to give her the details but it’s too early; maybe later, when everything is settled.

As we drive back to her place, she says, “It might be difficult to have a relationship as long as you’re wearing a gun.”

“Okay. I can lose it. But it will always be close by.”

“I’m not sure I like that.”

Nothing else is said until I park outside her condo. “I had a great time,” she says.

“So did I.” I walk her to the door of her condo and ask, “So when can I see you again?”

She pecks me on the cheek and says, “Seven tomorrow night. Right here. There’s a movie I want to see.”

14.

Partner picks me up in another rental, a shiny new U-Haul cargo van with “$19.95 a Day—Unlimited Mileage” splashed on both sides in bright green and orange paint. I look at it for a minute or so before finally getting in. “Nice,” I say.

“I thought you’d like it,” he says, grinning. His bandages are hidden under his clothing; there’s no evidence of his wounds. He’s too tough to admit soreness or pain.

“I guess we’d better get used to it,” I say. “The insurance company is dragging its feet. Plus it’ll take a month to get a new one customized.” We’re moving through downtown traffic, just a couple of delivery boys with a van full of furniture. He stops in front of City Hall and parks illegally. A U-Haul van with such vivid colors is bound to attract a swarm of traffic cops.

“I chatted with Miguel,” he says.

“And how did that go?” I ask, my hand on the door handle.

“Okay. I just explained things, said you were getting squeezed by some tough guys and needed a little protection. He said he could take care of it, said it was the least he and the guys could do for you and all that happy crap. I emphasized that no one gets hurt, just a friendly hello to Tubby and Razor so they’d get the message.”

“What do you think?”

“It’ll probably work. Link’s gang is pretty thin these days, for obvious reasons. Most of his muscle is gone. I doubt if his boys want to mix it up with a drug gang.”

“We’ll see. Back in thirty minutes,” I say as I get out.

Woody canceled his trip to Washington and is waiting in his office with Moss. Both look as though they’ve had a bad weekend. It’s Monday and my goal is to ruin the rest of their week. There are no handshakes, no forced pleasantries, not even the offer of coffee.

I jack up the tension with “Okay, boys, do we have a deal? Yes or no? I want an answer now, and if I get the wrong answer I’ll leave this building and walk down the street to the Chronicle. Verdoliak, your favorite reporter, is waiting at his desk.”

Woody stares at the floor and says, “Deal.”

Moss slides across a document and says, “This is a confidential settlement agreement. The insurance company will pay the first million now. The City will kick in half a million this fiscal year, same for next. We have a litigation reserve fund we can manipulate, but we need to split the two payments between this year and next. It’s the best we can do.”

“That’ll work,” I say. “And when will the chief and the SWAT boys get the ax?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Moss says. “And that’s not in this agreement.”