“Aquilina, Sefchik, see if you can get somebody to answer the door at Ricardo’s, and don’t forget to check around back. The rest of you start the canvass. A lot of the neighbors aren’t gonna want to come to the door at this hour, but keep your thumb on the buzzer until they do. You all know what kind of questions to ask, so let’s get started.”

Nobody ever answered the door at Ricardo’s that morning, and our canvass of the neighborhood turned up exactly zip. None of those living in the apartments overlooking the street saw anything, knew anything, or thought anything – or so they said. Even the two people who’d called 911 about shots being fired told us that they’d heard the gunfire, yes, but hadn’t looked out to see where it was coming from. They had said so very earnestly, and the detectives interviewing them had just nodded, as if they believed every word.

It’s a pain in the ass when witnesses won’t talk, but I couldn’t really blame the civilians for clamming up. Who wants to get on the wrong side of a bunch of criminals – hard guys with guns who aren’t afraid to use them?

So we had no witnesses, and no forensic evidence, either. Whoever had cleaned up the scene had been fast but thorough – they hadn’t left so much as a shell casing behind. There were bullet holes in some of the buildings, but the bullets would be so badly fragmented that ballistics tests would be impossible. Several fresh-looking stains in the street were probably blood, but that stuff was useless without somebody’s DNA to compare it with. And I had a feeling that the guys whose blood had seeped into that asphalt were never going to be seen again.

It took about two and a half hours to reach the conclusion that this so-called crime scene was going to be about as fruitful as a dead apple tree. Lieutenant Russo from Homicide had taken over by then, and he finally turned us loose. Since my shift was already long over, I didn’t have to go back to work. I’d been feeling hungry the last hour or so, so I decided to stop for something to eat on my way home.

I didn’t go to Jerry’s Diner this time – I had a hankering for something that wasn’t served with a light coating of grease. Fortunately, Wohlstein’s Deli and Eatery downtown serves everything on their menu all day long.

Whoever wrote “A thing of beauty is a joy forever” must have been thinking of Manny Wohlstein’s turkey club sandwich – and if not, he should have been. I was halfway through mine when I saw the ghoul come in and take a seat at one of the corner tables.

You can’t ID a ghoul just by looking – although if you get close enough to smell their breath, it’s what you might call a dead giveaway. But this one I recognized. He goes by “Algernon”, and he’s the brother of a guy everyone calls Barney Ghougle, a local undertaker and one of my most reliable informants.

I knew who Algernon was because he’s got a little problem that sometimes gets him into trouble – a habit of taking his cock out in front of people and waving it around. I hoped he’d be able to resist the impulse as long as he was in Wohlstein’s – I was off duty. Besides, I’d seen ghoul cock before and hoped never to have to look at any again.

Taking another bite out of my sandwich, I began to wonder what the hell Algernon was doing there. Wohlstein’s offers a large menu, but they don’t serve the kind of stuff that ghouls eat. Just as well, really – a menu item like Human thigh, sliced thinly and served au jus would probably turn off a lot of human customers, me included.

All of the waitresses are Manny’s daughters, and the tall one, whose name is Clara, stopped at Algernon’s table, order pad in hand. The ghoul said something that I couldn’t hear, but Clara went away and returned a minute later with what looked like a glass of iced tea. She said something to Algernon, who shook his head, and she went off to her other tables.

I continued eating but kept an unobtrusive eye on Algernon. I was waiting for him to drink some of his iced tea. But although he tapped the straw out of its paper wrapper and put it in the plastic tumbler, it never touched his lips. He just sat there, staring off into space.

After a while, one of the busboys came over to Algernon’s table. I didn’t recognize him, but that meant nothing. Manny has four daughters but no sons, so busboys come and go. But I did think it was strange for a busboy to wipe down a table while the customer was still sitting there.

The busboy, was a slim, red-haired human in his early twenties. He gave the table a quick once-over with a damp rag and said something to Algernon without looking at him. Then he turned, stashed the rag in his apron, and walked across the dining area to the men’s restroom. Half a minute or so later, Algernon stood up and went in there, too.

The two of them were in the bathroom together for a couple of minutes, then the busboy came out and went directly into the kitchen. I started counting silently to myself, one thousand one, one thousand two… When I got to ten, Algernon came out and headed for the door without returning to his table.

I knew what I’d just witnessed, as any cop worth his badge would. Restaurants are prime locations for drug dealing – always have been. You’ve got people coming and going all the time, and nobody pays much attention.

Sometimes the restaurant owner is in on the action, other times not. I’d known Manny Wohlstein for years, and I’d have bet my pension that he had no idea how one of the employees was supplementing his salary. If Manny ever found out, I hoped the busboy had some very good health insurance – the kind with catastrophic coverage.

Ordinarily, this kind of thing was none of my business. I’d just drop a word to a guy I know in Vice, Gus McDorman, and let him deal with it. But one of the parties in the transaction I’d witnessed was a supe, which meant that the drug for sale had almost certainly been Slide. And that made it my business. The only question was what I was going to do about it.

It didn’t take me long to make up my mind.

Manny Wohlstein can usually be found in his office at the back of the restaurant, but I decided against paying him a visit. The busboy might see me and ask somebody who was in there talking to his boss. All of Manny’s daughters knew me by sight, and I didn’t want one of them putting the busboy on his guard by telling him that Manny was talking to a cop.

I finished my sandwich, paid the check, and went out to my car. The Yellow Pages app on my phone gave me the deli’s number, and I called it.

“Wohlstein’s Deli,” a cheerful female voice said. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Mister Wohlstein, please.”

“Can I say who’s calling?”

I was pretty sure the voice belonged to Naomi Wohlstein, and I didn’t want her saying my name where the busboy might overhear it.

“This is Lou Pastorelli,” I told her. “From Mid-Atlantic Produce Distribution.”

“Just a minute, Mister Pastorelli.”

Then Manny’s voice was saying in my ear, “This is Manny Wohlstein. What can I do for you?”

“Manny, it’s Stan Markowski. I’m sorry for giving Naomi a false name, but I didn’t want her saying my right name out loud. I’d rather you didn’t say it, either.”

“Why do you want me to do that?” His voice sounded wary.

“I’m calling to ask about one of your employees, who’s still in the building. I didn’t want him to hear you say my name, in case he’s heard it before. I don’t want him to start wondering why you’re talking to a cop.”

“You said ‘him’, so this isn’t one of my girls you’re asking about.”

“No, of course not.”

“Alright, then.” Manny’s voice relaxed a little, and I could hear that old desk chair of his creak as he leaned back. “So how can I help you, Mister… Pastorelli?”