He gave me an annoyed look. Probably wasn’t use to being interrupted, especially by his social inferiors. “What I said was it might be some kind of pilot project, although why anyone would choose Scranton to run it in is quite beyond me. Why – what’s the matter?”

“That phrase, ‘pilot project’. Somebody else said that to me, a while back.”

“Were they talking about our little problem?”

“No, probably not,” I said.

“Then I suggest we stick to the matter at hand.”

“OK with me,” I said. “Does the matter at hand include John Wesley Harding?”

I don’t know what I expected, throwing the name at him from out in left field like that, but I didn’t get anything dramatic. He didn’t gasp, or go pale, or spill his drink. All he did was blink, twice, as soon as I’d said Harding’s name. It looked like the tip Karl had received about a certain Boston hit man had been true.

Loquasto took a sip of his bourbon with hands that were as steady as when he’d first sat down. He lowered the glass, gave me a tiny smile, and said, “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that individual, Sergeant.”

“Uh-huh. A usually reliable source told me that Calabrese has brought in a life-taker from Boston by that name.”

Loquasto tried for a casual shrug. I have to admit, he pulled it off pretty well – but then, he would.

“Then perhaps you need to find some new sources,” he said.

“Or maybe you need to remember that fucking with me is not in your best interest – yours, or Calabrese’s.”

Loquasto sat back and looked at me for a second or two. The shrug he gave me this time was less elegant and more on the irritated side.

“Let’s say, for the sake of discussion, that your information is correct,” he said. “What business is it of yours?”

“It’s my business if this war between your boss and the Delatassos is about to get a whole lot worse.”

“Worse than what happened on Moosic Street last night?”

“I thought we were operating on the assumption that the Delatassos had nothing to do with that,” I said.

“I never operate based on assumptions, Sergeant. I much prefer facts.”

“Yeah? OK, here’s a fact for you.” I leaned forward across the table. “Just because I cut Calabrese a little slack once doesn’t mean he should start expecting a free pass from me. Not now, not ever. If Calabrese – or anybody who works for him – gets caught shooting up the streets, then he’s going down. One way or another.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that information along,” he said in a bored voice, as if I’d just told him it might rain tomorrow.

Loquasto began sliding out of the booth. “This has been an illuminating conversation, Sergeant Markowski,” he said, and stood up. “Perhaps we’ll have another one sometime. Do have a good evening.”

He turned and walked to the door without looking back. I waited, half-expecting to hear gunfire or another explosion as a sign that the Delatassos had tracked him here. But the street outside remained quiet.

At least he’d paid for his own booze.

My conversation with Loquasto had taken longer than I’d planned, which meant that Karl beat me in to work. As I pulled out my desk chair, I saw that he was busy on his computer – whether paperwork or another game of “Angry Bats” I didn’t know.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, yourself,” he said. “Don’t sit down – Rachel wants to see you.”

“Rachel Proctor?”

“I don’t know any other Rachel around here,” he said. “Do you?”

“Guess not. What’s she want?”

“Didn’t say. But I’m pretty sure that she’s down in her office now.”

“OK, I’ll go see what’s up. Buzz me if we get a call to go out, will you?”

“Ten-four on that, Sergeant.”

Normally I’d walk the two flights down to Rachel’s office, but I decided that the elevator would make my head hurt less than bouncing on the stairs. I was pushing the button for Rachel’s floor when it occurred to me that Karl hadn’t once looked up from his computer during our brief conversation. What was his problem?

Rachel’s office door was open and I could see she was at her desk, writing something on a pad. She looked up at my knock.

“Hi, Stan.”

“Hi, Rachel. Karl said you wanted to see me about something.”

She hesitated a moment before speaking, and I thought, Why the fuck is everybody in this place acting weird tonight?

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, finally. “Come on in.”

As I approached, I saw that the usual clutter had been cleared away from the top of her desk. A clean white cloth had been dropped over it, and I could see that Rachel had laid out there some items of we laymen like to call “magic stuff”.

What looked like a perfectly round circle had been drawn on the cloth in some kind of orange ink or paint. Inside the circle was a squat yellow candle, unlit. Two small ceramic bowls held small amounts of powder – red in one dish, blue in the other. In between the bowls was a small bottle with an ornately carved stopper. It contained a clear liquid with what looked like tiny flakes of metal floating in it. Next to the bottle was a small knife with a handle that might have been ivory, or maybe white bone. Its four-inch blade was shiny and looked very sharp.

“What’s all this stuff?” I asked her.

“It’s for an experiment I’m conducting,” she said.

“Something to do with Slide?” I’d given her some samples to work on, although neither one of the dishes contained any of the stuff, far as I could tell.

“Not directly,” she said. “Bear with me a few moments, will you?”

She lit the candle with a disposable lighter – not exactly a magical implement, but still the modern equivalent of the traditional flint and steel.

“OK, now,” she said. “Watch closely.”

So I stood there and looked on as she mixed the powders together by pouring them back and forth from one bowl to the other. I suppose the number of passes she made had some magical significance, but I didn’t count them. She chanted softly the whole time, in a language that I vaguely recognized as ancient Greek but didn’t understand. You could even say that it was all Greek to me.

When the powders had been mixed to Rachel’s liking, she removed the stopper from the bottle and poured the liquid into the bowl. “Now,” she said,” looking up at me, “time for your contribution, Stan.” She picked up the little knife. “I’d like a single hair from your head.”

My first reaction was wariness – but that was just habit. Give a black witch a bit of your hair, fingernail clippings, even some spit – anything that’s an integral part of you – she can end up owning your soul.

I had to remind myself that this was Rachel, certified practitioner of white magic, trusted consultant to the police department and – so I liked to think – a good friend, despite all the trouble I’d gotten her into in the past.

Hoping she hadn’t noticed my momentary hesitation, I said, “Sure, no problem. What’ve you got in mind, anyway?”

“I’d rather not say right now, Stan. It could spoil the spell. But I’m pretty sure you won’t be displeased with the result.”

I shrugged, which sent another jolt of pain through my head. I was going to have to train myself to stop doing that, at least until my lump finally faded away.

“OK, if you say so,” I told her. “But I can just yank one out for you if you want – you won’t need to cut it off with that thing.”

“I’m afraid use of the knife is part of the ritual,” she said. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

“Go on, then.” I learned forward – but for the sake of my head, I did it slowly.

She was as good as her word. It took just a second or two before she said, “Got it, thank you.”

I straightened up and saw that she held a single strand of hair between her fingers. As I watched, she dropped it into the bowl containing the powder and liquid. Then she used the knife blade to carefully stir the mixture, chanting softly the whole time.