None of the girls were paid for working the club. They rented "space" from the management and got to keep their "tips." The cover charge and the watered booze kept management in the black. The bartender was a short, thickset Mexican, improbably known as "Gringo" to everyone. An ex–boxer, he was still quick with his hands. He was quicker still with the .357 magnum he kept under the bar, as two would–be holdup men had found out last year. The deal was this: get to the Double X any way you can, and park at your own risk. But once inside, you were as safe as in church. Safer, if the stories about the local archdiocese were to be believed.

Buddha found Cross at his table in a triangulated corner in the bar of the joint, watching an almost–nude brunette table–dance for three guys in business suits.

"Whats happening, boss?"

"Same old," Cross replied.

"Rhino says Princess hasn't been around. He's worried out of his mind about that looney–tune–wanted to speak to you. He's on duty, so I volunteered. You seen him?"

"No," Cross said, snubbing out a cigarette in a black glass ashtray. The smoky light in the bar was just bright enough to illuminate the bull's–eye tattoo on the back of Cross's hand.

"Yeah. Well, he's a fucking head case anyway, right? I mean, I don't see why you–"

"That's enough," the medium–sized man said. "Princess is one of us. Yeah, he's a stone fuck–up. But he's stand–up, too, don't forget that. Everybody in this crew has a reason to be here."

"So what's his MOS?" Buddha challenged.

"I haven't figured that one out yet," the man called Cross answered. "But I will." He lit another cigarette, took a deep drag and placed it in the ashtray. "There's a new girl working–she goes on in about an hour. I'll be back over to the poolroom after that."

Six hours later, at the battered wood counter standing at the basement entrance to the poolroom, an elderly man reclined with his feet up, watching a small black–and–white TV from under a green eyeshade. A tall, handsome Latino entered, dressed in a flashy pink silk sportcoat over black silk balloon pants. The Latino tapped on the counter with the underside of a heavy gold ring. After a minute, the elderly man put the eye–shade up on his head and swiveled to have a look. "What?" he asked.

"I got a message for Cross," the Latino replied.

"Who?" the elderly man asked, a puzzled look on his face.

"Cross. You know. El jefe around here, right?"

"I don't speak Italian," the elderly man replied.

"Hey, old man, I don't have time for your fucking humor, okay? Just give this to him," he said, sliding a folded square of white paper across the counter.

The elderly man made no move to pick it up, readjusting his eyeshade and turning his attention back to the TV. The Latino spun on his heel and walked out.

Cross unfolded the white square of paper in the back room. He looked at the writing for a minute, then he said, "Buddha, take a look at this."

The note was in a flowery script, heavily serifed, obviously written with a fountain pen.

We have El Maricon. We know he is one of yours and we know where you got him from. If you wish to have him returned, you must call 977–456–5588 tonight before midnight. If you do not call, the next package will be the head of El Maricon.

"They got Princess," Gross said.

"It don't sound like they know what they're doing, whoever they are," Buddha reflected. "I mean, Princess plays the role and all, but that's just to get into fights–he's about as homosexual as a fucking tomcat."

"If it's the people I think it is, they do. I saw the light go on," he said, nodding his head in the direction of a red bulb hanging from an exposed wire. "And Rhino took off. Maybe he'll be able to tell us something when he comes back."

"What do you think they want, boss?" the pudgy man asked.

"Money or blood," Cross told him, closing his eyes.

"He just rode around," Rhino told Cross later. "Fancy car. Red Ferrari, for chrissakes–I couldn't have lost him if I tried. But all he did was drive. Finally, he pulled into an underground garage…a high–rise on the lakefront. No way to tell if he lives there–the garage is open to the public, too."

"How come you came back?" Cross asked.

"Falls on him. I reached out on the cellular."

"That's probably what the guy in the Ferrari did, too," Cross said. "See this note? The number they want me to call, that's a cellular number, too."

"Fuck! If I had known…"

"Don't worry about it. It's SOP, follow anyone who comes in here asking for me, right? You were already gone by the time the note got back here to me. Maybe Fal will come up with something."

"I find this boy again, he's gonna tell us. Tell us anything we want to know," the giant muttered.

"If it's who I think it is, this guy in the Ferrari, he's just a fancy errand boy."

"Who do you think it is? Who'd want to snatch Princess, anyway?" Rhino asked.

"It smells like Muñoz," Cross said, lighting a cigarette. "And it smells bad."

Ten o'clock. Cross stepped out on the darkened roof of the Red 71. building. He did a rapid circuit of the roof, ignoring the large wooden box with a round opening on its side. Satisfied, he took a cellular phone from his pocket, punched in a number.

"Yes?" said a voice in Latin–flavored English.

"It's me," Cross said.

"We have your boy. And we have a deal for you."

"I'm listening."

"A job you have to do for us. That's all. One job. You do it, you get your boy back."

"I'm still listening."

"Not on this phone–you know better. We need a land line."

"Say it."

"There's a phone booth. Just off the Drive. You know where Michigan Avenue takes that big curve? Across the Drive, on the other side, there's the phone booth. It has a big red circle painted on the side. Go there, tomorrow morning, daybreak. You'll hear from us then," the Latin voice said, breaking the connection on the last word.

Cross looked at Rhino. "It's Muñoz all right," he said. "I guess it wasn't done. the last time."

•     •     •

5:45 A.M. The shark car swept along Michigan Avenue, Buddha at the wheel. Cross spotted the open–air phone booth. A few feet away stood a black man in his late teens, dressed in the latest gangstah chic–gleaming white hightops on his feet, an X cap on his head, the brim turned to the side. The black man was walking in tiny circles, glancing down to consult a beeper in his hand. Two members of his posse lounged nearby, leaning against a black Jeep Cherokee.

Cross exited the shark car, walking briskly toward the phone booth.

"Motherfucker, don't even think about it," the leader snarled. "That is my phone. Go find yourself another one, man–I got business."

Cross turned so his back was to the phone, pulling a black semi–auto pistol from his coat in the same motion. "Me too," he said quietly.

The leader glanced over at his crew, noticing for the first time that their hands were in the air. Buddha stood across from them, the three forming a triangle. The Glock looked comfortable in Buddha's hands.