"This isn't a diss," Cross told the leader quietly. "Like you said, it's your phone. I'm waiting on this important call, okay? Soon as it's over, you got your phone back. Okay?"

"Yeah, all right, man," the leader said, his eye on the pistol.

"Only thing, I need privacy for my call, understand?"

"Yeah. Yeah, man. Don't get crazy. We just jet, all right?"

"Thanks," Gross said.

The leader backed away toward the Jeep, He climbed behind the wheel, keeping his hands in sight. The other two climbed in the back. The Jeep took off, scattering gravel.

Cross stood next to the phone booth, visually confirming the large red circle spray–painted on its side. He picked up the phone, listened for a dial tone to confirm it was working and quickly replaced the receiver. Cross lit a cigarette, took a deep drag.

Traffic was still sporadic. The party–goers were all off the street and the commuters hadn't yet made their appearance. Cross took a second pull on his cigarette, then snapped it away.

The sky continued to lighten. Cross and Buddha didn't speak, didn't move from their spots. A lustrous gray–white pigeon swooped down and perched on the top of the phone booth. Cross eyeballed the pigeon–it was different from the winged rats that so thoroughly populated the city–this one had the characteristic small head, short neck, and plump body, but its bearing was almost regal. Cross nodded to himself as he spotted the tiny cylinder anchored to one of the pigeon's legs. He approached cautiously, even though the pigeon showed no signs of spooking. Cross reached up and stroked the pigeon, pulling it gently against his chest. He opened the cylinder, extracting a small roll of paper. The pigeon Buttered its wings once, hopping back onto the phone booth.

Cross unfurled the paper, eyes focusing on the tiny, precise writing.

We are both professionals. A meeting must be made safe for us both. We will not come to your place, and you do not know where we are. We will meet you at noon tomorrow on State Street, at the outdoor cafe Nostrum's. You know where it is, I am sure. If you are coming, you must come alone. Write your decision on this paper and it will come back to us.

Cross took a felt–tipped pen from his jacket, scrawled the single word "Yes" on the bottom of the note, and replaced the paper inside the pigeon's courier pouch. The bird preened itself for a few seconds then took off, climbing into the sky with powerful thrusts of its wings.

Late that same night, the crew was gathered in the basement of Red 71.

"You went by, right? What's it look like?" Cross asked Buddha.

"I don't like it, boss. The tables are all outside, pretty spread out. It's only set back maybe fifteen, twenty feet from the sidewalk. I don't think they could do a drive–by…not without hitting a lot of people. But they could just walk it by. You'd never see it coming."

Cross turned to the giant, who was standing against the wall, watching. "Rhino?"

"The roof across the street's even worse. No way to cover it all. Fal says he could get up there easy enough. But he might not be the only player."

Cross drew a series of intersecting lines on the pad in front of him, eyes down. He took two drags from a cigarette before he snubbed it out.

"Here's what it comes down to…who's gonna make the meet for their side. If it's Muñoz himself, he's got to know we can take him out if he makes a move. If it's some Hunky, he wouldn't care."

"So…?" Buddha queried.

"So this. We get Fal up on one roof, leave him in place. We get Ace to work the sidewalk. I don't think they'll make him for our crew–he wasn't on the bust–out down there. Buddha, you get us a cab from someplace, all right? You cruise by. Short loops, okay' Rhino takes the rear seat."

"But what if they–?"

"Listen, Buddha, that's where you come in. I'm gonna roll up just at noon, like they said. I see Muñoz at the table, I go ahead and sit down. You don't see me take a seat, it means it's me they want–get ready to lay down some cover fire."

"You think it's like that? Personal?" Buddha asked.

"It could be," Cross replied. "Muñoz always was unstable."

The next day, 11:56 A.M., Cross emerged from the underground train station on State Street and headed east. It was 11:59 when he came within sight of Nostrum's, and a few seconds before noon when he spotted a man he recognized at a table by himself. Cross kept his eyes on that man alone as he approached, hands empty at his sides.

Cross sat down across from a copper–complected man who wore his thick hair pulled straight back, tied in a ponytail.

"Cross," the man said, not offering to shake hands.

"Muñoz," Cross replied.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," a voice said. Both men continued to stare at each other. "My name is Lance. I'll be serving you today," the voice continued. "Our house specials today are a spinach salad with a mild vinaigrette dressing, together with–"

"That sounds perfect," Muñoz said, his English laced with a regal touch of Castilian. "Bring us two of them. But first…you have Ron Rico?"

"Yes, we do," the waiter replied. "But if I could perhaps suggest–"

"Bring me a double," Muñoz cut him off again. And for my friend here…"

"Water," Cross said.

"We have Evian, Perrier, and also a new–"

"Just water," Cross said.

The waiter flounced off. "I hate them," Muñoz said.

"Who?" Cross asked.

"Maricons. You know what I mean. You must know. After all, one of your own crew–"

"You trying to tell me you took Princess easy?" Cross asked, his face blank.

"Mio dios, no." Muñoz smiled. "That is one hard man, no matter that he is not really a man at all. He took out two of my best men. With his hands. I held a pistol on him, but he only laughed. If Ramon had not shot him, we would still be–"

"You shot him?" Cross asked, soft–voiced.

"With a tranquilizer dart, amigo. Like you would use on a mad dog. Even with the serum in him, he continued to fight. I wonder how such a man–"

"What do you want?" Cross interrupted, no impatience showing in his voice.

"I already told you, hombre. I want you to do a job for us.

Then you get your merchandise back."

"What job?"

"You see this?" Muñoz asked, sliding a,tiny microchip across the marble tabletop.

Cross didn't touch the chip. "So?"

"So this is what we need. Watch," Muñoz said. He grasped the chip with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and pulled it apart, revealing one male and one female coupling. "We have this one," he said, holding up the male piece. "The other one, the mate, that is in the hands of another."

"Who?"

"Right to the point, yes? You know Humberto Gonzales?

He works out of a bunch of connected apartments in the Projects."

"I never met him."

"Okay, sure. We will tell you where he is, and you will take

our property from him."

"How can you be sure–"

"It is always with him, Cross. Always on his person. There is no one he could trust with it. But we have very good sources. We know exactly where to look his right arm."

"I don't get it."

"On his right arm, right here," Muñoz said, patting his right biceps. "He has a big tattoo. Of a dancing girl. Very pretty. The chip is somewhere in the tattoo. Implanted. A fine piece of surgery. After you drop him, we need his arm. You bring it to us, your job is done."