Gavrieli made a square frame with his fingers, put Daniel's face at the center. "I picture you as a detective. The hand won't make a difference because you'll be using your brains, not your fists. But it's still action, street work, not talk. You'll get priority for every advanced course, be assigned to CID and leap-frogged to rav samal. Which means the best cases-you'll build up a record quickly, be a mefakeah in no time. As I move higher, I'll take you with me."

"I don't think so," Daniel repeated.

"That's because you haven't thought at all. You're still floating. Next time you're studying, take a good look at those law books, all that English common-law crap, another gift from the Brits-their judges wear wigs and fart into their robes. Stop and consider if that's really what you want to do with the rest of your life."

Daniel wiped his lips and stood. "I've got to be going."

"Need a ride somewhere?"

"No, thanks."

"All right, then. Here's my card, call me when you change your mind."

Two weeks into the new academic year, he called. Ninety days later he was in uniform, patrolling the Katamonim. Gavrieli had offered to skip him through it, but he declined the favor, wanting to walk the streets, get a feel for the job that Gideon would never have-for all his intelligence and savvy, there was a certain naivete about him, a delusion of invincibility that surviving Ammunition Hill had only served to strengthen.

A psychic partition, thought Daniel, that separated him from the darker side of life.

It had caused him be in the wrong place at the wrong time, swept along, inevitably, with the sewage from Lippmann.

Gideon had played from his own script. There was no reason to feel guilty about what had happened. No reason for Daniel to apologize for doing his job.

He looked at his watch. What time was it in Melbourne? Eight hours later, well into the evening.

An embassy party, perhaps? Gorgeous Gideon sticking close to the ambassador, manicured fingers curled around a cocktail glass as he charmed the ladies with flattery and clever anecdotes. His evening jacket tailored to conceal the 9 mm.

Executive attache. When all was said and done, he was just a bodyguard, a suit and a gun. He had to be miserable.

As opposed to me, thought Daniel. I have plenty to be happy about. A killer on the loose, bloody rocks, and heroin. Mad Hassidim and korbanot and strange monks and missing whores frightened by flat-eyed strangers.

Sitting in this white cell, trying to put it all together. Half a kilometer southeast of Ammunition Hill.

A sticky summer. He was seventeen, three months away from eighteen, when he walked into the library and asked Doctor for a car. Had to ask twice before the fucker looked up from his surgical journal and paid attention.

"What's that?"

"A car."

"Why do you want one?"

"All the kids have their own."

"But what do you need one for?"

"Go places, get to school."

"School's that important to you, huh?" Smile.

Shrug.

"I mean, you're flunking most of your subjects. I didn't think school meant that much to you."

Shrug.

"No, I don't see why I should get you a car just like that."

Smiling in that fucking superior way. The asshole had two cars of his own, a big soft one and a low-slung sports job that looked like a hard-on, neither of which he let anyone else drive. Her car was a big soft one, too, big bucks, but it hadn't been out of the garage for a long time; Doctor had had the crankcase drained, put it up on blocks.

The fucker was loaded, all that money, all those cars, and he'd had to learn how to drive on a jalopy that belonged to one of the maids, a rusty clunker with no power steering, a real bitch to park-he'd failed the test twice because of it.

"Loan me the money. I'll pay you back."

"Oh, really?" Amused.

"Yeah."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"I'll get a job."

"And what kind of work do you deem yourself qualified to perform?"

"I could work at the hospital."

"At the hospital."

"Yes."

"Doing what?"

"Anything."

"Anything!"

"Anything."

Doctor talked to the head janitor-a nigger retard-and got him a job in maintenance. The nigger hadn't liked the idea; he and Doctor had discussed it while he waited a few feet away. The two of them talking about him as if he were invisible.

"I dunno, Doc, it's a dirty job."

"That's fine, Jewel. Just fine."

The nigger put him to work, mopping up vomit and piss off sickroom floors, emptying catheter bags and taking out garbage-not much to find there.

After two weeks of it he smelled bad, carried the smell with him all the time. When he went near Doctor, the fucker winced.

Then the director of personnel found out about it and transferred him out of there, not wanting the son of the head honcho heart surgeon doing shitwork like that.

He got sent to the mail room, which was excellent. He didn't even have to stand around and sort-just serve as a courier, taking stuff from place to place.

He did it all summer, got a real good feel for the hospital-every office, every lab.

It was amazing how careless people were, leaving stuff unlocked-petty cash drawers, their purses out on the desk when they went to the John.

He pilfered small amounts of cash that added up to big bucks.

He stole prescription blanks and drugs, always in small amounts. Demerol and Percodan and Ritalin and Seconal and stuff like that, sold it to the junkies who roamed Nasty Boulevard, just a few blocks away.

Sometimes he opened envelopes that had checks in them and sold them at five percent of face value to the junkies. Once in a while someone was stupid enough to send a cash donation to the hospital charity fund. That belonged to him immediately.