“Yes. But I can’t pay you what you’re worth.”

“They never do, sweetie, they never do.”

“It’s a bit downtown from here, Michelle. We’re setting up a temporary office-you know what I mean?”

“Not in that damn warehouse.”

“In the warehouse.”

“And this involves…?”

“I’m still looking for that freak I told you about.”

She thought about it for a moment or so, then reached over and tapped my arm. “We have to stop at my hotel, Burke.”

“For how long?”

“Just long enough for me to get my makeup case and some clothes.”

“Michelle, this is strictly a phone job, you know? Nobody’s going to see you.”

“Honey, I’ll see me. If I want to sound right, I have to feel right. And to feel right, I have to look right. That’s the way it is.”

I grunted my annoyance at this delay, all the time knowing she was right.

Michelle wasn’t intimidated. She just widened her eyes, looked at me, and said, “Baby, you came to me for this work-if you don’t like my peaches, don’t shake my tree.”

I just looked at her-I’d said more or less the same thing to Flood, but not as well.

“It’s important,” said Michelle, in a serious, no-nonsense voice. And there was nothing I could say to that. We all know what we need to do our work.

She was as good as her word. Less that fifteen minutes after I dropped her off she came tripping down the front steps of the hotel carrying one of those giant makeup cases like models use. I had been sitting in the car with a newspaper over my face-a newspaper into which I had punched a clean hole with the icepick I always keep in the car. It gave me a clear view of the street ahead and the mirror did the same behind. I never turned off the engine, but the Plymouth idled as quiet as an electric typewriter. I kept it in gear, with my foot on the brake, but the brake lights didn’t go on. As soon as Michelle opened the door, I lifted my foot from the brake and we moved off like smoke into fog.

MAX WASN’T AROUND at the warehouse. I pulled the car all the way in, and Michelle and I went into the back where I keep the desk and phone boxes.

While she was changing into her outfit, I tested the equipment the Mole had set up for me. It was perfect-the Mole’s work made Ma Bell look like the crooked old bitch she is.

Michelle came back inside, straightened out the desk to suit herself, and began to page through the loose-leaf book I gave her. The damn book costs about five hundred bucks a year just for the updates-it’s cheaper to buy military secrets than direct-line numbers for government employees. She found the number she was looking for and punched it into the Mole’s contraption. I could hear it ring through the speaker box-both ends of the conversation came through loud and clear.

“Veteran’s Administration,” answered the bored voice at the other end.

“Extension Three-six-six-four, please,” came Michelle’s executive secretary voice. It buzzed four times before it was picked up.

“Mr. Leary’s office,” answered a flat female voice.

“Mr. Leary, please-Assistant United States Attorney Wayne calling,” said Michelle, now with a clipped, upper-class tone. If Leary was around, it was clearly expected he was to get his ass over to the telephone-pronto.

A pause, then a voice: “This is Mr. Leary. How can I help you?”

“Hold for Mr. Wayne, please,” said Michelle, hitting the toggle switch and handing the phone to me with a smile. I took the instrument, smoothed out my voice (all those Strike Force guys went to Ivy League schools), and opened the dialogue. “Mr. Leary? Good of you to speak with me, sir. My name is Patrick Wayne, Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. We’ve had a situation come up here that I hope you can help us with.”

“Well… I will if I can. Are you sure it’s me you want to talk to?”

“Yes, sir-allow me to explain. We are interested in an individual who is currently receiving VA benefits-and our interest frankly concerns traffic in narcotics. We are in the process of preparing an informational subpoena for your payment records so we can determine the extent of this individual’s ability to support himself.”

“A subpoena…”

“Yes, sir. It would be delivered to you personally, and would encompass the full range of your activities pursuant to… but, let me explain. That’s why I’m calling you. The subpoena-and the Grand Jury testimony, of course-may not be necessary if we can secure your cooperation.”

“Cooperation? But I haven’t done-”

“Of course you haven’t, Mr. Leary. All we really need is the opportunity to speak with this particular individual. You see, we have learned that he has no permanent address-that he comes directly to the VA for his check every month. All we want you to do is put a temporary stall on that check the next time he comes, and give our office a call. Even a day’s delay is more than sufficient. Then, when he returns the following day, we will be able to pick him up and speak with him.”

“And then there’d be no subpoena?”

“No, sir-there’d be no need for one.” First the pressure-then the grease. “Of course, I realize you probably have no interest in such things, but it is the policy of our office to award governmental commendations to those who assist us as you will be doing. If you are shy about the media we could avoid all publicity, but our office does feel you should have official recognition in some way.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” chanted the bureaucrat, “I just do my job.”

“And we appreciate it, Mr. Leary-rest assured that we do. Our man’s name is Martin Howard Wilson.”

“What’s his service number?”

“Sir, I’ll be frank with you. We only have an old number, and we’re fairly certain he’s been collecting under a new one. We assumed your computer network-”

“Well, we are fully computerized. But searching for just a name takes longer.”

“Would his last known address help you?”

“Certainly,” he snapped back, now officially on the job.

“We have Six-oh-nine West Thirty-seventh Street, but we understand he’s long since departed that location.”

A sly note crept into Leary’s civil servant’s voice as he said, “This will take just a few minutes to check-can I call you back?”

“Certainly, sir, please take down our number,” and I gave it to him.

We said good-bye on that note. I smoked another couple of cigarettes and Michelle went back to her Gothic romance novel, popping a stick of gum into her mouth. In about fifteen minutes, the phone box buzzed.

Michelle threw the switch, bit down on the wad of gum. “United States Attorney’s Office,” she said in a pleasant, bouncy receptionist’s voice.

“Could I speak with Mr. Patrick Wayne, please?” asked Leary.

“I’ll connect you.” Michelle flipped a switch, silently counted to twenty on her fingers, flipped the switch open again, and said, “Mr. Wayne’s office” in the earlier voice.

“Could I speak with Mr. Wayne?” asked Leary again.

“Who is calling, please?”

“Mr. Leary, from the Veteran’s Administration.”

“He’ll be right with you, sir, he’s been expecting your call.” She flipped the switch and handed the phone to me.

“Patrick Wayne here.”

“Oh, Mr. Wayne. This is Leary. From the VA?” he said, like I might have forgotten him already.

“Yes, sir. Thank you for getting back to me so promptly.”

“Mr. Wayne, we have a problem here.”

“A problem?” I asked, my voice taking on an edge.

“Well, not a problem exactly. But you said that this Wilson picks up his check here every month. But our records show that it’s being mailed to his home address.”

“His home address…?” I tried to keep the eagerness out of my voice. “Perhaps it’s a different Wilson.”

“No, sir.” assured the bureaucrat, now on familiar ground. “It’s the exact same name you gave me, and the address is the same too.”