“You mean…”

“Absolutely. Martin Howard Wilson’s checks are mailed to him at Six-oh-nine West Thirty-seventh Street, Apartment Number Four, New York City, New York One-oh-oh-one-eight. He’s on three-quarters disability, as you know. That address has been used for… let me see… the past nine checks. He would have received the last one only last week or so.”

“I see.” And I was beginning to-and cursing myself for a fool as I did. “Well, sir, our information leads us to believe he has abandoned that address. Let me ask you this, Mr. Leary-will you agree to hold his check one extra day if he should appear in person? You don’t forward those checks to new addresses, do you?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Wayne. In fact, it says Do Not Forward right on the envelope. If he has moved the check will be returned to us. We don’t change the address unless we get a formal notice from the veteran himself.”

“All right, sir. Now, assuming the check is returned, couldn’t he just come to your office and pick it up-assuming he had proper identification, of course?”

“Yes, he could do that. Some of them do.”

“Well, sir-will you agree to hold his check one extra day if it is returned to you? All we want you to do is tell him to come back the next day and give us a call here at the office. Will you do that for us?”

“Well, it’s a bit irregular-couldn’t I just stall him for a while and give you a call?”

“Well, sir, we would prefer the course of action suggested to you. But we do appreciate your efforts and I believe the solution you devised would be more than satisfactory.”

“Yes, that would be better-I mean, those guys are used to waiting for their checks, you know? Another few hours won’t make any difference. But a whole day… well, I’d have to get approval all up the line for that.”

“Would a letter on official stationary from my superiors be of assistance to you, sir?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Wayne. That would be perfect.”

“Very well, it will be sent out to you later this week. You know how it is getting the boss to sign anything.” I chuckled, one-on-one.

“Don’t I,” he agreed, now at ease with a fellow schlub.

“All right, sir, shall we leave it like this? If Wilson shows up before our letter arrives, you stall him for a couple of hours and notify my office immediately. And if your letter arrives first, I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty securing approval to hold the check for a day or so.”

“That would be fine, Mr. Wayne.”

“Sir, on behalf of our entire office, I appreciate your assistance. You’ll be hearing from us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Thank you, Mr. Leary,” I said, and rang off.

I SAT THERE for a minute, absorbing the impact of my own stupidity. Some blonde bimbo comes into my office and tells me she spooked a heavyweight freak by kicking a building superintendent in the chops and I take her word for it. It was like when I was back in the joint-all the young guys wanted to know what being on parole was like: how to get over on the P.O., what you could get away with, how close they checked on you… all that stuff. So who would they ask? Naturally, the only guys inside with us who knew anything about parole were chumps who were back inside on a parole violation. All over this world we keep confusing repeated failures with lots of experience. Maybe this Wilson slipped the super a few bucks and told him to tell anyone who came around looked that he’d moved out a few days ago. But maybe he was still there.

I didn’t want to brace a character like that without Max for backup, but I didn’t know where he was and there was no time to find him. I told Michelle to pack up the place and make herself scarce. If Wilson was still there, he might be on his way out the door right this minute.

It was only a couple of miles to the address the VA gave me, but that was a couple of miles through the city and it was nearly one in the afternoon. Michelle would call Mama and tell her to have Max come to the Thirty-seventh Street address, but I didn’t know when she’d make contact. Max can do a lot of things, but he can’t use a phone.

The big Plymouth hummed along, eating up the streets, moving through the packed traffic like a good pickpocket at work. Maybe Wilson was there all along-sitting in some furnished room surrounded by kiddie-porn magazines and take-out food containers and thinking he was safe. Or maybe the address was never any good-maybe he had the brains to use an accommodation drop or he had a forwarding address permanently in place. Or maybe he was packing his bags even as I was heading over to him. Too many maybes, and no time to sort them out. I’d have to hit alone-no Max, no Pansy. It’d have to do.

The Plymouth wheeled crosstown onto Eleventh Avenue and past the giant construction site where another multimillionaire was building another building for his brothers and sisters. I found Thirty-seventh Street and nosed down the block looking for a place to park-I might have to get out of there quickly. Nothing. Back to Thirty-eighth, the parallel block, where I finally found an empty spot.

I put the car into reverse and started to back in when I heard a horn blasting at me-some miserable piece of garbage wanted the spot for himself. I ignored him, but the scumbag shoved the nose of his Eldorado into the spot ahead of me. Stalemate-he couldn’t fit all the way in but it was enough to keep me out. Ram him out of the way or talk? I jumped out of the Plymouth like I was mad enough to waste him, grabbed the gold shield from my jacket pocket, and fingered the.38 with the other hand. I charged the Eldorado-the driver pushed the power window button and sat there in his pimp hat smiling, showing me a gold tooth with a diamond set in its center.

“Police! Move that fucking car! Now!”

And then I caught a break as the pimp raised his hands in a calm-down gesture and backed out without another word. Bad move on my part-maybe I called too much attention to the Plymouth, but it looked close enough to the unmarked cars the Man used in Midtown South. I put the Plymouth into the space and hit all the switches in case the pimp decided to return and act stupid. It would be a bad idea-I had his license number.

I hit the street. The block was dead at that hour-the working people were gone, the thieves were still asleep, and the welfare cases were watching television. Number 609 was on the corner, just where Flood said it was. Six-story tenement, brick front. Two glass-paneled wood doors, unlocked, a row of mailboxes inside, most of them with no names-no buzzer either. The inside door was locked. One bell was marked Super so I pushed it. Waiting for an answer, I was thinking how to play this next part. If it was a more middle-class joint I’d be tempted to come on as Detective Burke of NYPD. I looked enough like it, I was dressed right for a middle-class mind, and I could talk that talk. But any citizen of this neighborhood would see right through it.

Detectives never work alone anymore-the department won’t let them. And they don’t dress as well as I was either if they’re not on the take-I had left the double-knit disguise home in the closet where it belonged. If I had time I could have taken one of the quasi-cops with me-you know, one of the badge-freaks who likes to pretend he’s a real cop. He joins some bullshit organization, gets an honorary badge, and immediately goes out and buys himself a set of handcuffs and a blue light for his car. He hangs out in the cop bars and talks like he’s on television. I’m the founder and sole beneficiary of the Metro Detectives Association, which has enrolled dozens of these losers. We don’t charge a fee, of course, since all our men are doing important volunteer law-enforcement work. But you’d be amazed at how many of them purchase the optional framed certificate, bumper plaque, laminated plastic photo I.D. card complete with their picture, gold badge in genuine leather case-all that. It costs them an average of a grand per man. You tell a card-carrying disturbo that he’s a genuine “peace officer” and he goes straight into major orgasm, maybe for the first time. Not a bad deal for me, but this time I didn’t have one of them around when I needed him.