"What does he do?'

This was a question that Ralph Bales had not anticipated. He spent a long time shrugging and sipping coffee. "Works some kind of job in St. Louis. I don't know. Computers or something."

"And what exactly has he got to sell?'

"He described you. To the letter. He said he looked through the window and got a complete description."

Lombro touched the silvery hair at his temple as if this news gave him a headache. "Why didn't he tell the police?'

Another foreseen question. "He was scared like I said."

"Did you threaten him?'

Ralph Bales poked at his pastry.

"Did you?' Lombro repeated sternly.

"Okay. I made it clear that we weren't happy. I told him we were willing to go to extremes if we had to. I was trying to, you know, negotiate it down. But I told you-I didn't hurt him."

"Did it work?'

"What's that?"

"Negotiating."

"Not much, no."

"How much does he want?'

Ralph Bales stopped poking and took a bite of pastry. "Fifty thousand."

"Uhm."

Ralph Bales counted to twelve, as his script called for. Then he said earnestly, "I know you don't want my opinion but there's a way I'd rather handle it." This was to make the fifty thousand more appealing.

"No more killing. I forbid it."

Forbid it. Ralph Bales tried to remember the last time he had heard someone use that word. Not his father. Maybe a priest at school. Forbid. It was a word that belonged in an old-time movie.

"I'm just telling you your options."

'That's not an option."

With one square of paper napkin, Philip Lombro wiped the flecks of pastry from his lips and when he was through doing so he took another square and wiped the heel of his shoe. Then he asked another question, one that Ralph Bales had not anticipated, though it was one of those questions that did not really need an answer. "I suppose he wants us to pay him in small bills, doesn't he?"

"Hey."

Donnie Buffett opened his eyes.

John Pellam stood looking at him.

Buffett inhaled slowly. "Hi, chief."

"You okay?" Pellam's eyes flickered with concern.

"Yeah. I was… There's this exercise. It's supposed to calm you down. It doesn't work too good."

"Well, some beer'll calm you down. You want another beer?"

"Yeah, I want another beer."

In addition to a damp paper bag Pellam was holding a thick white envelope. Buffett looked at it first and the bag second.

Pellam closed the door. Buffett said, 'They got a rule against that."

"Yeah? What're you, a cop?" He opened two pint Fosters.

Buffet looked at the blue and red logo. "Oh, yes! That stuff really gives me a buzz. Is that a kangaroo on there?"

"It's not going to hurt you, is it? I mean, like with medicine you're taking?"

Buffett drank down three good swallows. "Oooo," he said slowly. "Jubilation."

Pellam sat down in the chair. He held the envelope in one hand. Buffett stared at it.

"Donnie… Uh, your wife?"

"She say anything about that?" He nodded toward the envelope.

"She didn't see it."

Buffett drank more of the ale. He wasn't looking at Pellam.

"She was kind of chanting when I left."

The cop studied his beer. "Yeah, she does that some. It's like a, you know, hobby."

"We get a lot of that out in California."

"She's real sweet. Good kid. And a cook. You want to talk pasta? Penny's the best. She cooks all kinds. She makes white clam sauce. You know anybody else who's ever made white clam sauce?"

"I met Stan and Ruth."

"Yeah. They're all right." Buffett looked around the room. "We don't have a whole lot to talk about. Stan's a good guy."

"Seems that way. Your wife okay, Donnie?"

"What do you mean okay?"

"It wasn't just the chanting. She had this candle burning…"

Buffett laughed-though he guessed his eyes did not join in. He said, "She's kind of superstitious. Like with Reagan, remember? Nancy had an astrologer. A lot of people are into that kind of stuff now. Crystals." He reached over to the table and lifted up a clear green stone. "Green's supposed to make you well again. Penny got it for me." His voice caught and he swallowed. "I'm supposed to wear it. But I figured my Blue Cross goes out the window if they find out I'm getting treated by spirit guides." He laughed again. The sound turned into a shallow cough. "I'm supposed to keep turning. Otherwise, all this shit settles in my lungs." His face went dark and still. "I'm working out, too." He nodded to the jump rope. "I'll be back in shape in no time."

"Wheelchair basketball."

"I'll whup your ass."

"I don't even play basketball," Pellam said.

Buffett was looking at the envelope. "You found it okay."

Pellam handed it to him. "Its pretty beat-up. That's what Maddox issues you?"

Buffett shook the gun out of the envelope and held it lovingly. He clicked it open and looked at the shells inside. He read the engraved, circular word Remington five times. He did not seem to hear Pellam's question but a moment later he said, "It's a cold gun."

"What's that?' Pellam asked.

"A gun with the registration filed off. Untraceable. Sometimes you go into a drug bust, there're a lot of cold guns around. So you pick up one and keep it."

"Like for a backup?"

Buffett spun the cylinder then said, "Well, I use them for backup. Lotta cops use them for something else. Like for when there's some asshole coming at you in an alley and you tell him to stop but he doesn't." Buffett stopped speaking as if this were explanation enough.

Pellam shook his head.

Buffett whispered, "You see what I'm saying? You take him out with your service piece then slip a cold gun in his hand. When they have the shooting hearing, you tell them you had to shoot him because he had a piece." He found he was sweating and wiped his face. "That happens a lot?"

"Some. They know it goes on. The thing is, if you die with something in your hand the muscles tighten up on it right away. So it's a hassle to get the guy's prints on it. The shooting board always suspects but unless it happens to the samfe cop a lot they'd rather come down on our side." He looked up. "Thanks for doing this."

"You really think there's a chance the killer'll come back? Try to hit you here?"

"I just feel a whole lot better with a piece." He nodded at the gun.

"I hear you." Pellam finished his Fosters. "Should've brought some peanuts."

Buffett set his ale down. "Stomach must've shrunk. Used to be a time when I could drink three of these."

"You'll still be able to-"

Buffett s eyes flashed. "Don't do that. I hate it."

"What?"

"Making it sound like everything's gonna be fine. Everything's going to be hunky-dory. That's what my mother used to say. Hunky-dory. And peachy."

Pellam shrugged. "You're the one bitching and moaning about your capacity to chug. I'm just telling you it's-"

"Well, don't tell me, okay?"

"Sure, you want."

"Yeah, I want."

There was a long moment of silence. Buffett said finally, "Look, Pellam, I'm sorry. You're too easygoing. You ought to tell me to fuck off. You ought to slug me."

"I never hit a man with a gun."

"I'm tired. I think I need some sleep. I'll make some calls like I said. Tell the guys to lay off you."

"Thanks. I gotta go anyway. I got a date."

"Date?"

"That local girl you met. The blonde."

"Pretty damn clever, Pellam. You promise 'em parts in the film and then, wham bang, they get a part they weren't expecting. You Hollywood guys."

"Not quite. This one hates movies."

"Hates movies? What's her name again? Nancy?"

"Nina."

"One good-looking woman."