"What's this got to do with me?"

"It's Wesley's work. A fucking message, right? The don said he wasn't going to pay that maniac. He didn't do the job- he don't get paid. Wesley, he says he don't get paid, he's coming for all of us. Crazy motherfucker. He's a hitter. A contract man. He don't tell us, we tell him. Now he has to go. We can keep the sicko stuff outta the papers for only so long."

The old man tried to fire up one of his twisted black cigars. He couldn't get it lit- it wasn't the wind. I cracked a wooden match in my palm, held the cup for him. He leaned close to take the flame. A sour smell came off him.

"This ain't the first one. He dropped one of the don's boys. One shot, right in the back of the neck. Calls up, says, 'One down.' Like he's going to pick us off one at a time."

"Do whatever you want."

"No, it don't play like that. You started this fucking mess, you clean it up, capisce?"

"I started it? Where d'you get that? You got things mixed up. Wesley just wants his money, right?"

"He was up front with us, we woulda done that, okay? That Mortay- we know Wesley didn't hit him. But there was another guy- one of Sally Lou's boys. Our inside man. To watch Mortay. We had it all wired. The way we got it, you had a meet with Mortay in a playground in Chelsea." His deep-set eyes turned up to watch mine. Waited a beat, went on. "Our guy was along for backup. And he gets dropped. From the rooftop. Sniper shot. Somebody working with a silencer and a night scope. That's the murder the cops want you for…that's what they busted you on, right?"

It wasn't McGowan or Morales who made that bust. They wouldn't have squawked to the other cops anyway. I felt the gears mesh. The city has a compost heap for a heart- why shouldn't gangsters drop a dime on it- maybe grow some dollars?

"I wasn't there," I said quietly. "The judge cut me loose."

"Yeah, you wasn't there. Okay, I'm easy. But it was Wesley on that roof. Nobody else works like that…like a fucking hillbilly in the mountains. That puts you and that maniac together."

I watched him, waiting.

"It's good enough for the don," Julio said.

"Why don't you just pay Wesley the money?"

"Now you got it. That's exactly what we're gonna do, pal. And you're gonna deliver it."

"No thanks. I don't do crossfires."

"You gonna do this one. You don't, the don says to tell you you're on his list too."

"Why? What difference does it make?"

"You think…after what that fuck did…you think the don's gonna be happy just seeing him dead? He gets his hands on Wesley, it's gonna take that animale a week to die."

"I'm not meeting Wesley to hand over money- he'd waste the errand boy- you know that."

An alligator's smile. "I told them…Burke's too slick to play the chump. We don't care how it's done. We gotta have Wesley. Do whatever you gotta do. But quick."

"I'll get back to you."

"Don't even think about hiding. There's no place you can go in this town. One phone call and you're locked up again. You know what it costs to have a man hit in jail today?"

"You mean one more phone call, don't you?" I said, so close to his face I could see the pores. "Goodbye, old man."

The pack watched him walk to his car. Watched it drive away. Watched me use the pay phone again. Mama's voice was soft and clear. "He called. Say, same time, same place. Tonight."

Max and I walked back to the Plymouth. One of the young men in the pack caught my eye. I got the message. Don't. Come. Back.

I'd heard it before.

WE ROLLED back onto the BQE, heading toward Queens. Random loops, in case Julio was going to be stupid. Time to kill. Exited at La Guardia and looped around the airport, taking our time. Dark now, headlight patterns in the mirror. Max was watching, face turned to the rear. He made the "okay" sign as we pulled into the parking lot of one of the airport motels. We smoked a couple of cigarettes, watching the shadows dance. Men in shiny, pointy-toed boots with Cuban heels, light bouncing off thick shocks of heavily oiled hair. Bulletproof vests over tropical-colored silk shirts. Cocaine and money switched partners. They work outdoors now. The DEA has the rooms wired. A few years ago, some local Colombian paid a half million cash for the key to one of the lockers in the airport. He opened it up, the spring snapped, and the explosion took out nineteen people. That was back when the Italians still thought they could keep narcotics in the family. Wesley had the contract on the Colombian- the other eighteen bodies were on the house. The federales are still looking for the terrorist organization responsible.

Julio was playing it like Wesley was just a shooter, but he knew better. And he knew I knew.

I ran it down for Max. He already had most of it, from watching Julio. The Mongolian made the sign of a man aiming a rifle. Pulled his hand away from the trigger, knife-edged it, and chopped at his own neck. Pointed to my watch. Let's take him out tonight.

I shook my head no.

His hands asked why.

I shook my head again, pointed at my watch. Not now. Wait. I held my palm over my eyes like I was shielding them from the sun, turned my head from side to side. Something else around.

I couldn't say what.

WE CROSSED the Triboro from the Queens side. Worked our way to the junkyard. Hours yet until we had to meet Wesley- I wasn't going to wait in a bar.

I shoved a cassette into the tape player, jamming the bass as high as it would go for Max. He put his fingertips on the speaker on his side of the car.

Judy Henske. "High Flying Bird." And "God Bless the Child." I wondered if they let torch singers into heaven- I couldn't see Henske in a choir.

Sonny Boy Williamson. "T.B. Blues."

The sky looks different from the gutter.

Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys. I'd forgotten he was on the tape. Just a bar singer's voice, but his dark-side poetry was diamonds shining through blood. The Texas Tower song- Kinky's ode to America 's favorite sniper, Charles Whitman.

There was a rumor

About a tumor

Nestled at the base of his brain

Maybe the Mole knew.

TERRY LET us in, leading us through the dog pack. Simba was sitting by himself a few feet from the Mole's bunker. His eyes ignored me, tracking Max. Calm, inside himself. Max stepped to the side, hands flowing to a clasp just below his waist. He bowed to the beast. Not in deference- a warrior on another's ground. Simba flashed a lupine grin and strolled off into the darkness.

We went down into the bunker. The Mole was in his chair, lap covered by an artist's pad. The page was covered with sketches of machinery, formulas and equations scrawled from corner to corner. He grunted a greeting, not looking up.

"Would you like some tea?" Terry asked me, making the sign of a cup to the lips for Max. The warrior nodded his head gravely. "You got any ginger ale?" I asked. The kid gave me a look like the Mole does sometimes. Michelle would be proud of him.

We sipped our drinks. The Mole ignored us. Finally, he dumped his calculations on the floor. Terry was waiting with a cup of tea. The Mole nodded his head absently.

"What're you working on?" I asked.

"A computer retrovirus."

"What?"

"Computer virus…you reach a certain point and it eats the data, yes?"

"Okay." I knew what he meant. Pedophiles are really into computers, meticulously recording each victim. They have crash-codes built in. The cops try to access the disc and the whole thing goes down.