IN THE WAY back to the city, I called the junkyard. We stopped in, spoke to the Mole. He'd place the cars. I didn't ask him to do anything else.

It took us a couple of hours to find the Prof. He was working Penn Station, deep in talk with a couple of guys stretched out on sleeping mats made from cut-up cartons. A two-wheeled shopping cart stood between them, full of magazines, empty plastic bottles, a Cabbage Patch doll with only one arm on top. As we closed in on him, I recognized the two pups from the shoeshine stand.

They recognized me too. The bigger one snaked his hand into the cart.

"Chill it, fool," the Prof snapped at him. The pup listened to his teacher. The Prof walked over to us. We stood against the corner as I ran it down.

The little man thought it over. "There's always danger from a stranger."

I thought of what the Mole said about Wesley. "He's not us, Prof. But he's not them either."

"I'll drive. From the far side. Couple of hours. You don't show, I go." Dealing himself in. One piece left.

I rang Michelle's room. "Are you decent?" I asked her.

"No, but I'm dressed."

Max and I went up to her hotel room. She was wearing green Chinese pajamas, makeup in place, hair still up. Smoking one of her long black cigarettes.

She kissed Max on the cheek, reached over, squeezed my hand. "What is it?"

"Monday night, late. I need someone to drive me and Max. Wait for us. Couple of hours. We don't show up, take the car and split."

"What's the risk?"

"Not much. The car'lI be clean when you're sitting in it. We come back on the run, you can still fade."

"Somebody's paying?"

"Somebody."

"I'm in for a piece?"

"We're not stealing, Michelle. Flat rate. You call it."

"I'll have to take the whole night off. Say, two large."

"Okay."

"You're different now. Different again."

"What?"

"You don't feel like a gunfighter to me anymore. But you're not back to yourself. Something's still missing."

I knew what it was: I didn't feel afraid.

IT WAS getting light when I took Max back to the warehouse. I waited while he got my mail from upstairs. Same old stuff.

Always danger from a stranger. Somehow I knew he'd be awake. I dialed the number from the basement. Told the man who answered the phone what I wanted. Waited.

"Mr. Burke."

"Train. I'd like to make an appointment to see you. Continue our dialogue. Tie up the loose ends."

"What loose ends?"

"Questions you asked me. About…security. I believe I have some answers for you. And maybe we could do business."

"I see. Around noon?"

"I'll be there."

I LEFT Morehouse's car on Remsen Street, where it was legal to park with NYP plates. Max and I walked the rest of the way.

The same young man we saw the first time let us in. No karate outfit this time. The chairs were already in place in the top-floor room.

"My brother will wait outside, with your permission. I don't think anyone needs to hear this."

His eyes were a bright blue. "My staff has rather strong feelings about me…about my safety."

"You're safe with me. Sometimes it's safer to talk privately."

"The last time we talked. About security. You said something about me having to leave this place sometime. It seems to me that you're already back inside."

"I'm a businessman, not a kamikaze."

"Very well."

Max stepped outside. We were alone. I rotated my head on the column of my neck. To get the kinks out, break the adhesions. And look around. Glass brick ran in a long loop around the top of the room. I had to play it like they were listening- walk the tightrope.

I lit a smoke. "You have enemies. Personal enemies. I think that's part of the cost of doing business for you. That wouldn't frighten you."

"You think I'm frightened?"

"Concerned, okay? Intelligently concerned. About a problem you have. I think one of your personal enemies realized his impotence. And went to a professional. I don't think your security questions were academic."

"Are you guessing about all of this?"

"No."

The blue eyes honed in. That was his wake-up call. "Are you…involved?"

"Not yet. I thought I might be. If we can do business.

"I'm not certain I understand."

"You have a sweet business here. Making wine out of rotten fruit, that's a technique. I admire your insight, your skill."

He bowed slightly, waiting.

"The way it works, you cruise the streets. Look for old furniture that people throw out on the sidewalk. Then you refinish the furniture, remodel it, paint it. You sell the furniture to people who want that kind of stuff in their houses. And it's all profit. Garbage into gold. Dirt into diamonds. Why should anybody be mad?"

"Indeed."

"Once in a while…not too often…somebody wishes they had their furniture back. But you've got this rule- you won't sell it back to anyone who put it out on the curb in the first place."

"They threw it away. It's not theirs."

"Yes. You're a street-cleaner. A scavenger. But you know how people are- they never miss water until the well runs dry."

"You're a perceptive man. I believe we…I misjudged you."

"That happens. You have resources, you can ask questions. You know when the truth is around. When it isn't."

"Yes?"

"The truth is around. Here. Now. One of these people who discarded his furniture, he wanted it back. There was a disagreement of some sort. But this individual, he couldn't go to the authorities. The law's on your side. Once you throw garbage out at the curb, it belongs to anyone who picks it up."

He bowed again. Just a slight movement of his head.

"So this individual, he goes outside the law. To a professional. Somebody wants you. And by now you know it isn't me.

"You came for Elvira."

"And I returned her."

"She told you some things…"

"And I brought her back to you. I'm not the man who's looking for you."

"No? Then what are you?"

"I'm the man you're looking for."

"How so?"

"Every profession has competition. You have your work, I have mine. I wouldn't know your competitors, you wouldn't know mine. You thought I was here for a particular reason. You were wrong. But someone is out there. For you. Someone I can deal with."

He made a slight "keep talking" move with one hand.

"I have two professions," I told him. "One of them is finding people. I can find this person."

"And then?"

"My other profession."

"And what of my profession?"

"That's your business. It seems you could use a man like me."

"I have people."

"You have children."

His eyes locked in. "My children."

"Children deserve protection."

"Yes. I must do what is best for my children. Anything else would be immoral."

"Morality can be costly."

"Whatever…"

"Very costly."

"Yes?"

"Fifty thousand."

"All right." Unfazed. "I assume you want some sort of…preliminary payment."

"It's not necessary.

"I'm not familiar with these things. I just thought…"

"I know where to find you. After it's done."

"How would I know?"

"I'll bring the proof. If you're not satisfied, there's no charge." He stroked his face, pretending to think about it.

"It's for the children," I said.

"Yes. I have no choice. My obligations. You won't mind if I check…?"

I nodded, knowing what he meant. It didn't matter. Wesley had his work and I had mine. And I was back to it. The day I couldn't scam dirtbags, I'd go straight.

I didn't see the signal. Reba came into the room. A white silk robe with a hood, white sash around her waist. Nothing else. She sat next to me on my left, hooking one thigh over my legs, pulling the robe around her shoulder like she was cold. Her hand found my heart.