The gun never went off. My breath was gone. The windshield was splattered with flesh and fluid. I let air seep in through my nose until my lungs started to work. I didn't look in the back seat.

Unbuckled my seat belt. Stepped outside. My legs wouldn't work. I sat down outside the Ford, waiting. It would come back.

In a few minutes I started walking. By myself. Fingering the little transmitter in my pocket.

The Plymouth growled alongside me, running without lights. The passenger door opened. I climbed inside. Hit the switch. The window went down. Max drove slowly. The Ford was in sight. I held the transmitter out the window, as high as I could. The Mole said it had a quarter-mile range. We were much closer than that. I pushed the button. The Ford exploded. Flames filled the rearview mirror as Max hit the gas.

He dropped me off where I'd left Morehouse's car.

I CALLED MOREHOUSE from a phone on the West Side. "You know the Yacht Basin?"

"Sure, man. Where you think I keep my yacht?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"I'm rolling."

HE PULLED IN. Seemed relieved to see his car still in one piece.

"What's on?"

I handed him his keys. "There's gonna be an explosion tonight. Somewhere on Wards Island. Off the approach road to Kirby. The cops'll find bodies inside. They won't make a connect. You know McGowan and Morales?"

"The Runaway Squad? Sure."

"You call them. You got a tip, right? The connect is to a man named Train. He's running the baby-breeding operation." I gave him the address.

"They'll need more than that for a search warrant."

"Save the bullshit for your column, pal. Let them get a warrant the way they always do. You know that Anonymous Informant? The one they use on every search warrant since the Supreme Court told them they needed one? Time for another guest appearance. Tell them to run it through Wolfe at City-Wide. She'll know what to do. Besides, the joint'll be full of victims, not perps."

"Right on, man. When do I know?"

"You got nothing else to do tonight, right? Maybe you're working on that movie script you're always bullshitting about writing someday. So you're monitoring the police band- I know you got a scanner. You get a call a few minutes after they get theirs."

"I'm off."

"Hold up. There's one more thing. A little girl inside the joint. Her name's Elvira. Or Juice- I don't know which name she'll use. Don't let SSC put her in a shelter or a foster home- she'll run. She knows how to do it. She needs a psychiatric hospital. And she's pregnant."

"Okay. Anything else I should know about her?"

"Yeah. She knows my name."

"Crazy people say all kinds of things. 'Specially on the psycho ward."

"Your car sucks," I told the West Indian, not saying the rest- that his word was good.

We shook hands.

IT DIDN'T hit me till later. Alone in my office. No lights. Pansy's dark shape on the couch. When Flood had killed the sadist Goldor in his fancy house…killed him to save me…she almost came unglued. Got off the track. Shaking so bad. Throwing away the clothes she'd worn like they were diseased. I'd held her to me. Rosie and the Originals on the cassette. Angel Baby. "Remember reform school?" I'd asked her, dancing so slow we weren't moving our feet. Until she came back to herself.

She couldn't come back to me that night.

Not Strega's fire, not Wesley's ice.

I found my way.

Survive.

I WOKE UP the next morning by myself. The way I always do. Belle was still gone. The pain in my chest was still there. But now I recognized it for what it was- a tourniquet around my heart, not a stranglehold.

The Plymouth found its way over to Mama's. Judy Henske on the cassette. Singing just to me. An old gut-bucket blues number came through next. I didn't remember the man's name but I know he died young. And hard.

Too sick to go to the doctor

Too tired to go to sleep

Too broke to borrow money

And too hungry to eat

And then a sweet girl singer, fronting off some doo-wop group that never had a hit record.

Your tears in my eyes

Your heart in my heart

Defeat and disguise

Can't keep us apart

The weight wasn't off, but I could carry what was left.

Mama had the Daily News. The story about the bombed-out car on Wards Island was buried on page six. The paper had it down to more mob homicides. Couldn't find a word about Julio. It would take a day or so for the Queens cops to run his prints. And they'd throw the body into the same garbage bag with the rest of the mess Wesley made. Morehouse's column would be out tomorrow.

Max came in. I showed him the story about the firebombed car. He drew his X on the table. Wesley's work. He made a questioning sign. I pulled an imaginary cord a couple of times, made the sign of something rushing past. Train. He bowed.

My brother was right. I'd pulled the switch, but it was Wesley's work. Mine was done.

Almost done.

MAX PULLED the racing form from his pocket. I kicked back to read. The horses' names all looked unfamiliar to me. Soon I was lost in a stakes race for three-year-old trotters. There was a shipper from Illinois. Gypsy Flame. An Arsenal filly out of a Noble Hustle mare. Good lines. Her trainer was bringing her along slowly, but she was tearing up the home tracks. A 2:01 at Sportsman's Park in Chicago in the cold weather- that was flying. I went over her last eight races. She always ran off the pace, charged hard going home. She'd be at a disadvantage at Yonkers with the tight turns and the short stretch, but she always ran clean. No breaks on her record. Morning Line had her at 8- 1. Yes.

I looked over at Max, to tell him what our selection would be. His seat was empty. I glanced at my watch. Damn. I'd been lost for almost two hours.

Mama was up front, by the cash register. I went back to the pay phones. Dialed my broker. Maurice snatched it on the first ring.

"What?"

"This is Burke. Give me the four horse in the second race at Yonkers. Two to win."

"Horse number four, race number two. Yonkers. A deuce on the nose. That right?"

"Right. You miss me?"

He hung up.

THE PHONE RANG before I could go back to my table. I picked it up myself.

"Yeah?"

"Friday, be sure you're watching TV. It don't matter which channel long as it's a network. Try NBC. They got the fastest crew. 'Live at Five.' That's the best show. Don't wait for the late news- watch it go down."

"All right."

"That car. Last night. In my spot?"

"Yeah, the papers made it sound like a train wreck."

"I'm gonna take a trip. Out to the Island. Pick up my money. Then Friday. Watch TV. I'll wave goodbye to you."

"I…"

"Don't say my name. I'm leaving you something in my will. Remember what I said. About kids. Don't let the hunters see the soft spot."

"I won't."

"Goodbye…"

The machine sputtered- I couldn't make out the last word as the phone went dead.