"THIS IS real nice, Burke. Just like the joint, except for the food," the Prof said, sneering.

We were in Mama's basement. At a long table we made out of an old door. I was playing gin with Max, the scorepad to his left. He owed me almost twenty grand. A nineteen-inch color TV stood on top of a couple of barrels we had piled up. Max brought it with him that day, carrying it in one hand like an attaché case.

Max reached for a card. "Nix on the six, chump," the Prof barked, slapping the Mongol on the arm. Max ignored him. I grabbed it. Turned my hand over. Gin.

"Why you waste time playing cards with this fool, Burke? Just take out a gun, tell him to empty his pockets."

"He wins sometimes."

"Yeah. Whenever a cop gives mouth-to-mouth to a guy who faints in a gay bar."

I lit a smoke, sipped at the cup of clear soup standing next to me. Pansy snarled in the corner- she wasn't used to color TV. And she wanted pro wrestling, not soap operas. She's only a dog- she thinks she can tell the difference.

Max took out a racing form, still pumped up with our last success. Gypsy Flame had destroyed the field, powering overland on the back stretch, clearing the others by the paddock turn, driving home with room to spare- $17.20 to win, more than seventeen hundred bucks to the good on our first bet in months. I waved it away- I couldn't concentrate. Max had picked up the cash from Maurice. Like old times. Moving money, not bodies.

"When's this gonna go down?" the Prof asked.

"I don't know, brother. I told you a dozen times. He called, said to watch the tube. So I'm doing it. You don't have to stay."

"He wasn't my friend, but I'll see the end."

"Okay, then. You want to sit in for Max?"

"No way. Fucking Wesley. You always could pick 'em, Burke."

He acted it out for Max- some of the characters I'd hooked up with in the joint. The Prof had a gift for it- he used to be a preacher.

Time passed. Like it does inside the walls. Except it was safe where I was. Working on my alibi. Mac was upstairs. Lily was going to drop over later. Hell, I was hoping the cops rolled by too. Whatever Wesley was up to, I wanted to be on another planet.

MAX SAW it first. Rapped the table to get our attention. A trailer running at the bottom of one of the soap operas. HOSTAGE SITUATION IN RIVERDALE SCHOOL… ARMED TERRORISTS SEIZE ST. IGNATIUS…POLICE AND FBI ON THE SCENE…STAY TUNED.

"No way," the Prof said.

But I knew.

The soap opera played on. At two-fifteen, they broke in for a live report. Guy in a trench coat, hand-held microphone, sound truck behind him.

"We have no details yet. Apparently, an armed team of terrorists has captured the school. The doors and exits are blocked. The terrorists arrived in a rental truck and entered the school disguised in some way. The police were alerted by a phone call from inside. There was machine-gun fire. If the camera will just pan over…you can see the truck on the edge of the school yard. This is as close as the police will allow us to go. We understand there has been a telephone hookup to the terrorists, and the Hostage Negotiation Team is in place."

The anchorman from "Live at Five" cut in. I guess they told him to report to work early. Wesley would have been pleased. And the anchorman asked the right question. "Tom, you say shots were fired. Were they fired by the terrorists?"

"We just don't know. The police have a tight ring around the school."

"Tell us something about the school."

"St. Ignatius is an exclusive private school here in Riverdale. One of the oldest prep schools in the area. Grades nine through twelve. Some of the most prominent families in the city send their children here."

I clicked on the radio. They had a crew at the scene too. The reporter said something about a media demand, whatever that meant.

Back to the TV. The field reporter was on camera. "It seems that the terrorists have herded the children into the gymnasium. One of them just broke a window. We can see somebody attaching a bullhorn of some kind. I think they're going to make their demands…"

A cop's voice. "You! Inside! What do you want? You can't get out!"

The bullhorn fired back. A measured, unexcited voice. A machine talking through a machine. "I want a helicopter to take us to the airport. I want a fucking 747 to take us to Cuba. You got that, pigs?"

"Crazy bastard thinks it's 1969," the Prof said.

"Let the kids go!" the cop shouted back. "Let the kids go and we'll get you the plane."

"Dumb-ass motherfucker forgot the ransom." The Prof shook his head sadly.

The camera held steady on the school. The field reporter read from a list of famous people whose kids were inside. Tomorrow's judges, politicians, mobsters. The seeds Wesley wanted to burn out of the ground.

"You! Inside!" The cop on the bullhorn again. "We've got the plane for you! Waiting at the airport! Let the hostages go and we'll send in some police officers to take their place! Unarmed!"

The monster's voice cracked back. "Bring more cops! You need more cops! Lots of cops!"

"Oh shit!" the Prof muttered, no questions left.

Camera panned to the SWAT team. Riflemen with scopes. Cops in riot gear- helmets with faceplates, flak jackets, pump shotguns. A cauldron coming to a boil.

The announcer's professional voice came through, just the trace of a tremble inside.

"There's a man on the roof! Get the camera on him."

A man standing there in jungle fatigues, field cap hiding his eyes, gloves on his hands.

The rented truck exploded. A greenish cloud filled the screen. Bursts of machine-gun fire ripped. Screams and shouts from everywhere. The announcer held his ground.

"The unknown man on the roof has apparently detonated the explosion in the terrorists' truck here on the ground…the crowd is taking cover. A squad of policemen has gone around to the back of the school to try and gain access to the roof. The darkness you see on your screen isn't your picture…apparently some type of gas has been released from the truck…we're about five hundred yards from the scene…the gas is lifting…we don't know how many terrorists are left inside."

The camera focused on the lone madman.

"The man on the roof is lighting something. It looks like a torch. He's holding it high above his head…he…oh my God…he looks like some bizarre Statue of Liberty…he's…"

The dynamite exploded in Wesley's hand and the screen went blank.

WE STAYED THERE until late that night. Flipping channels, checking the radio. Every report made a liar out of the previous one. Seventy-five kids dead. A hundred. Two hundred. School security guards machine-gunned. Grenade tossed into the administration office. One of the surviving kids said he heard explosions, gunfire. Then a voice on the PA system telling all the students to get into the gymnasium. A man was standing at the podium, dressed in military fatigues. They all filed inside. The man put some stuff around the door seams. Dropped duffel bags in all the corners. One of the kids screamed. The man raked the row with the machine gun. The kids shut up after that. The ones still alive. The man was shouting at the cops through the bullhorn. Then he ran out. Everything started to blow up. The kid talked in a mechanical voice from his hospital bed. You could hear his doctors arguing with the cops in the background.

The cops were combing through the human wreckage. So far, they hadn't found a single terrorist.

"You think Wesley's going to Hell?" I asked the Prof. He believes in that stuff.

"If he is, the Devil better be ready."