Sal Cohen blinked at me and then he blinked at Joe Pike. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Sal smirked. "What bull. I know cops when I see'm."

Pike walked away down the hall.

I stepped closer to the door, lowered my voice, and tried to look furtive. I have never in my life met a cop who looked furtive, but there you go. "Okay," I said, "we're on the cops. We need your help in locating Richard Sealy so that we might topple the organized crime structure in our city."

He said, "You find him, you get me the eight months' back rent the little bag of shit owes."

"You got any idea when he'll be around?"

"No."

"You know where he works?"

"That lazy sonofabitch, work? If he worked, he wouldn't be eight months back on the rent. None of these lazy bastards work."

"You know where he spends his time?"

"Look down at Dillard's. He's always down there, shooting pool and trying to buy dope, else he's running around with those crazy Gamboza bastards."

"Gamboza bastards?" Pike came back and stood next to me.

Sal nodded and squinted out at us. "Yeah."

"As in the Gamboza family?"

"Yeah." More squinting.

I said, "Richard Sealy hangs out with the DeLuca family."

Sal laughed, and it came out like a series of sharp hacks. "Hey, you just fall off the lamebrain truck, or what? I run this building thirty-five years. Those fucking Gamboza bastards grew up right over there on Wilmont Street and so did Richie Sealy. They useta throw rocks at the niggers and steal their money, the little bastards, Richie Sealy and Nick and Tommy Gamboza and that nut case Vincent Ricci. Jesus Christ, the DeLucas." More of the hacking laugh. "Richie's about as close to being a Gamboza as you can be without the blood. Why else you think I gotta put up with a junkie eight months back on his rent? I heave him out, those bastards would cut out my heart and fry it in a pan."

I said, "But how does he fit in with the DeLucas?"

Sal squinted at me past the security chains like I was a new release from Bellevue. "He don't. Nobody around here got anything to do with the fucking DeLucas. The Upper West Side is owned lock, stock, and short hairs by the Gamboza family. DeLucas got lower Manhattan. This look like lower Manhattan to you?"

I was seeing it. "Sonofabitch."

Sal Cohen said, "No wonder this city's down the toilet, fucking cops like you." Then he slammed the door.

Joe Pike and I walked down the flight of stairs and out onto the street and looked around at deepest, darkest Gamboza country. Nary a DeLuca in sight.

"Well, well, well," I said. "Now I'm beginning to see why Charlie's keeping this secret."

Pike nodded.

"The Delucas and the Gambozas hate each other, but they have an agreement. They're supposed to be standing together against the foreign gangs."

Pike's mouth twitched. "Doesn't look that way, does it?"

"Nope."

Pike's mouth twitched a second time. Hysterics, for Pike. "You think whatever these guys are stealing at Kennedy, it's something that would make a lot of people mad?"

"I've got some guesses."

Pike nodded again. "Let's go down to Dillard's and see if your guesses are right."

You had to walk up a long wooden flight of stairs to get to Dillard's. The stairs were dark and the finish was worn off the center of each tread. A sign at the bottom of the stairs said DILLARD'S POOL amp; BILLIARDS, LADIES WELCOME. Another sign said NO MINORS, UNDER 21 NOT ALLOWED.

We went up the stairs and into a big room with a high ceiling and maybe twenty tables and a splintered floor that went pretty well with the stairs. A dozen kids in black leather jackets over white T-shirts shot pool and smoked and sucked on red cans of Coca-Cola as if this were still 1957, only most of them had long shaggy hair or buzz cuts. Pool cues like prison bars stood upright on racks against the walls, and fluorescent lights on the ceiling made everyone look dead. One of the lights flickered. A sixty-year-old bald guy with knotty arms sat behind a short bar where you could get beer or soft drinks. He was reading a copy of Sporting Times. I didn't see any ladies and no one except the guy behind the bar looked over sixteen. I didn't see Richie Sealy, either. Pike said, "I'll check the back."

Pike went across the big room and into a little alcove where a couple of signs said restrooms and exit. I walked over to the guy behind the bar.

He watched me come over the top of his paper and squirmed around on his stool. Nervous. I said, "We're looking for Richard Sealy. Is he around?"

The old guy glanced toward the rear of his place, where Pike had gone, then back to me. He didn't fold the paper or put it down. "You guys with the cops?" First Sal Cohen, now him. Maybe if we let our hair grow.

I said, "Richard Sealy."

More of the nervous. "Look, I'm straight now, okay? I did the nickel and I'm good at my parole and I live straight, so whatever Richie's got going, I don't know." He shot little glances at the kids and kept his voice down, hoping no one would hear. They probably thought he was tough, and he didn't want them to know he wasn't.

I gave him a hard cop look like I'd seen Robert Stack give in old Untouchables reruns. "We just want Sealy."

In the back, a fat kid with glasses laughed too loud and then a gray metal door that said GENTLEMEN opened next to a pay phone and Richard Sealy came out. He was wearing the same two sweatshirts and the same fingerless gloves and he was smiling. Thirty-five years old and he was hanging out with kids.

The old guy said, "No shooting."

I looked at him. Life at the Longbranch.

Pike came out of the back as Richie went over to a green table where a couple of kids were shooting eight-ball. Richie grabbed a pack of Marlboros off the edge of the table, lipped out a cigarette, fired up, then bent over to line up a shot. Someone had taped a poster of Heather Thomas in a bikini onto the wall. Heather looked okay.

Pike moved along the far wall past the pool cues and came up behind Richie. When he was ten feet from Heather Thomas, I walked over and came up from the near side. "Hey, Richie."

Richie let out a cloud of the Marlboro and looked at me. "I know you?"

"Sure."

Richie squinted through the smoke and rubbed at the inside of his left arm. He looked sleepy. "Where I know you from, Gino's?"

I said, "Let's take a little walk. We got something to talk about."

Joe Pike came up from the other side and stood very close to Richie without expression. The kids shooting eight-ball stopped and looked over.

Richie glanced at Pike, then me. "What the fuck? I don't know you."

"Come on." I put my hand on his arm. "We've got mutual friends."

"Hey, I'm in the middle of a game here." Eyes flicking faster now, Pike to me, Pike to me.

I went in closer until we had him sandwiched and made my voice quiet. "Tommy Gamboza sent us, Richie."

Surprised. "Tommy wants to see me?" Almost a little excited, like maybe Tommy had sent us around to tap him for the secret order, like we'd drive somewhere and he'd get to take the blood oath to become part of La Cosa Nostra.

"Yeah." I took him under the arm and pulled him toward the stairs. Pike looked back at the kids and told them that the game was over.

Richie said, "Hey, if Tommy wants to see me, how come he didn't come himself? How come he didn't send Tony or Frankie to get me? I don't know you guys."

"We're imported, Richie. Vegas." You say Vegas, they know it's bad.

He jammed on the brakes, pulling up short. You see how it is with Vegas? "Hey."

I leaned close and whispered in his ear. "The Gambozas know you're selling them out to Charlie DeLuca."