“Come on, Kyle. The young man had a serious problem with cocaine.”

“He didn’t need your help.”

“He’s on the road to recovery.”

“You asshole! He’s on the road to prison.”

“He was dealing coke, Kyle. A menace to society.”

“What do you care about society?”

Kyle stood and began gathering his things. “Gotta run. My old pal Joey Bernardo is in from Pittsburgh for the Jets game tomorrow.”

“How nice,” Bennie said, getting to his feet. He knew Joey’s flight numbers, coming and going, and he knew their section and seat numbers for tomorrow’s game.

“You remember Joey? The second one in your little video?”

“It’s not my video, Kyle. I didn’t take it. I just found it.”

“But you couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Later.” Kyle slammed the door behind him and hurried down the hallway. He ran down four flights of stairs and entered the lobby not far from the elevators. He made eye contact with Joey, then went straight to the men’s room around the corner. There were three urinals to the right. He straddled the center one, waited about ten seconds, then was joined by Joey on the left. There was no one else in the men’s room.

“Light blue shirt, no tie, navy sport coat, all under a dark gray trench coat. Black-rimmed reading glasses that come and go, probably will not be wearing them when he comes down. No sign of a briefcase, hat, umbrella, or anything else. He should be alone. He is not staying for the night, so I expect him to be down shortly. Good luck.” Kyle pulled the flush handle, left the room, and left the hotel. Joey waited two minutes, then returned to the lobby, where he picked up his newspaper from a chair and sat down. His dark hair had been cut short the day before and was almost entirely gray. He wore fake eyeglasses with thick black frames. The camera, slightly larger than a disposable pen but practically indistinguishable from one, was in the pocket of his brown corduroy jacket, next to a red pocket square.

A hotel security agent in a smart black suit watched him closely, though his curiosity had more to do with the relative inactivity of the lobby than with any real suspicion. Thirty minutes earlier, Joey had explained to the agent that he was waiting on a friend who was upstairs. Two clerks behind the reception desk went about their business with their heads down, seeing nothing but missing little.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Each time an elevator door opened, Joey tensed slightly. He kept the newspaper low, on his knees, so that he could appear to be reading while the camera had a clear shot at the target.

A bell, the door to the elevator on the left opened, and Bennie the Handler was there all by himself in a long gray trench coat. The composite of his face was remarkably accurate — slick bald head, a few strands of black hair greased down about the ears, long narrow nose, square jaw, heavy eyebrows over dark eyes. Joey swallowed hard, his head down, and squeezed the “on” button in his left hand. For eight steps, Bennie walked directly toward him, then veered with the marble walkway toward the front door and was gone. Joey twisted his upper body slightly so the camera could follow, then he switched it off, breathed deeply, and became engrossed in his newspaper. He looked up each time the elevator opened, and after ten long minutes stood and walked back to the men’s room. After lingering for half an hour, he feigned frustration with his tardy friend upstairs and stomped out of the hotel. No one followed.

Joey plunged into the Saturday night chaos of lower Manhattan, strolling aimlessly with the thick foot traffic, window-shopping, ducking into music stores and coffee shops. He was convinced he’d lost his tail two hours earlier, but he took no chances. He hurried around corners and cut through narrow streets. At a used bookshop he’d scoped out late in the afternoon, he locked himself in the tiny toilet and washed his hair with a cleansing rinse that took out much of the gray. What was left was covered with a black Steelers cap. He dropped the fake eyeglasses in the wastebasket. The video recorder was stuck deep in his right front pocket.

KYLE WAITED nervously at the bar in the Gotham Bar and Grill on Twelfth Street. He sipped a glass of white wine and chatted occasionally with the bartender. Their reservation was for 9:00 p.m.

The worst-case scenario, indeed the only way they could screw up the operation, was for Bennie to recognize Joey and confront him in the lobby of the Wooster Hotel. It was a long shot, though. Bennie knew Joey was in the city, but he would not recognize him in disguise, nor would he expect him to be anywhere near the hotel. Kyle was assuming that since it was Saturday night, and since he had done little if anything in two months to arouse suspicions, Bennie would be traveling light with a skeleton crew on the streets.

Joey arrived promptly at nine. His hair was almost natural; in fact, as he walked through the front door, Kyle could not see a hint of gray. He had somehow exchanged the well-used brown corduroy jacket for a more stylish black one. His smile told the story. “Got him,” he said as he took a stool and began looking for a drink.

“So?” Kyle said softly as he watched the door for anything suspicious.

“Double Absolut on the rocks,” Joey said to the bartender. Then to Kyle, much lower, he said, “I think I nailed him. He waited sixteen minutes, used the elevator, and I shot him for at least five seconds before he passed by me.”

“Did he look at you?”

“I don’t know. I was reading the newspaper. No eye contact, remember. But he never slowed down.”

“No trouble recognizing him?”

“No. Your composite is terrific.”

They drank for a few moments as Kyle continued to watch the front door and as much of the sidewalk as he could see without being obvious. The maitre d’ fetched them and led them to a table in the rear of the restaurant. After the menus were presented, Joey handed over the camera. “When can we see it?” he asked.

“A few days. I’ll use a computer at the office.”

“Don’t e-mail me the video,” Joey said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make a copy and send it snail mail.”

“Now what?”

“Good work, pal. Now we enjoy a fine meal, with wine, as you’ll notice— ”

“Proud of you.”

“And tomorrow we watch the Steelers kill the Jets.”

They clinked glasses and savored their triumph.

BENNIE YELLED at the three operatives who’d lost Joey after his arrival in the city. They had first lost him late in the afternoon, not long after he had checked in at the Mercer and hit the streets. They’d found him in the Village before dark, then lost him again. Now he was having dinner with Kyle at the Gotham Bar and Grill, but that was exactly where he was supposed to be. The operatives swore he moved as if he knew he was being followed. He had deliberately tried to shake them. “And did a damned fine job, didn’t he?” Bennie yelled.

Two straight football games, one in Pittsburgh, now one in New York. More e-mail chatter between the two. Joey was the only friend from college Kyle was now regularly in touch with. The warning signs were there. Something was being planned.

Bennie decided to beef up surveillance on Mr. Joey Bernardo.

They were also watching Baxter Tate and his remarkable transformation.