Money, Money, Money

10 .

CHARMAINE LOOKED UP when the three of them came out of the elevator. The moment the doors closed behind them, guns came out from under their coats. She was reaching for a button on her desk when Wiggy said, "Don't, Fatso." This hurt. A moment later he slapped her across the face to let her know he was serious. This hurt even more. One of the Mexicans was already rushing down the long corridor flanked with posters of books nobody ever heard of. Wiggy went directly into Halloway's office.

He was hunched over his computer keyboard, his jacket draped over the back of his chair, his bow tie hanging unknotted and loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up. He jerked his head around the moment Wiggy burst into the room, and then immediately stabbed at one of the keys on the computer. Four key strokes would have allowed him to escape the program and the machine: the Windows key to the right of the space bar, the Up arrow, the Enter key, and the Enter key again. Once the computer was shut down, no one would be able to boot it again without the proper password. Halloway managed to hit the Windows key, and was about to tap the Up arrow when Wiggy said, "Don't, Whitey." Halloway hesitated. For a moment, it seemed he might complete the action, anyway. Just tap the remaining three keys, and shut down the computer, effectively locking it.

But the gun in Wiggy's hand was very big and rather ugly.

THERE WERE EIGHT EMPLOYEES altogether, all of them seated around the long conference table now. Richard Halloway sat at the head of the table, as befitted his status as publisher. David Good from Publicity sat on his left, Karen Andersen from Sales on his right. There was an editor named Michael Garrity, and another editor named Henry Daggert. There was Charmaine, the fat receptionist, and someone named George Young from the stock room, and someone else named Betty Alweiss from the Art Department. Eight of them in all. They all looked frightened.

Wiggy and the two Mexicans leaned against three of the walls, weapons in their hands. Wiggy was holding a Cobray M11-9 he had purchased last night for five hundred dollars from a man named Little Nicholas in Diamondback. Villada and Ortiz were each carrying Mark XIX Desert Eagle pistols. The clock on the conference room wall read twenty minutes to ten. They had caught everyone by surprise, and now they were about to lay their demands on the table.

The Mexicans had decided to let Wiggy do all the talking. Ortiz had objected to this at first, on the grounds that his English was impeccable. Villada had convinced him at last. The men leaned against the walls nonchalantly. Their weapons-dangling casually in their hands-looked almost nonthreatening. The three of them figured they had nothing to worry about here with these bookish types. Little did they know.

"Now, this here's the story," Wiggy said. "Our grievance is a mill-seven for my frens here, and a mill-nine for me. We don't know where you keep your stash, but one of you's gonna go with one of us to get the cash an' bring it back here. Then we'll all be on our way, and you alls can go home to enjoy the ress of the holiday. Do I make myself clear?"

"We don't have that kind of money," Halloway said.

"We're bettin you do," Wiggy said. "We're bettin you'll go get it before …"

He looked up at the clock.

"Before six o'clock tonight. That's eight hours from now, more or less. Cause for every hour we sit here without goin for the money, we're gonna hafta shoot one of you. Eight hours, eight people. By six o'clock, you all be dead less'n we has our money. Do I make myself clear now?"

The room was silent.

"I'll have to make some calls," Halloway said.

"We'll be listening," Wiggy said.

The Mexicans were smiling.

Wiggy figured he had made himself clear.

THE MEN OF THE 87th Detective Squad couldn't seem to keep their minds on business at their weekly Friday-morning, think-tank meeting. Carella was trying to tell them what he and Ollie had learned from Tito "Tigo" Gomez. He was trying to tell them that if Tigo could be trusted, a dope dealer named Walter "Wiggy" Wiggins was responsible for the murder of Jerome "Jerry"Hoskins, alias Frank Holt …

"Was that in this precinct?" Lieutenant Byrnes asked.

"No, but the murdered woman was."

"What murdered woman?" Andy Parker asked.

He was dressed for undercover work today, which meant he hadn't shaved, and he was wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater and a brown leather jacket and motorcycle boots. He thought he looked like an upscale drug dealer. Actually, he looked like a slob.

"The woman who got eaten by lions," Meyer said.

"Ha-ha, very funny," Parker said.

"This happened a week ago, where have you been?" Brown said.

"She got stabbed with an ice pick first," Carella explained.

"What's Hoskins got to do with her?" Byrnes asked impatiently. He was thinking if any of this had happened in some other precinct, he'd be glad to get it off his plate.

"He paid her to pick up some dope in Mexico," Meyer said.

"Which he later sold to this Wiggy character," Carella said.

"Who paidhim with a bullet in the head."

"Here in the Eight-Seven?"

"No, the Eight-Eight. Fat Ollie caught it."

"So let him keep it."

"He also caught one-fifth of the Ridley case."

"Who's Ridley?" Parker asked.

"The lady who got eaten by lions," Kling said.

"Ha-ha, very funny," Parker said.

"How can you catch one-fifth of a case?" Willis asked.

"Her leg," Meyer said.

"Am I supposed to be following this?" Parker asked.

"Nobody else is," Byrnes said. "Why should you be an exception?"

"The point is," Carella said, somewhat edgily, "we're sending Gomez in with a wire."

"Why?" Brown asked.

"Cause we've maybe got a line on the perp in a homicide."

"This Wiggy character?"

"Right. Who maybe killed Jerry Hoskins, who for sure hired Cass Ridley to go to Mexico for him."

"Andwecaught the Ridley case, is what you're saying."

"Four-fifths of her."

"Why's this so important, anyway?" Parker asked, and looked around the room, and shrugged, and said, "Don't anybody want a bagel?" and went to help himself from the tray on Byrnes's desk.

"There's funny money involved," Carella said.

"So let the Secret Service worry," Byrnes said.

"They are worrying," Carella said. "They grabbed eight grand in queer bills from a two-bit burglar and gave him real currency in return."

"The lunatics have taken over the asylum," Hawes said.

"I don't like complicated cases," Parker said.

"Neither do I," Byrnes said.

"Well, that's truly unfortunate," Carella said, "but I didn't ask tocatch this one, either."

"What the hell's wrong withyou this morning?" Parker asked.

"I'm trying to make some sense of this goddamn case, that's all, and you guys are …"

"Relax, okay? Have a bagel."

"There's dope involved here," Carella said, gathering steam, "and counterfeit money, and the Secret Service, and Christ knows what …"

"So let our new President handle it," Parker said.

"Sure."

"Our beloved flounder," Willis said.

"Lethimask the Secret Service what's going on here," Brown said.

"Sure."

"Next motorcade he's in," Hawes said, "he can wave out of his limo and ask them what they know about a lady got eaten by lions."

"Go on, Steve, have a bagel," Parker said.

"I don't want a bagel," Carella said.

"You know who woulda made a better President than the one we got now?" Hawes said.

"Who?" Kling asked.

"Martin Sheen."

"The guy onThe West Wing, you're right!"

"He'd call the Secret Service on the carpet, tell them to quit handing out good money for bad."

"No, you know who'd do that? If he was President?" Willis said.

"Who?" Kling asked.

"Harrison Ford."

"Air Force One!"

"President James Marshall!"

"Oh, yeah!" Brown said. "He was maybe thebest President we ever had. Remember what he said? 'Peace ain't merely the absence of conflict, but the presence of justice.' Man, that's fancy talking."

"Remember what thebad guy said?" Willis asked.

"Who cares what bad guys say?" Parker said, and took another bagel from the tray.

"He said, 'You murdered a hundred thousand Iraqis to save a nickel a gallon on gas. Don't lecture me on the rules of war.'That's fancy talking, man."

"That was Bush he was talking about," Kling said.

"No, that was President James Marshall," Willis said.

"Yeah, but that wasBush who started the Gulf War."

"You want to know who was an evenbetter President than Harrison Ford?" Hawes said.

"Who?"

"Michael Douglas."

"Oh,yeah."

"He was maybe the best President we ever had. You see that movie, Steve?"

"No," Carella said curtly.

"Have a bagel, sourpuss," Parker said.

"The American President.That was the movie. Michael Douglas was President Andrew Shepherd."

"You remember who his aide was?" Kling asked.

"No, who?"

"Martin Sheen! Who is nowPresident!"

"President Josiah Bartlet!"

"PresidentJedBartlet."

"What goes around, comes around."

"What'shis aide's name?"

"Who cares?" Parker asked.

"He might be President one day."

"Fredric March was a good President, too," Byrnes suggested.

"Who's Fredric March?" Kling asked.

"Seven Days in May."

"Never heard of it."

"Or Henry Fonda," Byrnes said. "InFail-Safe."

"That was the same movie, wasn't it?" Brown asked.

"It onlyseemed like the same movie," Hawes said.

"Who's Henry Fonda?" Kling asked.

"How about Kevin Kline?" Willis asked.

"Yes, he was a very good President," Meyer said solemnly.

"He was also this guy wholooked like the President."

"Dave."

"That was the name of the movie.Dave."

"It was also the name of the lookalike. Dave Kovic."

"Because thereal President had a stroke while fucking his secretary. I saw that movie," Parker said. "This sexy broad."

"Yeah," Willis said, remembering.

"Yeah," Brown said, nodding.

They all had another bagel.

"But you know who was thebest actor?" Meyer asked. "Who ever played the President?"

"Who?" Kling said.

"Ronald Reagan."

"Oh yes," Kling said.

"Yes," Hawes agreed.

"Unquestionably," Byrnes said.

What's the use? Carella thought, and took a bagel from the tray.

THE CALL FROM Carella's sister came at a little before ten that Friday morning. The surveillance equipment from the Tech Unit had already arrived. Across the room, Meyer Meyer was helping Fat Ollie Weeks tape the battery-powered recorder to Tito Gomez's chest.

"Who's gonna be on the other end of this?" Tigo asked.

"Nobody," Ollie said. "It ain't a transmitter, it's a recorder."

"Then who's gonna come save my ass if Wiggy tips?"

"Don't worry about it," Meyer said.

"I worry," Tigo said.

On the telephone, Angela was asking Carella if he could come to Mama's house tonight after work.

"Why?" Carella said.

"We want to talk to you."

"We're talking right now," Carella said.

"You're at work and so am I."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"We'll tell you when you get here."

"I'm working a homicide, I may not get out of here till late," he said.

"That's okay, we'll wait."

"What is it, Angela?"

"A surprise," she said.

"I'm a cop," he said. "I hate surprises."

"I'm leaving early today. Can you get to Riverhead by five?"

"Only if I'm out of here by four."

"Whenever," she said. "I'll see you later."

He put the receiver back on its base and walked across the room to where Tigo was complaining that the tapes were too tight.

"You don't want the gadget rattling around, do you?" Ollie asked.

"I don't want the gadget, period," Tigo said.

"It'll save you a lot of time upstate," Meyer said.

"Ifhe says anything."

"That's your job," Carella said. "To get him talking."

"He's not so fuckin dumb, you know. I start talkin about that night, he's gonna wonder why."

"Make it sound casual," Meyer suggested.

"Sure. Hey, Wiggy, remember the night you shot that dude in the back of his head and dropped him in a garbage can? Boy, that was fun, wasn't it?"

"Do it over a few drinks," Carella suggested.

"Sure. Have another beer, Wiggy. Remember the night you shot that dude in the back of …"

"Just play it cool," Meyer said. "Don't even think about the wire. Make believe you're two guys shootin the breeze."

"Sure."

"The mike's right here," Ollie said. "It looks like a button on your shirt."

"Suppose hespots the fuckin thing?"

"He won't."

"Butifhe does."

"Don't worry, he won't be thinking about a wire."

"What if hestarts thinking about a wire? This man can become very violent. He is not called Wiggy the Lid for no reason."

"Just tell him you work for a record company," Meyer said.

"Tell him you're a talent scout for Motown," Ollie said. "Tuck your shirt in your pants."

Tigo tucked in his shirt.

He turned to face the cops.

"How do I look?" he asked.

He looked extremely worried.

"You look great," Meyer said.

Kling came over from across the room.

"You're wearing a wire, right?" he said.

"Yeah," Tigo said. "Why?"

"I never would've guessed," Kling said.

HALLOWAY TOLD THEM he would have to call their treasurer. Wiggy asked what his name was.

"Her," Halloway said. "Her name is Susan."

Susan was a code word. The moment whoever answered the phone heard the name "Susan," he or she would know there was trouble.

"Make sure you talk to her and her alone," Wiggy said. "Give me the number. I'll dial it."

The clock on the wall read ten minutes past ten.

Halloway wrote the number on a slip of paper. Wiggy looked at it as he dialed. The instant he heard it ringing on the other end, he handed the receiver to Halloway and picked up an extension phone. The phone rang once, twice …

"Hello?"

A woman's voice.

"Susan?" Halloway said.

"Yes?"

"This is Dick Halloway. Happy New Year."

"Thank you, Dick," she said. "Same to you."

His use of the familiar diminutive told her he was not alone. If Karen Andersen had announced herself as Karey, or David Good as Davey, it would have meant the same thing. By repeating the diminutive, the woman on the other end of the line was telling Halloway she understood he had company.

"Did you try to reach me yesterday?" she asked.

"Yes, I called around three," he said.

He was telling her there were three people there with him.

"Sorry I missed you. How can I help?"

"We need some cash," he said.

"How much?" she asked.

To Wiggy, listening on the extension, this all sounded legitimate so far.

"Are you sitting down?" Halloway asked, and smiled.

Wiggy smiled, too.

So did the Mexicans.

Everyone was smiling at Halloway's witticism.

"That much, huh?" Susan said.

Her name wasn't Susan, but that's who Wiggy thought she was. He also thought this was going along splendidly so far. He didn't have the slightest notion that he and his two pals were being set up.

"Three-million-six," Halloway said.

"Oh dear," Susan said.

"Indeed," Halloway said, and rolled his eyes heavenward.

Wiggy nodded encouragement. You're doing fine so far, his nod said.

"Where do you want it?" Susan asked.

Wiggy motioned for Halloway to cover the mouthpiece with his hand.

"Tell her you'll come there for it," he whispered.

"I'll come there for it, Sue."

Warning her again that he had company, three in number, remember? Trouble, Sue. Or Suzie. Big trouble here. Come help us, Suze.

"How soon can you get it together?" he asked.

"How soon will you need it?"

"As soon as possible, Sue."

"How does one o'clock sound?"

Halloway looked at Wiggy. Wiggy nodded.

"One o'clock sounds fine," Halloway said.

"Allow yourself a half-hour to get here," Susan said.

This meant he could expect help at twelve-thirty.

"I'll have to make three or four calls, Dick."

She was telling him she'd be sending three or four people.

"And, Dick …?"

"Yes, Sue?"

"They're doing some work out front, lots of heavy machinery all over the place. Come in the back way, will you?"

"See you in a bit," he said.

She had told him they'd be heavily armed. She had told him they'd come up the emergency staircase at the rear of the Headley Building. She had so much as told him that Walter Wiggins and his Mexican associates were already as good as dead.

The hands on the wall clock now read a quarter past ten.

"Charmaine?" Wiggy said. "Why don't you make us all some coffee?"

WILL STRUTHERS didn't call the bank until ten-twenty that morning. As a former bank employee himself, he knew there was always an early-morning rush of customers, and he suspected Antonia Belandres would have been particularly busy until now, it being the start of the big New Year's Eve weekend and all.

"Miss Belandres," she said.

The "Miss" pleased Will. It meant a) she was single, and b) she wasn't one of these damn feminists who called themselves "Ms." and aspired to pee in men's rooms.

"Hello, Miss Belandres," he said, "this is Will Struthers."

"Lieutenant Struthers!" she said, sounding enormously surprised. "Howare you?"

"Fine, thank you," Will said, not bothering to correct her. "And you?"

"Busy, busy, busy," she said. "We close at noon today, and it's been bedlam."

"I know just how it is," Will said.

"I know you do," she said. "So tell me, are you looking forward to the new year?"

"Actually, I never have liked New Year's Eve," he said. "It always seems like a big disappointment to me. I don't know why."

"I feel exactly the same way."

"You do?"

"Yes. I've been to small parties and big ones, I've stayed home and I've gone to night clubs, and it's always the same thing. A big buildup to an even bigger letdown."

"Gee," he said.

"Yes," she said.

There was a short silence.

"Miss Belandres …" he said.

"Antonia," she said.

"Antonia," he said. "I know this is short notice …"

Silence again. He could hear her breathing on the other end of the line.

"But I was …ah … wondering …"

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"If you don't … ah … have any other plans …"

"Yes?"

"Do you think you might care to have dinner with me tonight?"

"Why, I think that would be lovely," she said.

"Good," he said at once. "Good. Does seven o'clock sound convenient to you?"

"Seven o'clock sounds lovely."

"Do you like Italian food?"

"I love Italian food."

"Seven o'clock then, good," he said. "Good. Where shall I pick you up?"

"It's 347 South Shelby, apartment 12C."

"I'll be there at seven on the dorothy," he said.

"I'll be waiting," she said.

He was thinking, Antonia, you and me are going to be millionaires.

"THIS IS CLARENDON HALL," Mahmoud said.

Nikmaddu wished the man's little mustache didn't make him look as if he were constantly smiling. This was a serious matter here.

"Jassim will be sitting here, in row F in the center section."

Jassim of the dirty fingernails and no smile nodded. He was familiar with the seating plan, knew exactly what he was to do tomorrow night.

"Seat number 101 on the aisle," Mahmoud said.

Nikmaddu looked at the plan more closely.

"If we're lucky," Mahmoud said, "the explosion will carry to the stage. If not, we will have made our point, anyway."

"Killing the Jew is not the point, you understand," Akbar said. The desert camel driver, deep creases on his brown face, thick veins on the backs of his strong hands. Their demolitions expert. "We are teaching them that we can strike anywhere, anytime. We are telling them that they are completely vulnerable. Unless they wish to strip-search every American entering a theater, a movie house, a concert hall, a restaurant, a coffee shop, a supermarket, anywhere. They are at our mercy, is what we will be proving to them tomorrow night."

"Still, getting the Jew would be a bonus," Jassim said.

"But not apriority," Akbar insisted. "If we get the Jew, fine. If not, many others will die. Our point will be made."

"To die for Allah would be an honor," Jassim said. He was the one going in with the bomb. By rights, he should have the last word. But Akbar had fashioned the bomb and the timing device.

"Akbar is right," Nikmaddu said. "It will be better if no sacrifice were involved this time." He was referring to the suicide bombing of the United States destroyer in Yemen. "We must let them know we are professionals, not fanatics."

Jassim took this as a personal affront. He gave Nikmaddu what he hoped was a disdainful look, and then lighted a cigarette.

"When will this happen?" Nikmaddu asked.

"After the intermission," Akbar said.

"Preciselywhen?" Nikmaddu asked.

"The Jew is the guest artist in the second half of the evening. We now know he will be playing Mendelssohn's violin concerto in E Minor. The bomb will be set to go off sometime during the first movement."

"When, precisely, during the first movement?"

"It is difficult to time the music precisely," Akbar said. "The first movement is about twelve and a half minutes long, depending."

"Depending on what?"

"The performer, the conductor-artistic license. But it will rarely run much longer than that. In any event, the bomb will be set to go off at nine-thirty."

"Atpreciselynine-thirty?"

"Precisely, yes. It will explode toward the end of the first movement, trust me."

Nikmaddu was beginning to realize that although this man looked as if he belonged in a tent on the desert, he was perhaps more intelligent than any of the others.

"What do you mean by movement?" Jassim asked. The stupidest of the lot. And the one with the most responsibility. The one who would go in with the bomb. "What does movement mean?"

"The Mendelssohn concerto has three movements," Akbar explained.

"But what is a movement?"

"It's not important that you know," Akbar said. "You will place the bomb and leave the hall. The rest is up to Allah."

"Will Jassim have enough time to get back to his seat, leave the bomb, and make his departure?" Nikmaddu asked.

"A good point," Mahmoud said. "Have you timed all this?"

"I have been to six concerts this season," Akbar said. "And hated them all. I know exactly how long it takes to get from the street to the lobby, and from there back to the seat in row F. Without rushing, Jassim should be out of there before the bomb explodes."

"At nine-thirty precisely," Nikmaddu said, seeking confirmation yet another time.

"Yes, at nine-thirty precisely," Akbar said. "A fitting climax to the first movement."

The men laughed. All but Jassim, who found nothing humorous in any of this.

"What kind of bomb are you using?" Nikmaddu asked.

"A simple pipe bomb. Two of them actually. Taped together and packed with black powder, nails, and screws. Similar to the one in Atlanta four years ago."

"And the timer?"

"A battery-powered clock."

"How will he carry it in?" Nikmaddu asked.

"In a handbag," Akbar said.

"I'll be carrying ahandbag?" Jassim said.

"Aman'shandbag. Europeans carry them all the time. Besides, I've taken one into the hall on six different occasions now. There is no security check. Women go in with handbags, even shopping bags, men carry briefcases. They are very sure of themselves, these Americans."

"That will all change tomorrow night," Nikmaddu said.

"Yes, it will," Akbar said.

"Inshallah,"Mahmoud said.

"Inshallah,"the others said in unison.

MAN SEEMED TO HAVE disappeared from the face of the earth.

First place Tigo tried was the crib on Decatur. Thomas-who on the night of the murder had been chatting with Mr. Jerry Hoskins, alias Frank Holt, while Tigo and Wiggy tested the dope in the other room-was watching television when Tigo waltzed in.

"Hey, man," he said.

"Whut'choo watchin?" Tigo asked.

This was ten to eleven in the morning, man was sittin here watching television.

"I don't even know," Thomas said. "Suppin with Sylvester Stallone."

Tigo watched the screen for a moment.

Sylvester Stallone was dangling from a rope.

"Where's Wiggy?" he asked.

"You got me, man."

"You seed him today?"

"Nope."

"When'd you get here?"

"Bout an hour ago."

"He wasn't here?"

"Nope."

"He come back, you tell him I'm lookin for him, okay?"

"Peace, brother," Thomas said.

My ass, Tigo thought.

Next place he tried was Wiggy's barber. This was a man named Roland, who cut mighty fine hair and also took in numbers on the side. Or vice versa. Tigo figured Wiggy might be here gettin a trim, New Year's Eve comin up and all. He could use a trim hisself, matter of fact. Roland said he hadn't seen hide nor hair-

"You get it?" he asked.

- of Wiggy since a week ago today when he last cut the man's hair.

"Try L amp;G," he suggested.

L amp;G was short for Lewis and Gregory, who were two brothers owned a haberdashery on Chase Street. Both brothers were there when Tigo arrived at eleven that Friday. The shop was packed with people returning ties, and shirts and shit they'd got for Christmas and had no use for. Greg told him he hadn't seen Wiggy since before Thanksgiving, was the man all right? He usually came in here and splurged two, three times a year. Tigo told him Wiggy was fine, just'd been busy was all. Greg said, "Tell him I said happy new year, hear?"

"I'll tell him," Tigo said.

He was wondering had Wiggy vanished from sight?

This business, vanishing from sight was always a distinct possibility.

He tried a bar called the Starlight, which was already doing very good business at a quarter past eleven, two days before New Year's Eve. Tigo could just imagine what the place would be like on the big night itself. But John the bartender told him he'd seen Mr. Wiggins on Christmas night, when he was sittin here at the bar hittin on a blonde who'd come in out the cold, and again just yesterday aroun this time.

"Is that so?" Tigo asked. "A blonde?"

It was too bad the tape recorder wasn't turned on because first it missed a hair joke from Wiggy's barber, and now it just missed a thickening of the plot with Wiggy working a blonde on Christmas night. He told John if Mr. Wiggins came in again to tell him he was lookin for him, okay, and then-so it shouldn't be a total loss-he tossed off a shot of Dewar's before he went out into the cold again.

It was beginning to snow.

No snow for Christmas, but now it was coming down to beat all hell.

Tigo looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes past eleven. He didn't know where to go next.

He tried the pool hall on Culver and Third, but nobody there had seen Wiggy, and then he tried The Corset Lady on South Fifth, which was run by a foxy chick named Aleda who made very fine ladies' underwears and who used to go with Wiggy, but not for six months or so now, but she hadn't seen him and didn'tcare to see him, thanks. Then he tried the First Bap on St. Sab's because believe it or not Walter Wiggins was a religious man who went to church every Sunday, but the Reverend Gabriel Foster hadn't seen him since, in fact, last Sunday, had anything happened to him? Foster was always looking for something that had happened to anybody in the black community, some cause he could champion on his radio show, some put-upon black he could go march to City Hall about. Tigo was beginning to think maybe somethinghad happened to Wiggy. This business, things happened.

He finally tried a man named Little Nicholas, who did business out the back of a laundromat he owned and operated on Lyons and South Thirty-fifth. Little Nicholas was about five-feet, eight-inches tall and Tigo guessed he weighed something like three, four hundred pounds. What Little Nicholas did was sell guns. He told Tigo that Wiggy had been in there late last night, and had purchased a beautiful submachine gun called the Cobray M11-9, would Tigo be interested in seeing some very fine banned weapons and silencers that had come in from all over the nation only yesterday? Tigo asked had he seed Wiggy anytimetoday? Little Nicholas said No, he hadn't had the pleasure.

It was a quarter to twelve.

The snow was coming down pretty hard now.

Tigo wondered where the fuck Wiggy could be.

WIGGY WAS SITTING at Halloway's computer up at W amp;D. One of the Mexicans-he guessed it was Ortiz-came out of the conference room where they were holding the staff, and asked him shouldn't he be going for the money soon? They had already decided, after some sound reasoning from Wiggy, that he should be the one who went for the cash, in case there was any language problem, not that he meant to be disparaging. He looked up at the wall clock now. It was only twelve noon, and Halloway's accountant had advised them to allow a half-hour to get there for their one o'clock appointment, which meant there was still plenty of time before him and Halloway had to go out into what looked like a full-fledged blizzard.

"I got time yet," he told Ortiz, or Villada, or whoever the hell he was.Whoeverhe was, Wiggy planned never to see him or his partner ever again the minute he got his hands on that money.Adios, amigos, it was very nice knowing you.

Meanwhile, there was some very interesting information on the W amp;D computer.

CARELLA AND MEYER were having lunch in a diner on Culver and Eighth, not far from the station house. Meyer was eating a salad and drinking iced tea. Carella was eating a hamburger and fries. Meyer told him that just two days ago, his wife had told him they should go buy him some clothes for the new year.

"She said we'd have to go to a shop forlarge men, was what she called it. I said, 'Why do we have to go to a large men's shop?' She said, 'Because we won't find anything to fit you in a regular men's store.' I said, 'Hey, come on, Sarah, I can buy clothes off the rack at any store in town! Large men's shops are for men who areobese.' So she looks me dead in the eye and says, 'Well?' "

"Sarah said that, huh?"

"Sarah."

"Said you were fat, in effect."

"Obese."

"In effect."

"Do you think I'm obese?"

"No. Ollie Weeks is obese," Carella said, and popped a fry into his mouth. "You're what I'd call chubby."

"Chubby! That'sworse than obese!"

"Well … plump maybe."

"Keep going. How's your damn hamburger?"

"Terrific."

"The fries?"

"Splendid."

"You forgot stout."

"Stout's a good one, too."

"You ever have a weight problem?"

"Never. I've always been svelte."

"I've always been borderline."

"Borderline what?"

"Obese!" Meyer said, and both men burst out laughing.

The laughter trailed.

"I've got other problems, though," Carella said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Meyer looked at him. Carella's face, his eyes were suddenly very serious.

"Tell me," Meyer said.

"You think I've changed?" Carella asked.

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know. Am I different?"

"You seem the same to me."

"Teddy says I've changed since my father got killed. She says I never cried for him. She says I never cried for Danny, either, Danny Gimp. I don't even remember if I did. She says I've been drinking too much, she says …"

"Ah, shit, Steve, you haven't, have you?"

"No. I don't think so. I hope not. It's just …"

"What?"

"Ah, Jesus."

"What, Steve? Tell me."

"I think I'm scared."

"Come on. You're not scared."

"I think I am. Teddy's afraid I might eat my own gun one day. I'll tell you the truth …"

"Don't even say it."

Both men fell silent.

Carella was looking down at his hands.

"I think I'm scared," he said again. "Really, Meyer."

"Come on, scared. Of what?"

"Dying," Carella said. "I'm afraid I'll get killed."

"We're all afraid we'll get killed."

"I came so close, Meyer."

"We've all come close, one time or another. O'Brien comes close every day of his life."

"O'Brien's a hard luck cop. And he never had a lion sitting on his chest."

"So what are you scared of? Another lion sitting on your chest? Come on, Steve."

"He almost had my head in his mouth, I could feel his breath on my face, I could smell his breath. Another minute, he'd have closed his jaws on me. I never came that close to dying before."

"And you'll never come that close again. What do you think this is, the African plains? Come on. This is acity, Steve. You don't run into lions on the streets here."

"I dream about that lion every night, Meyer. Every fucking night, I see that lion in my dreams. I wake up sweating, Meyer, shaking. I'm scared it'll happen again. And next time …"

"It's okay to be scared," Meyer said.

"Not if you're a cop."

"We're all scared."

"Cops shouldn't …"

"Not only cops. Everybody. We're all scared, Steve. If you meet another lion, just look him in the eye. Stare him down."

Carella's hands were trembling.

"Come on," Meyer said. He slid out of the booth, came around the table, sat beside his friend, and put his arm around his shoulder. "Come on, Steve."

Tito Gomez walked in just then.

"How tender," he said.

"Go fuck yourself," Meyer explained.

"Nice talk. I can't find Wiggy. I don't know where he is. What now?"

WIGGY WAS STILL AT Halloway's computer.

There was a folder named MOTHER, which he couldn't open because whenever he double-clicked on it, he was told to enter a password. But when he double-clicked on a folder called WITCHES AND DRAGONS-which he thought at first might be some kind of a game-it opened to his touch, and he found a whole list of files with names like ADA and NETTIE and DIANA and EM and TESSIE and RONI and BELA and GINA. Was W amp;D in the business of tracking hurricanes, or had he lucked into Halloway's personal little black book of cuties, oh you sly old dog, you! Or were these the names of writers the company published? But then why use first names? And even some nicknames?

Intrigued now, Wiggy double-clicked on the file labeled TESSIE because that was the name of the first girl he'd ever talked into licking Frick and Frack, a thirteen-year-old high yaller beauty fresh up from the South with her grandma. There wasn't nothing in that file about girls, mellow or otherwise. What was in there was information about the West Side Limousine Corporation, which it would appear was a subsidiary of Wadsworth and Dodds here, and which made all kinds of trips to and from the city's two airports and the one across the river in the next state, not to mention a trip to Diamondback on Christmas night.

He began wondering why a file about a limousine company would be called TESSIE, and then he realized that there were two S's in the words WEST SIDE, and also a T, and-lo and behold-an I and an E! So what you had here was little old TESSIE all curled up in the back seat of a WEST SIDE limo!

He double-clicked on the file labeled EM.

What was in there was an itemized list of drug deals that made Wiggy's little operation in Diamondback look like somebody selling lemonade by the side of the road. Dates, places, number of kilos purchased, dollars paid for them. He wasn't surprised that the list existed; everybody kept recordssomeplace, man. In fact, his own transactions uptown were recorded on a computer disc called HAPPY DAYS that could only be opened with the password WW2, which stood not for World War II, but instead for his initials and the month of his-it suddenly occurred to him that WITCHES AND DRAGONS stood for Wadsworth and Dodds.

What he was looking at here was a record of drug buys the book publishers had made in Mexico over the past two years. And suddenly he realized that the name EM was buried in the word MEXICO, same as TESSIE was buried in WEST SIDE, was in fact the first two letters of that word, reversed, and he began wondering how many of theother girls' names in the WITCHES AND DRAGONS folder were buried in larger words, hiding there, so to speak, lurking there in the dark for somebody smart like Wiggy to find.

He kept opening file after file.

When finally he double-clicked on the file named DIANA, his eyes opened wide.

He was reading all about Diamondback, which was where he conducted business, the uptown ghetto where Jerry Hoskins alias Frank Holt had come calling with a hundred keys of prime cocaine purchased in Mexico.

DIAMONDBACK.

Little ole white girl DIANA hiding up there in the blackest of black holes.

The magnitude of his discovery made him suddenly want to pee.

Grabbing the Cobray from where it was resting on the floor at his feet, he went down the hall to the men's room at the rear of the office complex.

At that very moment, The Weird Sisters and two very tall, very broad black men were entering the Headley Building through the back door in an alley that was posted with no parking-fire lane signs. This time around, Sheryl and Toni-whose real names were Anna and Mary Jo-wereeach carrying guns with silencers affixed to the muzzles.

So were the black men.

WIGGY DIDN'T HEAR any shooting because the weapons were wearing silencers.

All he heard was screaming.

The screaming wasn't coming from the two Mexicans, who were dead within minutes after the assassins entered the conference room. Instead, they were coming from Charmaine the receptionist, and Betty Alweiss from the Art Department. Karen Andersen wasn't screaming. She was learning how to be as cold-bloodedly unemotional as her boss and sometime lover.

"There's a third one," Halloway said.

By that time, Wiggy was down the fire stairs and out of the building.

THE WEIRD SISTERS unashamedly stripped the Mexicans naked and wrapped them in tarpaulin. Their two black associates carried the bodies down the fire stairs, hoisted them into the back of a white ML320 Mercedes-Benz, and transported them to a garbage dump on Sands Spit, not far from the airport. It was Halloway's surmise that the Mexicans would never be identified and therefore would never be missed.

At about four-thirty that afternoon-just as Carella was leaving the squadroom-Anna and Mary Jo went up to Diamondback to look for Walter Wiggins. This time, their orders were to kill him.

CARELLA GOT TO his mother's house in Riverhead at a little past six that evening. He recognized his sister's car in the driveway outside the house, and parked just behind it. His mother's Christmas tree glowed behind the windows fronting the house. At least a foot of snow covered the walk to the front door, and it was still coming down. He climbed the low flat steps, pressed the button set in the door jamb, and heard familiar chimes sounding inside the house. He waited. Falling flakes covered his hair and the shoulders of his overcoat. He was about to ring again when the door opened.

"Hey," his mother said, and hugged him. "You should wear a hat."

"I know," he said. "You told me."

"From when you were six," she said.

"Three," he corrected.

"Come in. Angela's already here."

"I saw her car."

"Come in."

He followed his mother into the house. This was where he'd grown up. This was what he'd called home during his childhood, his adolescence, and his early manhood. Home. It seemed strange to him now, smaller, somehow cheerless. He wondered if that was because his father no longer lived here. Angela was sitting at the big dining room table, drinking a glass of red wine. Another glass of wine was on the table, just opposite her. He remembered when they were kids and used to hide together under this very table. He remembered Sunday afternoons here in his parents' house, the pennyante poker games, he and Angela hiding under the dining room table. He remembered his sister once breaking his head with the clasp on a pocketbook she'd swung at him in anger. He couldn't remember now what had so enraged her. Something he'd said jokingly. He'd loved her to death when they were kids. He still did. She kissed him on the cheek in greeting.

"How's the traffic?" she asked.

"Pretty bad. The roads are getting slick."

"Steve, some wine?" his mother asked. "Something stronger?"

"A little wine, yes," he said. "Thanks."

He sat alongside Angela. Outside the window, the snow was coming down heavily. He didn't live very far from here, but the roads were already bad. He was beginning to regret not having gone straight home from the office. His mother brought him his glass of wine, and went to sit opposite him and Angela at the table. They all lifted their glasses.

"Salute,"his mother said in Italian.

"Cheers," Carella said.

"Health," Angela said.

They drank.

"So," Angela said.

"So," his mother said.

They were both smiling.

Carella looked across the table at his mother. He turned to look at his sister.

"What?" he said.

"We're getting married together," Angela said.

"A double wedding," his mother said.

"Me and Henry, Mama and …"

"I don't want to hear this," Carella said.

He was already standing, surprised to find himself on his feet, wondering when he'd got up. Was it when they'd both started smiling? Was it then that the feeling of impending dread had lurched from his heart into his throat?

"Sit down," his mother said.

"No, Mom. I'm sorry, but …"

"Sit down, Steve."

"No. I don't want to hear about you getting married so soon after …"

"Your father's been dead almost …"

"I don't want tohear it!" Carella shouted, and whirled on his sister. "And I don't want to hear about you marrying the man who …"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Angela asked.

"Oh no," he said. "Oh no, you don't."

"Have you lost your …?"

"Never mind what's wrong withme! What's wrong with you? Have you both forgotten Papa already? How can you sit here inhis house …"

"Papa is dead, Steve."

"Oh, is he? Gee, no kidding. What do you think this is about here? What are we talking about here? What are you both planning to do if not spit on Papa's …"

"Don't youdare!" his mother said.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Mom, stop behaving like a schoolgirl. And you stop encouraging her!" he shouted, whirling on Angela. "You want to marry that jackass, at least have the decency to leave her out of it."

Angela was shaking her head.

"Sure, shake your head," he said. "I'm wrong, right? She meets a Wop fresh off the boat …"

"Not in my house," his mother said. "Never use that word in my house."

"Oh, forgive me, what is he? A Yankee Doodle Dandy?"

"I think that lion scrambled your brains," Angela said.

"And never mind the fuckinglion!" he shouted.

"Not in myhouse!" his mother said, and slapped him.

He looked at her.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Sure."

Angela suddenly began crying.

"All we wanted was your blessing," she said.

"Well, you didn't get it," he said. "If you can both forget Papa so easily, I can't. Goodnight, Mom. Thanks for the wine."

He turned and was starting for the door when his mother said, "I'm not a schoolgirl, Steve."

He continued going for the door.

"I love him and I'm going to marry him," she said.

His hand was on the doorknob.

"Whether you like it or not," she said.

"Goodnight," he said again, and opened the door, and walked out into the fiercely falling snow.

THE TAPE RECORDER was going.

Tigo couldn't believe what he was hearing. Nor did hewant to be hearing what he was hearing. He wanted to get this conversation back to the reason he was wearing a wire to begin with. He wanted Wiggy to start talking about December twenty-third.

He wondered suddenly if this was all bullshit Wiggy was giving him here. Did Wiggy maybeknow he was wired? Was he maybe making up a good story so the fuzz would get off the scent? It sure was a peculiar story he was telling here. Almost made Tigo forget why he was here. Almost made Tigo sorry he had finally found the man.

"You really think all this is true, huh?" he asked. "Cause to me …"

"Man, I was lookin straight into they computer! I seed all this stuff with my own eyes!"

"It just sounds, you know, like science-fiction, you know?" Tigo said. "This file named Mothah you can't open cause you need a password, an all this money floatin aroun, and these dope deals here an there, and these people causin trouble all over the world, an tryin'a fuck us right here in Diamon'back, I mean, man, it sounds like suppin you'd see in amovie, you know what I'm sayin, man?"

"It'd make agood movie, that's for damn sure," Wiggy said, "but it'strue, man! I got it from theycomputer!"

"That don't mean it couldn't of been garbage in there," Tigo said, and shrugged.

"The point is, whut we gonna do about it, Tigo? I mean, these guys are messin with ourpeople!"

Tigo had never particularly felt that any of these people they sold dope to were necessarilyrelated to him in any way. MaybeWiggy thought of they customers as his "people" but Tigo didn't share the sentiment. To tell the truth, if they was money to be made recycling dope here in the hood, Tigo didn't carewho sold them the dope to begin with or where the proceeds of the sale were going. In fact, the only thing he wanted to do right this minute was talk about what he'd come here to talk about so he could go back to the police and collect his reward. He planned to retire from the dope business-

He didn't yet realize how close his retirement was.

- soon as he got his hands on however much money the commissioner gave him for this valuable stuff he was about to tape. So he didn't need to know about anyconspiracy Wiggy had tapped into through somebody's computer. Nor did he want todo anything about any such conspiracy, even if it did exist, which he strongly doubted because Wiggy's story sounded like so much jive to him. So-subtly and not wishing to appear too aggressive or inquisitive-he asked, "How'd it feel killing that dude on Christmas Eve?"

"I think we should go to the police," Wiggy said, "tellthem the story."

And suddenly, he shoved himself out of his chair and went marching straight for the telephone.

CARELLA WAS on his way home when the cell phone in his car rang. Ollie Weeks was on the other end.

"Guess what?" he said.

"Surprise me," Carella said.

"I just got a call from Walter Wiggins."

"What?"

"Ah yes."

"The man Gomez is supposed to be taping?"

"The very same."

"The man who maybe shot and killed Jerry Hoskins?"

"That's the one."

"Is he confessing?"

"I don't think so. But he wants to talk to us."

"What about?"

"Some kind of big conspiracy."

"Uh-huh," Carella said.

"I'm on my way to 1280 Decatur. You want to meet me?"

Carella looked at the dashboard clock.

"Give me half an hour," he said.

ANTONIA BELANDRES was very impressed that Will had managed to find his way here in all this snow. He jokingly told her he used to drive a dog sled team in Alaska, which somehow she took to be the truth, and was even more impressed. He now had two lies to account for. He hoped he did not lose her when he told her he was not a police lieutenant, and had never been to Alaska in his life.

There wasn't a single cab in sight when they came downstairs from her apartment. He had deliberately picked an Italian restaurant not too distant from where she lived on South Shelby, but it was really coming down and he apologized for asking her to walk the six blocks, but he was afraid they might lose their reservation.

"Don't be silly, Lieutenant," she said. "Ilove walking."

Lieutenant, he thought. Boy.

As it was, he needn't have worried about the reservation. The restaurant was almost empty. In fact, the owner fawned over them as if they were the Mayor and his wife who'd braved the storm to come here. He offered them a bottle of wine on the house, and then reeled off the specials for the night, all of which sounded delicious. Antonia ordered theosso buco. Will ordered the veal Milanese, which turned out to be breaded veal cutlets, oh well.

"By the way," he said, when they had each drunk a glass of wine and Will was pouring again, "I'm not a police lieutenant. In fact, I'm not even a cop."

"Oh?" she said.

"That's right," he said. "Here's to golden days and purple nights," and clinked his glass against hers.

"Where'd you learn that toast?" she asked. "Golden days and purple nights."

"Singapore."

"Me, too."

"So here'sto them," he said.

"Here'sto them," she said. "Golden days and purple nights."

They drank.

"Then what were you doing with all those detectives?" she asked. "If you're not a cop."

"I was sort of with them," Will said.

"If you're not a cop, what are you?"

"Actually, a burglar," he said.

"Really?"

"Yeah," he said, and shrugged.

"Did they arrest you for burglary? Was that it?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what?"

"They thought I passed a phony hundred-dollar bill."

"Was that the super-bill they asked me to examine?"

"I guess so. It sure looked real to me. I think that's why they let me go."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I think it fooledthem, too. I mean, ifthey couldn't tell it was fake, how was I supposed to know?"

"Well, you did work in a bank once."

"Yeah, but I never saw a super-bill in my life. They told me they could've charged me with a class-A mis, but this was Christmas, what the hell. They let me go."

"So as I understand this …"

"That's right …"

"… you're a common thief."

"Well, I'm a burglar. That's not so common."

Antonia laughed. Will figured this was a good sign.

"Also, I have some plans that ain't so common neither," he said.

"Oh? What plans?"

"I'll tell you later," he said.

Antonia was thinking the plans he was talking about had to do with sex. He was referring to possibly taking her to bed later on tonight. After dinner. While the storm raged outside. Which wasn't a bad idea at all. Except that he was a common thief. Well, a burglar.

"What makes a burglar so special?" she asked.

"Well, first of all, we're like doctors."

"I see. Doctors."

"Yes. Our motto is 'Do no harm.' In fact, we go out of our way to keep from harming people. We see a light burning in an apartment, we think there's somebody in there, we'll avoid it like the plague."

"Why is that?"

"I just told you. We don't want some old lady screaming so we'll have to hurt her. Do no harm. Also, the rap is bigger. If you hurt somebody while you're inside a dwelling, or even if you're just carrying a gun. It goes up from Burg Two to Burg One. That's a difference of ten years, when it comes to sentencing."

"You sound very familiar with all this," Antonia said.

"Oh sure," he said. "Well, I've been doing it for a long time now."

She was wondering why she was still sitting here. The man had just told her he was a burglar, athief.

"I thought you said you worked in a bank," she said.

"Long time ago," he said. "I was just a kid when I went out on the Rim."

"But you never saw a super-bill," she said.

"Never."

"I'm surprised. Plenty of them in Southeast Asia."

"Plenty of themeverywhere, from what you said."

"Where'd you get the one you tried to cash?"

"I stole it."

"Why am I not surprised?" she said, and rolled her eyes.

"That's okay. Not many people get to dine with burglars."

"Lucky me," she said, and rolled her eyes again.

"That might turn out to be the case," he said.

She still thought he was talking about taking her to bed later on. Which she still thought might not be such a bad idea.

"You know that woman who got eaten by lions in Grover Park?" he said. "The zoo there? Did you see that on television?"

"No," she said. "But I read about it in the newspaper."

"That was who I stole the money from."

"Oh my, you're famous," she said.

"Well,she was, I guess. It's not everybody gets eaten by lions."

"What do you suppose she was doing in the lion's cage?"

"I have no idea. I only talked to the lady once in my entire life."

"Youdidn't have anything to do with …"

"No, hey,no," he said, "I'm a burglar!"

"Yes," she said. "So I'm beginning to understand."

Their food arrived. She was thoughtfully silent for a while. Then she said, "So, if you were me, what would you do here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Wouldyou go to bed with you, knowing you're a burglar? Or would you eat your dinner and go home like a nice little girl?"

"You could do both," Will suggested.

TIGO GOMEZ was getting very nervous.

Wiggy had just told him that the man who was on his way here was the very same person who'd strapped this tape recorder to his chest-"That's just great," Tigo said-none other than Detective Oliver Wendell Weeks of the Eighty-eighth Detective Squad.

"You maybe seed him aroun the streets," Wiggy said. "Fat Ollie Weeks. He's this big fat guy."

No kidding, Tigo thought.

The problem was that Wiggy thought he'd be doing a favor for the police, when allthey wanted to do was send him up for Murder One. The further problem was that Tigo couldn't warn the man how dangerous this fat hump was because then he'd have to reveal that he himself had visited the police to ask for a favor of his own by way of a cash reward, and they'd wired him tight as Dick's hatband, which is why he was sitting here this very minute, still attempting to get information he could use as a bargaining tool when the Law arrived and the shit hit the fan.

"You goan tell him you a drug dealer?" he asked.

"No, I don't have to tell him that."

"Then how come youknow these people are sellin dope up here?"

"I coulda heard."

"Howyou could a heard, Wigg? You goan tell the fuzz this man Hoskins come up here Christmastime, sold you a hundred keys of coke to distribute to li'l kiddies in the streets?"

"No. But I could …"

"You goan tell 'em you shot this man Hoskins back of the head an dropped him in a garbage can? You goan do that, Wigg?"

"I'm say in it don't seem right, what these mothahs are doin to our people."

"They's evil folk in this world," Tigo said, "itis a shame."

He was thinking Jerry Hoskins may have brought that shit up from Mexico and sold it to Wiggy, but Wiggy was the one passin it down the line till it got to his "people" in the streets. And hestill hadn't said one damn word about the Christmas Eve murder. Tigo was about to prod him again, get this show on the road here, nem mine feelin sorry for all the drug addicts in this sorry world of ours, when Wiggy said, "You know what the name Nettie stans for?"

"Nettie, you say?"

"N-E-T-T-I-E," Wiggy said, spelling it out for him. "You know what word that name is hidin' in?"

"No, I has to admit I do not," Tigo said.

"Counterfeit. That's the word. You search that word, you find Nettie lurkin in there. You double-click on her name, you transported straight to Nettieland. You want to hear this, man, or you want to stay ignorant the ress of your life?"

Tigo did not want to hear anything but how Wiggy had killed Hoskins-but neither did he wish to remain ignorant the rest of his life. He nodded wearily, and listened as Wiggy began telling him all about his adventures in Nettieland. Gradually, he began to lean closer. Gradually, his eyes opened wide. He was listening intently, his attention completely captured, when all at once he heard footsteps pounding in the hallway outside. He turned toward the front door. An instant later, he heard the sound of rapid gunfire, and all at once the door flew off its hinges.

At that very moment, Steve Carella was turning his car into Decatur Avenue, never once realizing he was about to meet another lion.

TIGO WAS RUNNING FOR the window even before the two blond ladies burst into the room. Somewhere behind him Wiggy screamed in pain. Tigo dove through the glass head first, came through onto the fire escape in a cascade of shattering shards, heard more firing from inside the apartment.

"The window!" one of the women yelled, but he was already on his feet and charging down the ladder. The iron rungs were crusted with snow, slippery underfoot. He almost lost his balance, almost went over the rail, but continued running, sliding, slipping, almost flying down those steps while above him the blondes were on automatic, bullets kicking up snow everywhere around him, clanging against the iron of the fire escape. He jumped the dozen feet or so to the ground, began broken-field running across the back yard, the blondes still firing, and was climbing the fence between this yard and the next one over, when they finally found the range. He heard wood splintering everywhere around him, and then felt slugs ripping across his back as he came over the top of the fence. Another slug ripped through his right hand. He dropped to the ground, zigzagged toward the alleyway alongside the building, tucking his bloody hand in against his body, cradling it, blood leaking onto the white snow from his hand and his chest as he ran.

The storm had kept most people off the street.

He stumbled out of the alleyway, fell, got to his feet again.

He turned to look behind him, fell again, and began crawling toward the streetlamp on the corner. He was lying there under the lamp for perhaps two or three minutes when a tall hatless man came running around the corner. Tigo did not know whether the shots had attracted him or whether there'd been some other disturbance in the hood. He only knew he was glad to see him. The man knelt beside him. Tigo recognized him at once.

"You know who did this to you?" Carella asked.

Tigo nodded.

"Who, Tigo? Can you tell me?"

Carella's lion had just followed Tigo's trail of blood up the alleyway.

"Mother," Tigo said.

"Yourmother shot …?"

"Nettie," Tigo said.

"Is that your mother's name?"

Carella's lion was just running out of the alleyway behind them.

"Diana," Tigo said.

"I don't under …"

But Tito Gomez was already dead.

And Carella's lion was almost upon him.

He turned just in time to see someone dressed entirely in black, carrying what was unmistakably an AK-47.

If you meet another lion, just look him in the eye. Stare him down.

This lion wasn't a male.

There was merely a surprised instant that robbed Carella's eye of steely intent and lessened the speed of his gun hand, but that was all it took to give the blonde the advantage she needed. He registered three things in the tick of a heart beat. A car pulling into the street. The blonde angling the weapon toward his head. A man getting out of the car.

The blonde was about to squeeze the trigger when Fat Ollie Weeks shot her in the back, dropping her in her tracks.

"That's two, Steve," he told Carella, and grinned into the flying snow.