The Assassin

TWENTY-SEVEN

As Mr. Ricco Baltazari walked down the corridor to the door of Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer's apartment, at quarter to one in the morning, he was aware that several things were bothering him.

There was the obvious, of course, that he was between the rock (Mr. Savarese) and the hard place (Mssrs. Gian-Carlo Rosselli and Paulo Cassandro) about this goddamned cop. If the cop either didn't look like he could handle what was required of him or, worse, that he was maybe setting them up, he would have to tell Mr. S. that he thought so, or risk winding up pushing up grass in the Tinnicum Swamps out by the airport, if something went wrong.

But if he did that, it was the same thing as saying that GianCarlo and Paulo were a couple of assholes who were going to get Mr. S. in trouble. They would be insulted, and they both had long memories.

And that wasn't all. There was the business between the goddamned cop and Tony. He was having trouble remembering that all she was, was a dumb Polack who he liked to screw and nothing more. That had been possible as long as he hadn't actually seen what was going on.

But now he was going to be in her apartment, actuallytheir apartment, where they'd had some really great times in the sack, and where she was now fucking the goddamned cop.

Well, shit, there's nothing I can do about it.

He pushed her doorbell and in a moment Tony answered it, wearing a fancy nightgown he'd bought her, and which he now clearly remembered taking off her.

"Whaddaya say, Tony?"

"Hello, Ricco."

"Your boyfriend here? I'd like a word with him."

"Come on in, Ricco," Tony said, and then raised her voice. "Vito, honey, it's Mr. Baltazari. He wants to talk to you."

"It's who?"

"I'm a friend of Mr. Rosselli, Vito," Ricco said.

The goddamned cop came into the living room in his underwear.

My living room, I'm paying the freight. And my girl, I'm paying the freight there too. And here's this sonofabitch in his underwear.

"Vito," Ricco said, putting out his hand, "Mr. Rosselli got tied up. He had to go to the Poconos, as a matter of fact, and he asked me to drop by and pass a little information to you."

"What did you say your name was?"

"Baltazari, Ricco Baltazari. I run the Ristorante Alfredo."

"Oh," the goddamned cop said. He did not offer to shake hands. " You know Tony?"

"We seen each other around, right, Tony?"

"You could put it that way, I guess," Tony said.

"So what's the message?"

"Tony, could you give us a minute alone? Get yourself a beer or something?"

"Whatever you say, Mr. Baltazari," Tony said and went into the bedroom. She turned as she closed the door and gave him a look.

"That shipment you and Mr. Rosselli was talking about?" Ricco began.

"What about it?"

"It's coming in tomorrow night. I mean tonight, it's already today, ain't it? On Eastern Flight 4302 from San Juan. At nine fortyfive."

Vito Lanza nodded.

"It's going to be in a blue American Tourister suitcase, one of the plastic ones, and there will be two red reflective strips on each side of the suitcase," Ricco went on.

Vito nodded again.

"That going to pose any problems for you, Vito?"

"What kind of problems?"

"You're not going to write that down, or anything?"

"I can remember Eastern 4302 at nine forty-five."

"From San Juan."

"Eastern 4302 is always from San Juan," Vito said. "Every day but Sunday."

He's a wiseass. He's an asshole who gambles with money he doesn't have, a fucking cop too dumb to know he's being set up, or that the only reason he's fucking Tony is because I told her to fuck him, and he's a wiseass.

"I'm going to ask you again, Vito. Is that going to pose any problems?"

"What kind of problems?"

"Money does funny things to people. Nothing personal, you understand. But you understand why I have to-ask."

"I understand."

"I'm sure you're not that kind of a guy. Mr. Rosselli speaks very well of you, but there are some people, when they get around that kind of money, they do foolish things. Foolish things that could get them killed."

"I'm not that kind of guy," Vito said evenly.

"I'm sure you're not," Ricco said.

"But I do have a couple of questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"Two questions. What do I do with the suitcase once I get it out of the airport?"

Jesus Christ, I don't know. Didn't they tell him, for Christ's sake?

"Didn't Mr. Rosselli tell you what to do with it?"

"If he had told me, I wouldn't be asking," Vito said calmly.

"Then I guess we'll have to ask him, won't we?" Ricco replied. " What was the other question?"

"When and where do I get my money?"

You're a greedy sonofabitch too, aren't you? Well, I guess if I was into Oaks and Pines for four grand worth of markers, four grand that I didn't have, I'd be a little greedy myself.

"You don't worry about that, Vito. You carry out your end of the deal, Mr. Rosselli will carry out his."

"Yeah."

Ricco walked to the telephone and dialed Gian-Carlo Rosselli's number.

"Yeah?"

"Ricco. I'm with our friend."

"How's things going?"

"He wants to know what he should do with the basket of fruit."

"Shit, I didn't think about that," Rosselli said. There was a long pause. "Ask him if he could take it home, and we'll arrange to pick it up there."

Ricco covered the microphone with his hand.

"Mr. Rosselli says you should take it home, and he'll arrange to have it picked up. You got any problem with that?"

"No," Vito said, after thinking it over for a moment. "That'd be all right."

"He says that's fine," Ricco said.

"Okay. And everything else is fine too, right?"

"Everything else is fine too."

Mr. Rosselli hung up on Mr. Baltazari.

"Okay," Ricco said. "Everything's fine. I'll get out of your hair."

Vito Lanza nodded.

Ricco turned and walked to the door and opened it. Then he turned.

"I got to make the point," he said. "You know what happens to people who do foolish things, right?"

"Yeah, I know," Vito said. "And I already told you I'm not foolish."

"Good," Ricco said and went through the door.

When, a few minutes before one A.M., Matt Payne drove into the underground garage at his apartment at the wheel of the unmarked Special Operations Division car he had been given for the business tomorrow morning, he was surprised to find that the space where he normally parked the Bug was empty.

As if I need another reminder that my ass is dragging, I have no idea where the Bug is. It's almost certainly at the Schoolhouse-where else would it be?-but I'll be damned if I remember leaving it there.

He parked the Ford, and rode the elevator to the third floor, and then walked up the stairs to his apartment.

The red light on the answering machine, which he had come to hate with an amazing passion toward an inanimate object, was blinking.

I don't want to hear what messages are waiting for me. They will be, for one thing, probably not messages at all, but the buzz, hummm, click indication that my callers had not elected to leave a message, in other words, that Evelyn was back dialing my number. Or it might actually be a message from Evelyn, which would be even worse.

On the other hand, it might be a bulletin from the Schoolhouse; Wohl might have thought of some other way in which I can be useful before I meet O'Dowd at half past six, which is 5.5 hours from now.

He was still debating whether to push the PLAY button when the phone rang.

It has to be either Wohl or O'Dowd. And if it's not, if it's Evelyn, I'll just hang up.

"Payne."

"Christ, where the hell have you been?" Charley McFadden's voice demanded.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Have you been at the sauce?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I haven't. But it seems like a splendid idea. You running a survey, or what?"

"Matt, you better get your ass out here, right now," Charley said.

"Out where, and why?"

"I'm on the job. Northwest Detectives. Just get your ass out here, right now," McFadden said, and hung up.

What the hell is that all about?

But Charley's not pulling my chain. I can tell from his voice when he's doing that. Whatever this is, it is not a manifestation of Irish and/or police humor.

He had, in what he thought of as a Pavlovian reflex, laid his revolver on the mantelpiece. He reclaimed it and went down the stairs and took the elevator to the basement.

The Porsche was where he remembered parking it, and he took the keys to it from his pocket and was about to put them in the door when he reconsidered.

Whatever Charley McFadden wants, it's personal, and I don't want to be about personal business when I run into one of Wohl's station wagons full of nuns. But on the other hand, it was made goddamned clear to me that Wohl wants to know where I am, second by second, and there's no radio in the Porsche. The minute I drive the Porsche out of here, Wohl will call, and when he gets the answering machine, will get on the radio. And I won't answer.

He got in the unmarked car and drove out of the garage. There wasn't much traffic, and he was lucky with the lights. The only one he caught was at North Broad Street and Ridge Avenue, which gave him a chance to look at the Divine Lorraine Hotel, and wonder what the hell went on in there.

Wouldn't the bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Philadelphia have a heart attack if there was suddenly a booming voice from heaven saying, "You're wrong, Bishop; my boy Father Divine has it right"?

He remembered he hadn't reported in. He switched to the J frequency and told Police Radio that William Fourteen was en route to Northwest Detectives.

He then wondered, as he continued up North Broad Street, whether what Charley was so upset about was the missing Bug.

I know goddamned well I left it at the apartment. Stolen? Out of the basement, past the rent-a-cop, who knows who it belongs to? And who the hell would steal the Bug when the Porsche was sitting right next to it? Who would steal the Bug if nothing was sitting right next to it?

That impeccable logical analysis of the situation collapsed immediately upon Detective Payne's entering the parking lot of Northwest Detectives, which shares quarters with the 35^th District at Broad and Champlost Streets.

There was the Bug.

Jesus, what the hell is this all about?

He went in the building and took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.

"I'm Detective Payne of Special Operations," Matt said, smiling at the desk man just inside the squad room. "Charley…"

"I know who you are," the desk man said with something less than overwhelming charm. He raised his voice: "McFadden!"

Charley appeared around the corner of a wall inside.

"What's with my car?" Matt asked.

McFadden, who looked very uncomfortable, didn't reply. He came to Matt, and motioned for him to follow him down the stairs.

They went into the district holding cells.

"You got him?" Matt asked. "Brilliant work, Detective McFadden!"

"You better take a look at this," Charley said, pointing at one of the cells.

A very faint bulb illuminated the cell interior just enough for Matt to be able to make out a figure lying on the sheet steel bunk.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Matt saw that the figure was in a skirt, and thus a female, and there was just enough time for the thought,Christ, a womanstole my Bug? when he recognized the woman.

"Jesus Christ!" he said.

Charley McFadden tugged on his sleeve and pulled him out of the detention cell area.

"Okay, what happened?" Matt asked, hoping that he was managing to sound matter-of-fact and professional.

"I was out, serving a warrant, and when I brought the critter in here, two Narcotics undercover guys, I know both of them, brought her in."

"On what charges?"

McFadden did not reply directly.

"They were watching a house on Bouvier, near Susquehanna," he said, avoiding Matt's eyes. "Thinking maybe they'd get lucky and be able to grab the delivery boy."

"What delivery boy? What are you talking about?"

"You know where I mean? Bouvier, near Susquehanna?"

Matt searched his memory and came up with nothing specific, just a vague picture of Susquehanna Avenue as it moved through the slums of North Philadelphia near Temple University.

"No," Matt confessed. "Not exactly."

"You don't go in there alone, you understand?" Charley said.

Matt understood. He was not talking about it being the sort of place it was unwise for Miss Penelope Detweiler of Chestnut Hill to visit alone, he was talking about a place where an armed police officer did not go alone, for fear of his life.

He nodded.

"So they see this white girl in a Volkswagen come down Bouvier, and that attracts their attention. So she circles the block, they think looking for the house they're sitting on. And weaving. They think she's either drunk or stoned. These are not nice guys, Matt, dogooders. But the thought of what was liable to happen to a white girl, stoned or drunk, going in that house was too much."

"Oh, God!"

"So one of them got out of the car and ran down the block, and the next time she came around, he flagged her down. She almost ran over him. But he stopped her, and saw she was drunk…"

"Drunk?"Matt asked.

Please, God! Drunk, not drugged.

"Drunk," Charley said. "So he put cuffs on her and got in her car. She told them she's your girlfriend. So they tried to call you, and when they couldn't find you, brought her here. They know we're pals."

"They know who she is?"

"No. Just that she's your girl. She didn't have an ID. For that matter, not even a purse. Just a couple of hundred-dollar bills in her underwear."

"What's she charged with?"

"Right now, nothing. I called in some favors."

"Jesus, Charley!"

"Yeah, well, you'd do the same for me," McFadden said.

Absolutely. The very next time that your girlfriend, Miss MaryMargaret McCarthy, R.N., who is probably the only virgin over thirteen that I know, gets herself hauled in by an undercover Narcotics officer, I'll pull in whatever favors I can to get her off.

Christ, I feel like crying.

"I don't suppose you have any handcuffs, do you?"

Jesus Christ, handcuffs? What for?

Matt shook his head, no.

McFadden reached behind him, where he wore his handcuffs draped over his belt. He handed them to Matt.

"You got a key?"

Matt nodded.

The cuffs are so it will appear to the uniforms in the lobby that I'm taking her out of here under arrest.

"She's… uh. She was pretty drunk, Matt. And mad about being in here."

"You're saying, I'm going to need the cuffs?"

McFadden nodded.

"She's passed out. But if she wakes up in the car, I think you'd be better off if she was cuffed."

"God!"

"Dailey!" McFadden called.

The turnkey, a tired-looking uniform who looked to be about fifty, came up to them.

"Pete Dailey, Matt Payne," McFadden made the introductions. The two men shook hands, but neither said a word.

"Open it up, please, Pete," McFadden said.

The turnkey unlocked the cell, slid the barred door open, and then walked away.

Penny Detweiler did not stir.

Charley went into the cell. Matt followed him. Charley looked at Matt, then put out his hand for the handcuffs. When Matt gave them to him, he pulled Penny's wrists behind her, and put the cuffs on her wrists.

The smell in the cell was foul. Matt wondered if he was going to further embarrass himself by being sick. And then he realized that the smell was coming from Penny.

She had lost control of her bowels, and probably her bladder as well.

The proper word for that, Detective Payne thought, is " incontinent."

And then he was swept by nausea, and barely made it to the lidless toilet in the corner of the cell in time.

After a moment, as he became aware that he was soaked in a clammy sweat, he heard Charley ask, "You okay, buddy?"

"Yeah," Matt said, and forced himself to his feet.

He went to the bunk, and the two men pulled Penny erect. She was limp, and surprisingly heavy.

Jesus, she stinks!

They half carried, half dragged her from the detention cell area to the desk.

Officer Peter Dailey appeared with a newspaper.

"What are you driving?" he asked.

"A blue unmarked Ford," Matt said.

Officer Dailey preceded them out of the building and to the car, where he opened the rear door and spread the newspaper over the seat.

"I'll take her shoulders," Charley McFadden said. "You take her feet."

McFadden backed into the rear seat, dragging Penny after him, and then exited the car by the other door.

He came around the back as Matt was closing the opposite door.

"You going to be able to handle her?" Charley asked.

"Yeah," Matt said.

What the hell am I going to do with her? 1 can't take her home in this condition. And I can't take her to the apartment. What would I do with her when I have to go to work?

"I can get off to go with you."

"Charley, what you can do is call my sister. She's not in the book. The number is 928-5923. Call her and tell her I'm on my way."

"Nine Two Eight, Five Nine Two Three," Charley repeated, setting the number in his memory. "Do I tell her why?"

"Tell her I need some help," Matt said. "Tell her to come down into the lobby and wait for me."

"I can go with you, buddy."

"I can handle it," Matt said. "Thank you, Charley."

"Forget it," McFadden said, and touched Matt's arm gently. "I'm sorry, Matt."

Matt walked around the front of the Ford and got behind the wheel.

He had not gone more than four blocks south on North Broad Street before there was the sound of retching and the smell of vomitus was added to the smell of feces and urine.

He rolled down his window so that he would not be sick again.

Amelia Payne, M.D., fully dressed, came out of the plate-glass doors leading to the lobby of 2601 Parkway as Matt pulled up.

He got out of the car.

"Where is she, in the back?"

Did Charley tell her what happened? Or did she figure that out herself?

"Yes. She's in pretty bad shape."

"What did she take, do you know? She may have overdosed. You should have taken her to University Hospital."

"I think she's just drunk," Matt said. "I don't know. Can you tell?"

"Just drunk? How fortunate for you," Amy said.

She pulled open the rear door and climbed in. Matt saw the bright light of a flashlight, and when he looked, saw that Amy had pushed Penny's eyes open and was shining the light into her eyes. Then she slapped her, twice, three times.

"What have you taken?" Matt heard Amy ask, several times, but could not hear a reply, if there was one.

Amy backed out of the car.

"Let's get her upstairs," she said. "Can you manage? Should I get the doorman?"

"Just make sure the doors are open," Matt said.

He reached in the car and pulled Penny out, bent and threw her over his shoulder in the fireman's carry, and carried her into the lobby and into the elevator.

Amy followed him in and pushed the button. The door closed and the elevator began to rise. Amy turned to face him.

"You sonofabitch, I told you this was liable to happen!" she said bitterly.

"I don't know what happened. She came to the apartment, we had Chinese, and then I went to work."

"I'll tell you what happened. One of your harem showed up at your apartment. Penny called me about nine-thirty."

He didn't reply.

"Goddamn you, Matt," Amy said as the elevator door opened at her floor. She walked off the elevator and down the corridor and by the time Matt got there had the door open.

"Take her in the bathroom," Amy ordered, and led the way.

She turned on the bathtub faucets, then turned to Matt.

"We're going to have to get those things off her wrists and undress her," Amy said. "How we're going to do that in here, I don't know. Can you lower her to the floor?"

"I can try," Matt said.

He dropped to his knees, and then Amy turned from the tub and helped him lower Penny to the tiles of the bathroom floor. He unlocked the handcuffs.

"Help me undress her," Amy said, and then when she saw the look on his face: "Don't look shocked, dammit, you've seen her naked before. And it's your fault she's like this."

Amy, somewhere in the process, disappeared for a moment and returned with a roll of paper towels, with which she cleaned up most of the mess around Penny's groin. Then Matt lowered Penny into the tub, and Amy finished the cleaning process.

Penny made noises, not quite groans, but much like them, but was not fully conscious. Once, she slipped down in the tub and Amy ordered Matt to slide her back up.

Finally, rather coldly, Matt thought, Amy turned on the shower, and as the water drained, she used it to rinse Penny off, as a hose might be used to clear a sidewalk.

"Get her out of there," she said, finally. "Be careful. She's slippery."

Matt got Penny out of the tub and held her up by locking his hands under her arms and breasts. Amy made a halfhearted effort to dry her with a towel, then bent and picked up her feet, and they carried her into Amy's spare bedroom and put her between the sheets.

"For what the hell it's worth," Matt said. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," Amy said. "And for what the hell it's worth, it just occurred to me that if you were not a cop, this would probably be more of a disaster than it is."

"What happens now?"

"You get out of here. I call the Detweilers, who probably need a padded cell themselves by now, and tell them Penny is here with me. What happens in the morning, God knows."

"From what I understand, the Narcs got her before she could buy any drugs," Matt said.

"You sound as if you actually care," Amy said.

"Fuck you, Amy! God damn you! Of course I care."

"Get out of here, Matt," Amy said.

When he got back to the underground garage at his apartment, Matt took the newspaper from the back seat. They had protected the upholstery from Penny's incontinence, but when she had vomited, that had gone onto the floor carpet, where there were no newspapers.

He went up to his apartment and returned with Lysol and everything else in the under the sink cabinet he thought might be helpful in cleaning the carpet and getting rid of the smell.

It still smelled like vomitus, so he went back to the apartment and got the bottle of Lime after-shave Amy had given him for Christmas and sprinkled all that was left over the interior of the car.

It was three when he climbed the stairs for the last time.

The fucking smell has followed me up here!

He then realized that his suit was soiled, probably ruined.

Can you get that shit, accurate word, shit, out of suiting material?

He took his clothing off, down to his skin, put on a bathrobe, and then carried the suit, the shirt, the necktie, and the underwear down to the basement and jammed it into one of the commercial garbage cans.

Then he went back to his apartment and showered and shaved and waited for it to grow light by watching television. He fell asleep in his armchair at four-thirty. At five-thirty, the alarm went off.

At ten minutes to six, as Peter Wohl was measuring coffee grounds into the basket of his machine, his out-of-tune "Be It Ever So Humble" door chimes sounded.

He went quickly through the door, wondering who the hell it could be. Usually, a telephone call preceded an early morning call.

Unless, of course, it's my father, who, 1 suspect, really hopes to catch me with some lovely in here.

It was Captain Richard Olsen, of Internal Affairs.

"Good morning, Swede," Wohl said. "What gets you out of bed at this hour?"

"I need to talk to you, and I didn't want it to be over the phone."

Olsen wouldn't do this unless he thought it was necessary.

"Come on in. I'm just making coffee."

"It's been a long time since I've been here. I remember the couch. What was her name?"

"What was whose name?"

"That interior decorator. You really had the hots for her."

"I forget," Wohl said.

"The hell you do," Olsen chuckled.

"You had breakfast?"

"No. But that doesn't mean you have to feed me."

"There's bacon and eggs. That all right?"

"Fine. Can I help?"

"You can make bacon and eggs while I get dressed," Wohl said. "And I'll finish the coffee."

"Lanza is dirty," Olsen said. "Or it goddamned well looks that way."

"I hope it won't require action between seven and nine this morning," Wohl said.

"No."

"Good, then I can get dressed," Wohl said, and went into his bedroom.

When he came out, he said, "What I really am curious about is why you couldn't have told me that on the phone?"

"We have a wiretap of questionable legality," Olsen said.

"How questionable?"

"Absolutely illegal," Olsen said.

"Oh, shit," Wohl said. "And it was found? Are you in trouble, Swede?"

"The tap is gone, and we were not caught."

"Who's we? You knew about this?"

"No, of course not. Can I start at the beginning?"

"The bacon's burning," Wohl said.

Olsen quickly took the pan off the burner and quickly forked bacon strips out of it.

"Well done, not destroyed," he said.

"Thank God for small blessings," Wohl said."I'll make the eggs. Can you handle the toaster?"

"I don't know. I used to think I could fry bacon without a problem."

"Give it a try. Tell me about the tap."

"You remember I told you about Sergeant Framm and Detective Pillare losing Lanza at the airport, and your man Payne saving their ass?"

"Yeah,"

"Yeah, well, Framm was humiliated by that. So he thought he'd make up for it by being Super Cop. He tapped the Schermer woman's line."

"How did you find out?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yeah, I think I better know."

"He told me," Olsen said.

"Oh, Jesus! Now I'm sorry I asked."

"He means well, Peter. I think he just watches too many cop shows on the TV.They don't have to get a warrant for a tap."

"We do. I hope you told him that."

"What do you think?"

"Not that we could use it, but what did he hear?"

"They tailed Lanza from the airport when he went off tour at midnight. He went to the Schermer woman's apartment. At quarter to one, he was visited by Mr. Ricco Baltazari…"

"The Ristorante Alfredo Ricco Baltazari?"

"One and the same. He stayed about ten minutes. While he was there, a male, almost certainly Baltazari, called somebody, no name, but Organized Crime told me the number is the unlisted number of Mr. Gian-Carlo Rosselli."

"You didn't tell Organized Crime why you wanted to know, I hope?"

"No. Just asked if they had a name to go with the number."

Olsen took a notebook from his pocket, and opened it.

"Ricco told the no-name guy he was with quote, our friend, end quote, and that the friend, quote, wants to know what he should do with the basket of fruit, unquote."

"Swede, did you listen to the tape?"

"What tape?"

"Is that how you're going to play it?"

Olsen shrugged helplessly.

"Was there a reply?" Wohl asked.

"No name replied, quote, Ask him if he could take it home, and we' ll arrange to pick it up there, unquote. Then Ricco replied, quote, He says that's fine, unquote."

Wohl grunted.

"That's all?"

"Two more lines: Unnamed, quote, Okay. And everything else is fine too, right? unquote, to which Ricco replies, quote, Everything else is fine too, unquote."

"Being the clever detective that I am, I don't think the basket of fruit is oranges and grapefruit and things of that nature," Wohl said. "Drugs?"

"What else?" Olsen said. "Rosselli is a heavy hitter."

"Lanza is going to somehow get his hands on this 'fruit basket' at the airport, get it away from the airport, and take it home. Where Rosselli will arrange to have it picked up, right?"

"That's how I see it, Peter."

"God, I'd like to bag Rosselli and Baltazari picking it up," Wohl said.

"Maybe we can," Olsen said.

"Don't hold your breath," Wohl said. "They'll send some punk. They don't take risks."

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Olsen said.

"I have the feeling this will happen tonight," Olsen said.

"Then get Sergeant Whatsisname off the job."

"Framm. He's gone. I have a suggestion, or maybe I'm asking for a favor…"

"Either way, what?"

"Sergeant O'Dowd. Can I have him?"

"Sure," Wohl replied after a just perceptible hesitation. "Can I make a suggestion?"

"Of course."

"Have somebody, preferably two men, on both Lanza's house and the girlfriend's apartment, from right now until whatever happens with the fruit basket happens."

"That may take two or three days, longer."

"So what? I don't want this to go wrong. Maybe wecan catch Rosselli or Baltazari too."

"I don't suppose there's anybody else you could let me have?"

"Not until we catch this fruitcake who wants to disintegrate the Vice President."

"How's that going?"

"At eight o'clock, we may or may not take a couple of doors behind which he may or may not be hiding. Not well, in other words."

"I'll handle the Lanza thing myself if it comes down to that. If I haven't forgotten how to surveil somebody."

"I'll send Tony Harris down to you. I'll have him call you. You tell him when and where. I really would like to put one of these Mafiosos in the slam with our dirty cop."

"Thank you," Olsen said.

"I didn't hear anything you said about an illegal tap, Swede. The bacon was burning or something."

"Thank you, Peter."