It would take time to find and kill all of them. But a man�s got to start some place.

I sipped a weak highball in which the whiskey, on my instructions, had been measured with an eye-dropper. Getting drunk was the last thing I wanted, now or ever. I was watching Hirsch. Eliot �Whitey� Hirsch. I had been studying him for a month and he didn�t know. He may have missed me because I didn�t look like a cop.

I was sleepy but I wouldn�t doze off. I couldn�t. I�d straighten up with a jerk, come out of it with my eyes wide and staring. I had to get Hirsch and the others.

He had changed in a year. Then he had been a cheap callous punk of twenty-one. Now he was twenty-two.

For one thing his clothes were better. I got the idea he was laying off thrill jobs, leaving them for beginners. Now he was concentrating on profit. He looked prosperous.

He was handsome, if you were able to discount what was behind his face. His teeth were white and strong. I wondered what he sharpened them on. He was very blond and would have been even without help from the sun which had bleached his hair so that his brows were platinum against the tan and the sun-freckles beneath the tan. He was big and knew how to use his strength, but not where. He didn�t deserve to live.

I had decided it three months ago. Nine months to make up my mind, two months to locate him, another month spent in making sure. I was sure now. Final confirmation would have to come from Hirsch himself. I didn�t doubt that it would come.

For two hours he lingered with a group that suited him perfectly. Finally he got up and said something and the girls laughed, lowering their voices when the management looked that way. It was a nice safe place, the Commercial Cocktail Lounge. During the day it was exclusive, serving executives from the surrounding factories and business establishments. But the executives had gone home to Pasadena and San Marino and Beverly Hills. Others were accepted conditionally, providing they observed the rules. Decorum was always preserved. No one felt much like arguing with the unofficial representatives of a billion dollar slice of industry.

Hirsch went to the bar and sat beside a man with whom he immediately began conversing. I hadn�t counted on this complication. I looked the new man over carefully, deciding at last that he didn�t matter. Older and leaner, there wasn�t much to choose between the two. The coroner would take either and not complain.

Study paid off. Anticipating the next move, I paid for the drink and got out a full minute before they did. I waited near the entrance beside a big black Chrysler. There was a foundry next to the parking lot, a sheet metal building with dirty windows and incredible noise from the night shift. It was pour-off time and the smell of molten metal and baking sand mingled in the cool night air with the odor from packing plants. It was no wonder the cocktail lounge had air-conditioning.

They came out. I let them get beyond the car before going after them. They whirled at my footsteps, cocking their arms.

�Eliot Hirsch?� I said. �Whitey?� They saw I had it on them, from inside my jacket pocket.

�That�s me,� he said. He was puzzled. There shouldn�t be cops here, except the L. A. Traffic Patrol. Obviously I wasn�t that.

I let him puzzle over it, giving him the shine off a badge I shouldn�t be carrying. It would be easier if there was no commotion here. �I want to talk to you,� I said. I jerked my head at the other man. �I don�t need you, here or anywhere else. Get going before I take you along.�

�What about my�� He stopped, his eyes flickering.

�What about what?� I said. �I�m giving you a chance. Better take it.�

He didn�t like it but he went away, cutting across the lot toward the foundry.

I nudged Hirsch over to my car. I unlocked it and slipped a cuff on his left wrist. �Get in.�

Hirsch jerked loose and swung a left at me. The heavy cuff whistled past my head. It would have split my skull if it had landed. It didn�t. �Get in, Whitey!�

By this time I think he must have known but was hoping otherwise. He got in. I nuzzled the gun against him. �Bend down.�

He leaned over. I looped the loose end of the cuff through the frame of the seat and snapped it on his free hand. I shut the door and got in the other side. I backed out and went up Sante Fe toward Washington. On Washington I turned east, heading out of the city.

Whitey was bent over, gunless, arms between his legs. He couldn�t see where we were going. What was more to the point was that no one could see him unless they drove beside us and looked in for someone doubled over in the front seat.

�You�re not a cop,� he kept muttering. It didn�t seem to improve his peace of mind.

�The things you don�t know,� I said. �Sure I�m a cop. My own.�

I went out Washington to the dry San Gabriel river, turning south on a narrow dirt road that led to extensive avocado groves on the east bank. On the far side was a huge tract of newly built houses. Not many homes were occupied. The place was even more isolated at night than when I saw it during the day.

I drove into a grove, cutting around trees. I stopped the motor and switched to parking lights. Leaving Hirsch fastened I went back to the road and walked along it. Not a glimmer showed. I returned. He was struggling to get loose. He stopped as I came up.

I took out an electric lantern, turning on the top light. I set it on the ground and unlocked one hand, telling Hirsch to get loose and come out. He came out. I bent his arm behind him and took off the cuff. I didn�t want him swinging metal around. Not yet.

�Sit down.�

He looked around. �Where?�

�What do you want, a park bench? An upholstered chair? Get in front of the car where I can see you.�

He tried to run. I kicked his feet from under him. He started to get up. I jabbed him down with the gun. �In front of the car. Crawl there.� He crawled through the thick carpet of dry leaves.

�Too bad about those slacks, and the shine on your shoes. And that nice jacket.�

He didn�t say anything. He was trying to see who I was, as if it made a difference. He hadn�t noticed me in the bar and there wasn�t much light in the parking lot. Not that I cared if he recognized me. I wanted him to keep on wondering. For once he was on the wrong end of uncertainty.

I let him sit there and twitch. In about ten minutes I took out a picture and tossed it to him. �Look at that.�

He bent over, squinting in the light that glared into his eyes. Straightening up he said, �I never saw her.�

He would have said the same if it had been a photograph of himself. �Look at it good,� I said.

He stared at it again. �Some doll,� he said.

It didn�t help him to seem appreciative. She was nice but no more than that. If I ever criticized her, which I did often, it wasn�t for her appearance. But neither did I spend much time beating movie scouts away from the door. �Anything else?� I asked him.

�I never saw her,� he repeated.

�That�s as she was before,� I said. I took out another picture and sailed it to him. �This is after. Go over it carefully. I want your opinion.�

He glanced at it, turning away at once. The fine tan he spent so much time on became mottled.

I leaned forward, redistributing his nose with the barrel of the gun. �I said, look at it. Keep on looking at it.�

He rocked back, throwing his arm over his face. I smashed it down twice. He shook his head to clear his senses and when he could finally see, looked at the picture. He couldn�t seem to stop. He moistened his lips, licking the blood that dribbled down from his nose. �This is bad,� he whispered. �But why show it to me? I don�t know anything about it.�

�That�s what you told the cops.�

�They let me go.�

�Lack of evidence. They�ve got to go by some rules when they turn you over to the D.A. I don�t.�

It was quiet in the grove. Nearby small wild creatures rustled in the trees. This passed unnoticed by Whitey. He had no time for stray sensations.

He shivered with the cold I didn�t feel. I saw him tense to spring. The sitting position was against him. I waved the gun and his muscles quivered and collapsed.

�You�re one of them. I found that out. What I want you to tell me is: who were the other four?�

He had thought it would never catch up with him again. He was limp and his throat was dry and he had difficulty speaking. �You got the wrong guy. I wouldn�t do anything like that.�

�Let�s go over it and maybe you�ll remember. The girl in an apartment across the street over a store saw five men run from the building and drive away before the police got there. You have a chance, not much but it�s your only chance. Tell me who the others were.�

He was witless and muscleless. I�d given him credit for more resistance. He was no good this way. All I could do was push him in as deep as he�d go, hoping he�d hit bottom. After that I might be able to pull something out of him.

�Nan wanted to live as much as you do now. She was sensible. She�d have known it was useless to struggle against so many. You could have raped her and let it go at that. She�d have gotten over it. But who was the bright son of a bitch that thought of cutting her open?�

He squirmed and tried to get up. He wouldn�t have made it even if I hadn�t turned the gun and batted him down. He lay there, holding his eye. �I can keep this up all night, longer than you did on her. You carved her for at least an hour and a half, screaming all the time.�

Our apartment was nice, one of two apartments over the store. The rent was low and it was near work, which was why we�d taken it. During the day the street was fairly busy since it was in a commercial district. At night when the shops were closed it was deserted. The couple next to us were newly married, trying to economize. That was why they had no phone.

That night the girl�s husband was working late as he often did. She was awake, watching for him out the window. She saw them grab Nan and when she heard the cries she knew what it was. She thought of running for the police. But a man stood guard on that empty building across the street. She had no desire to join the other woman.

When her husband came home she sent him for the police. But then it was too late. A few days later they moved away.

And now Hirsch was the only one I knew. The others were important too. They were the most important.

�I�m not mad at you, Whitey,� I said. It was true. I sat there in wide-awake sleepiness looking at him as though he were something new under the microscope. �I don�t believe in revenge. I don�t think I have to kill you because you helped kill her. It�s not that at all. It seems to me that you�re not smart enough to figure out the surgery angle. Sure, you had guts enough to take yours when the others were holding her down. But you didn�t think of it. I want to know who did.�

There were signs that he was beginning to come up. He looked at me with one good eye. The other was closed. He mumbled faintly. �I told you. I don�t know anything about it.�

�If I work on your throat will you promise to speak plainer?� He tried to scoot away, stopping when I waggled the gun.

�I�ve given up trying to understand people like you,� I said. �I don�t want to understand them. All I know is that I don�t like them within a thousand miles of me, three thousand miles. I don�t want them in the same world.�

He said something I couldn�t hear. �Speak up,� I said.

�I can go away,� he said.

�Certainly. But how? It takes money.� I wondered if he would think this was a way out.

�I�ve got money. Fifteen hundred.� He was eager.

�I thought you did. That�s why your friend was worried. He wanted his share, of something. You crumbs!� I extended my hand. �I�ll take it.�

He fumbled with his wallet, cleaning it out. He opened it, anxious to show that he wasn�t holding back. I left him fifty. �Keep that,� I said. �Fold it and put it in your shoe.� He looked at me as though I were doing him a good turn.

�It�s not enough,� I said.

�I can get more,� he said. He was trying to be so helpful he was spilling over.

�This much I need. Hunting four guys takes all my time. I can�t stop to work. As for you, I hope you see that I�ve established robbery as the motive. Your billfold is empty and you�ve got fifty I overlooked.�

His good eye began to cloud. I could see I was losing him. I was driving him away when I nearly had him. I had to get him back fast. Fear was in the way, the big deadly fear that comes once in a lifetime � at the end of it.

�Maybe it will help you talk if I tell you how I feel. This is something that has to be done for reasons you will never understand.�

The gun was becoming heavy. Not the weight, but the almost living way the trigger kept pressing into my finger, coaxing it on. I shifted it to the other hand.

�I wasn�t in love with Nan. That�s the girl you did it to. She didn�t love me, not any longer. That evening we�d had another quarrel and knew it was finished. We agreed on a divorce and set the date. That�s why she went out and came back so late. Another thirty feet and she�d have reached the apartment. She couldn�t run fast in heels.�

He looked at me dully. �That�s straight? You were going to get a divorce?�

�That�s it exactly.� My voice convinced him. I didn�t have to lie with words or intonation.

�Another doll?�

�No. No one else, either for myself or her. We didn�t get along, that�s all. There was no use hanging on.� I breathed slowly to quiet myself. �The trouble with you, Whitey, is that you and I don�t think alike. Not in any way.�

�You�re a funny guy.� He laughed shakily. �You know, I believe you.�

�You can believe me. She meant nothing to me as a woman. But I still want to know the name of the guy who got the idea a knife was something to make love with.�

�I wish I could tell you. I don�t know. Curly brown hair, a big guy. Bigger than you.�

Whitey might not be aware of it, but he was bigger than I. Taller and heavier, there wasn�t much inside. Nothing. �Fine. But you haven�t given me names. I�ve got to have them. How many of the gang did you know?�

He couldn�t stop now if he wanted to. He didn�t seem to want to. �Ralph Jensen and Joe Fredricks were with me,� he said. �We met the other two guys around. They never did tell us who they were. Anyway we picked a car and started cruising. We followed some nice things but it was all risky. Then we saw this one, just starting to cross the street. We thought we�d have some fun so��

�Never mind that,� I said. �I�m sensitive. I�ve got the rest figured. Tell me about your pals.�

He told me. When he got through I had it down. I could find those two and through them the others. They were all lined up.

�That�s plenty,� I said. �Get up.� He got to his feet and I moved him around with the gun. He stiffened as we went past the car.

�Where are we going?� he muttered as I prodded him out to the dirt road.

�Just a precaution,� I said smoothly as we reached the bank. �I don�t want you to get back to town before I do.�

He wasn�t sharp but ordinarily he would have seen through it. What threw him off was that I didn�t fit with what he knew or had ever thought of. He was limited, limited too by the knowledge he didn�t dare admit to himself. We went far down the dry river bed to a dense clump of brush where no one came, not even small boys with dogs.

�You know,� he said as we walked, �I could let it slip to Ralph and Joe you�re looking for them. But I�m not going to. The hell with them.�

�That�s wise,� I said. We stopped. I looked him over, getting it just right.

�I�m thinking where I ought to go,� he said, but he was uneasy now. �I never did like this city much anyway. Maybe I ought to head for New York.�

I left him thinking about it through the echoes of the shot. He had perhaps an hour to give full consideration to the countless things he was never going to do. It gave me no satisfaction. I didn�t expect any.

I went back to the car and drove away from Eliot �Whitey� Hirsch.

Whitey had had names to bargain with and had held them as long as he could. I don�t know why he thought that would get him out except he believed me. That was as it should be. I hadn�t lied, but I hadn�t told him everything.

Nan and I had quarreled and agreed on a divorce. The usual thing but this time we meant it. She�d gone out, saying she didn�t know when she�d be back. And I stayed home. I stayed home with a bottle. I drank myself into a stupor and went to sleep. That was the night I had to do it � dead drunk � out. I had snored through it all while the girl next door had banged on the door, while they were butchering Nan across the street.

I didn�t hear a thing. Not that night I didn�t. I had a gun in the house, and a phone. If at any time I had awakened... but I didn�t.

I wonder if she�ll finally stop screaming after I kill them all.

They were enemies, these two cops. And then they were assigned to the city�s deadliest manhunt, together...

The communications room was only one floor below the Homicide Squad room, and routine bulletins were walked up to Captain Short, leaving the phone free for urgent messages. The bulletin which a stenographer had just brought to the Captain�s desk looked routine enough.

Short�s blunt fingers drew the yellow slip toward him and he glanced up at Detectives O�Rourke and Anderson, as they entered the Squad room. They had both just reported for duty. Frowning, Short read evenly: �Inmate escaped from Bellevue Hospital. Clothed in hospital gown. Cars in area alerted. Description to follow.�

The Captain shook his head with experienced weariness. �When in doubt, Communications notifies Homicide. Friday night coming up, somebody probably being murdered at this very minute, and they send me general bulletins.�

He dropped the yellow message and frowned again. �They�d better pick him up before the neighborhood around Bellevue hears about it, or they�ll have the switchboard tied up all night.�

Lieutenant Michael �Paddy� O�Rourke closed one Irish blue eye in sober contemplation. �He could be dangerous, a nut like that.�

Detective Don Anderson smiled a slightly superior smile which opened both of O�Rourke�s eyes. �All of �em at Bellevue are dangerous. They�re all nuts. It�s just a matter of degree.�

O�Rourke�s blue eyes turned cool. �Oh, not all. Not quite. Some of �em...�

�Forget it, Paddy,� Captain Short interrupted. �He�s needling you, as usual.� He turned unsympathetic gray eyes toward Anderson. �It�ll be a long enough night without you two fighting again. You�ll have some other matters to keep you amused.�

The phone on Short�s desk jangled, and he lifted the instrument to his ear. With the Captain�s attention thus drawn from them, Anderson and O�Rourke sized up each other as if they were strangers, though they had worked together on Short�s squad for nearly two years. At least daily they measured each other this way, and each time found less in common.

O�Rourke was a blocky, ruddy-cheeked man whose face escaped pure homeliness only because of his Irish eyes. He was a cop who had started on a foot beat, and the son of a cop whose father had been a cop. All that was good within him had been built the hard way, and Paddy knew it and was proud of it.

Don Anderson was blond, light-skinned, and equipped with wide-set, cynical gray eyes beneath a handsome forehead. He was a college-trained cop, with none of Paddy�s calming experience of nights on a foot beat behind him. He was a lean man, in habit as well as stature, and reputed to be especially hard on drunks and streetwalkers, harder still on juveniles.

O�Rourke was the man to have patience with a drunk, or the one to understand a kid carrying a switch-blade. He was a cop who still received Christmas presents from folks on a beat he hadn�t walked for five years. He would readily admit his faults and just as readily forget them.

Not so with Anderson. There was a hard core of pride within him which would allow no admission of softness, and his bone-deep toughness was as much a part of him as his cynical gray eyes. He was always quick to remember the times when toughness had saved his life.

Suddenly, Captain Short banged down the phone and gained their attention again. �It�s the lunatic again,� he said. �He�s Homicide�s now. He got downtown somehow and broke into a sporting goods store. Stole a gun and used it to kill the shopkeeper. Picked up some hunting pants and a jacket and left. They�re dispatching cars now, trying to seal off the area. Fifteenth Street over near Eighth Avenue. He hasn�t got a car yet, as far as they know.�

Paddy O�Rourke nodded at the communications flimsy on Short�s desk. �Can we get a description from Communications?�

Short nodded. �They gave it to me on the phone. He�s five-ten, weighs one-sixty, has brown hair and gray eyes. Medium beard, no unusual markings. Mr. Average Man, as usual. Except that his name is John Bemis. You�ve heard that before.�

O�Rourke nodded, and Don Anderson said, �Oh, brother.�

They knew that outwardly John Bemis would appear no different from hundreds of other citizens. He was a college graduate, an engineer, and an honorably discharged Army officer with an outstanding war record. Yet, two weeks ago he had herded seven people in his neighborhood into a small shop, and would have killed every one of them if his German pistol hadn�t jammed. The people involved had been picked at random from the street; he had threatened them only because he believed that all of his society had turned against him.

�You want us to get down there?� Anderson said.

Short shook his head. �I don�t know. Hold on a minute.� He crossed the room and pulled out a file drawer, rifling through it until he found a particular manila folder. �Here it is,� he said, �Bemis lives at fourteen-oh-four West Twenty-first Street. Six blocks from the killing. There�s a chance he�s headed for home. You two go to his place and look around. By the time you�re through there, we�ll be through with the other area.�

Anderson and O�Rourke rose, and Short said, �Watch yourselves � and stick together.�

They shared the same unmarked department car, and tonight was Anderson�s turn at the wheel. He spun the car away from the curb and swore. �Now it�s nuts. We�re hunting nuts now.�

�We�ll get him,� O�Rourke said.

�Sure we will,� Anderson replied. �But when?�

O�Rourke pursed his lips. �I think tonight.�

Anderson�s voice was suddenly inviting. �Bet on it?�

O�Rourke shook his head. �Not on this.�

Anderson shook his head in mock sadness. �Sure, and it�s like an Irishman to quit when he�s ahead.�

�I said I won�t bet,� Paddy said evenly. �Make anything you want to out of it, Anderson.�

The betting between them was an offshoot of the arguments into which Anderson so often prodded Paddy. They bet on court cases, the weather, ball games, fights, almost anything. It had started harmlessly enough, but somewhere along the way it had changed to a form of expression just short of violence, as if winning proved one man better than the other. Small stakes had been made large by the feelings never far from the surface between them.

Only last night they had bet a hat on the outcome of a prize fight. Not a new hat, but the hat worn by the loser. Anderson�s blue snap-brim felt did not fit Paddy well at all.

Anderson looked sideways at Paddy and fell silent. After several wordless blocks, he swung the police cruiser onto Twenty-first Street. �It�s fourteen-oh-four, isn�t it?�

Paddy nodded. �The four story apartment. Better park next door.�

Anderson eased the cruiser to the curb, and Paddy stepped out. �There�s an alley behind this place that runs the whole block,� Anderson said. �We ought to cover it if we can. You...�

His words were cut short by the sudden screech of tires spinning on concrete behind the apartment building. Paddy stepped away from the car to look between the buildings toward the alley, and Anderson jumped the cruiser ahead in time to see a large blue car picking up speed behind the apartment house.

His feet moved automatically on the floor pedals, and the cruiser leapt away from the curb. He yelled, �I�ll get him!� and Paddy�s mouth opened in frustration as he lunged for the door handle and missed.

He saw Paddy in the rear view mirror, standing spraddle-legged in the street, and then his attention turned back to the blue car as it shot out of the alley. He forgot about O�Rourke and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

The blue sedan was half a block ahead, then a block, and Anderson swore and kicked harder at the accelerator. For two blocks he lost ground, and then the blue car slowed for a stoplight. Anderson kicked a last burst of speed from the police car and cut in sharply, his right front fender blocking the sedan. He ducked low as he left the car, slipping his service revolver from beneath his coat.

He jumped into the other driver�s sight, and nearly dropped his gun in his haste to remove tension from its trigger. Behind the wheel of the blue sedan sat a wide-eyed, white faced boy who couldn�t have been over seventeen.

�What were you trying to do!� Anderson shouted.

�I thought you were a buddy of mine,� the boy stammered. He looked ready to cry, and Anderson realized that he was still waving his gun. He jammed the revolver back into its holster and fumbled in his coat for a pencil and paper.

A kid�s race, he thought. Of all the... �What�s your name? Who owns the car? Where do you live?�

The youngster stammered his answers, and Anderson jotted them down. �You�ll be hearing about this,� he said. �Now get out of here, and take it easy.� He stamped back to the police car and slid behind the wheel. Then, through his anger, he remembered Paddy O�Rourke. He threw the cruiser into reverse and spun it around in the street.

When he reached Twenty-first Street again his watch told him it was five, and soon it would be dark. Paddy was nowhere in sight. A sudden sick apprehension shook him as he hurried from the car to the lobby of the apartment house. Inside, he took his gun from beneath his coat again, and swung its barrel along the row of brass mailboxes until he caught the name Bemis and the number 304. He left the foyer with the gun still in his hand.

This was all wrong, he thought. O�Rourke must have come in alone and gone upstairs, probably to check Bemis� quarters, thinking he was gone. But Bemis hadn�t been gone, or Paddy would have been back by now. Bemis had been here. A feeling starting in the short hairs on Anderson�s neck made him sure of this.

It�s all wrong, he thought. You left him, and maybe he�s had it, alone. The stairway was to his left, carpeted and empty, the self-service elevator to his right. The indicator above the elevator rested on Three. He chose the stairs, moving quietly, but fast,

He walked softly up the last flight, looking both ways along the empty corridor before he spun silently off the wall into the middle of the hall. The door to 304 was open, a light on inside.

Before he entered, he somehow knew he would find no one inside. He looked quickly about the unrumpled living room, and had his quick look at the bedroom and bath. On his way to the kitchen he was stopped by the unmistakable sound of a shot from somewhere above him in the building.

His mind hung on dead center for a moment, and then he said, �Paddy! Damn!� Again, viciously, �Damn!�

He ran into the hall and past the elevator. The indicator now rested on �R�. Why hadn�t he noticed the moving dial when he�d been in the hall? He had missed them by seconds. Again, unconsciously, he said, �Paddy!� and started upstairs to the roof.

When he cracked the metal door at the head of the stairs he saw that it was now almost dark outside. The graveled roof shone palely in the reflected lights of the city, and a tangle of television antennas cast a web of shadows across the gray surface. Nothing entered his line of vision, and he slid outside slowly.

Near one of the building�s two chimneys his eye caught the paleness of human flesh, and his gun came up and pointed. There was no answering movement, and he realized sickly that he was looking at a man�s bare leg. Behind him, he heard the sound of a heel on iron, and whirled to see the spidery outline of a fire escape which hooked over the low wall about the roof.

He reached this metal outline and was thrown back from the edge of the roof by a sudden flash from the ground. The shot was fired from four floors below, but the bullet screamed off concrete a foot from his face, and it seemed as if the gun had gone off squarely before his eyes. A figure moved in the shrubs near the building, and he fired twice at it. His bullets thudded harmlessly into the ground, and the running man passed from sight around a corner of the building.

Anderson swore helplessly and recrossed the roof to the chimney. He knew what he would find there, but the knowledge did not lessen the shock. He said, �Paddy!� and didn�t feel the gravel roof cutting into his knees as he knelt beside O�Rourke.

He saw where the bullet had entered, but still felt for a pulse, as if his hand on O�Rourke�s wrist could somehow bring life back to him. The Irishman�s topcoat and suit were gone, and his nakedness was suddenly something pitiless and obscene. Anderson took off his own coat and tucked it about Paddy�s legs. He stood up, and with Paddy dead before him he could find no thought which offered him comfort.

He thought of Paddy�s pretty blonde wife, and the boy with Paddy�s chin and blue eyes. He thought of Paddy worrying about a kid picked up on a burglary charge; mad clear through at a hoodlum brought in for peddling heroin; and making excuses for a whiskey-reeking panhandler. He thought of Paddy doing too many things which he had never done himself.

He said, �Oh, Paddy,� and knelt again, his lips trembling, the tears coming as they had not come since he was a boy. He rose, bit his lips, and stamped across the roof to the stairway.

He pounded on the first door he came to on the top floor, and shouted, �Police! I need a phone.� The door opened, and a man still wiping dinner from his lips pointed wide-eyed to his telephone and stepped aside.

It took a few minutes for a line through headquarters to Short�s car, and then Anderson heard the Captain�s voice on the wire. He jerked out his story in short sentences, without attempting to spare himself, and tried to answer Short�s rapid-fire questions. �Yes, he got away. I don�t know which way; I was thinking of Paddy. Yes, Captain, I shot at him. Captain, I said he killed Paddy. Yes, took his clothes. O�Rourke must have caught him in his apartment before he could get the clothes he was after. Brown gabardine suit and a gray topcoat. He must have relatives. Maybe he�ll try to reach them. Better have somebody cover that angle.�

Short�s voice came over the wire again, and anger and shame blurred the Captain�s words in his ear. He knew Short must be alone in a patrol car to talk like this. Anderson�s shoulders sagged. It had to be said by someone; it was what the whole department would be thinking soon enough. There would have to be a way for them to express the loss which would be felt by each of them, the bitterness which would wipe out a lot of friendships. Nevertheless, it had to be answered.

Anderson bent forward, his hands white on the phone, his voice flat. �I�ll write the kid a ticket, all right,� he said, �but I won�t enjoy it. And I won�t take talk like this from anybody again, including you, Captain. Is that understood?� He stopped to catch his breath, and the anger and frustration which had started on the roof took control of him. �Now, are we going to talk all night, or are you going to get some men out here? Damn it, Captain, let�s put some wheels in motion.�

Physically trembling, he slammed the phone back on its hook and whirled about, roughly herding the apartment owner before him into the hall, moved by a rage and urgency which was near panic. �Now, I want you to stand right here,� he said, �and don�t let anybody up on the roof unless he identifies himself as a police officer. Understand?� He left the frightened, numbly nodding man before the steel door to the roof and spun down the hall, ignoring the elevator for the stairs.

Outside the building, he raced to the prowl car, slipped in, and turned on the radio. He tasted his heart in his throat as he saw the keys dangling from the ignition. His thoughts flashed back to the moments he had spent over Paddy on the apartment house roof. No, he had heard no car start after he had fired and the madman had disappeared around the corner of the building. Bemis was still on foot, but it was pure luck that he wasn�t racing away in a police prowl car.

The radio warmed up and gave him nothing but a dull buzz which told him Short was putting things in motion now. Routine calls were cleared from the air, and every car in the city was waiting for instructions to continue the search which had started with his phone call to the Captain.

Urgency again gripped Anderson. They could wait until Bemis was gone if he was smart enough to realize they had nothing to go on but a brown suit and gray topcoat. Anderson watched his hands begin to tremble and tightened them on the steering wheel. Where would he go, presumably on foot or in a bus or taxi? He�d be looking for a way out of the city � but what way?

A bus would be too slow to make sense. By the time he reached a highway, roadblocks would be up. This took care of the car angle, too. The airport? On a Friday night? Without luggage? It would be tough to catch a plane within the hour without previous arrangements. Grand Central station? Where else could Mr. Average Man lose himself more easily?

It was a hunch, no more. And this was where Anderson himself would have gone. A place where there were cross-continent trains, interstate trains, commuter trains, dozens of strings of crowded cars leaving the city every hour. Anderson shoved the prowl car into gear and left the curb. He had to be moving, looking, even if it was strictly a hunch. Short would have a fit when they didn�t find him at the scene of Paddy�s death, but he couldn�t really tell them any more than he had given the Captain on the phone.

He took the most direct route uptown, his mind so crowded that he forgot his siren at stoplights. He was within a few blocks of Grand Central when the radio crackled.

�All cars...� a flat voice came in, and Anderson�s hands coated the wheel with perspiration as he caught the entire announcement. Bemis was now in the midtown area. He had gotten into a cab a few blocks from his apartment and given the cabbie an east side address. On the way they had passed a parked prowl car and Bemis told the cabbie to turn around. The cabbie had asked him to make up his mind, and Bemis had slugged him and jumped out about three blocks from Grand Central.

Anderson�s lips flattened into a thin pale line. There would be a thousand people milling around the station at this hour. It would be a miracle if they could get to him before somebody upset him again.

He made the rest of the trip to the station without seeing another patrol car, and stopped a block from the main entrance. He let the crowd pouring in off the street sweep him along into the terminal, and once inside felt a familiar and overwhelming sense of smallness. The station ceiling was four stories high, and the two floors of the building were connected by a thirty foot wide set of marble stairs. He remembered reading somewhere of the fantastic number of passengers the terminal accommodated during rush hours, and wondered hopelessly how many people were here now.

And how many of them would be wearing gray topcoats and brown pants? How would be know Bemis if he saw him? He walked casually through the crowd, seeing every person he passed, but trying to keep his eyes from studying any one. He saw a gray topcoat and a pair of brown pants in front of the newsstand and started that way. The man turned around. He was colored.

He continued toward the newsstand, toward another gray topcoat and brown trousers which had just bought a paper. This man was the right build, the right size. He looked toward Anderson and put one hand in his coat pocket, and Anderson fought an impulse to reach inside his coat. The stranger shrugged and pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He rolled a cigarette across his lips, and Anderson had the look he needed. There was no gun on him.

He passed a line of commuters before a ticket window and counted three men in gray topcoats and brown trousers, all too heavy. Another line held two of this combination, and one of these brought Anderson into the line, until he got close enough to see the man�s red hair beneath his hat.

He passed the ticket windows and went upstairs to the second deck. When he looked back toward the lower floor it seemed as if half the men he could see were brown and gray. He saw the legs of a man dozing on a bench, and thought of Paddy. Some nagging thought tugged at a reluctant drawer in his memory, and his neck prickled as it had when he had found Paddy on the roof. What�s eating you? he thought. Have you got something? What is it?

He shook his head. Try to think while you�re watching several hundred moving people. See a gray topcoat, look at the legs beneath it. Multiply the number of people by two, and you�ll have the number of legs. Divide by two, and you�ll come up with the number of pairs of trousers. Stop it! He�s here somewhere. Find him.

The thought he was searching for came to the surface now, sudden and unexpected, and he cursed himself for a fool. A terrible excitement trembled in his chest, and he quickly cast his glance through the ranks of moving people again. The tremor in his chest ran out into his hands, and he started back down the stairs.

There was his man! Coming out of the washroom, walking by a row of luggage lockers. Walking toward the rear street entrance!

Anderson started across the station, lifting his head above the crowd, looking briefly toward the doors in and out of the place. Now they were coming in, from almost every entrance. Some of them he recognized as friends, others only by something which gave them away to his trained eye. He counted six in fewer seconds, all plainclothes men. Short had been smart enough not to let a uniformed cop inside. They were searching the crowd now as he had searched it, quietly, competently, and inconspicuously.

Now he saw Short himself, a heavy, tired-looking man who might have been wondering if his train was on time. Anderson lifted his hand above his head and watched Short�s head swing his way immediately.

Anderson nodded sharply and watched the Captain start to drift toward him through the crowd. He saw Bemis push through the swinging door which led to the outside cab stands, and followed him. He looked back over his shoulder, and saw Short casually elbow another policeman and bring this fellow through the crowd with him.

He went through the outside door behind Bemis, and stood for a moment beneath the long overhang covering a dozen cab stands. He saw people standing in line for taxis, and for a frantic instant thought that Bemis was gone. Then he saw him halfway along the platform, fourth in line behind one of the yellow tin cab signs.

He heard the swinging door swish behind him, and knew that Short and the other man were on the platform. He moved along, past a dozen people waiting for cabs with no knowledge that an armed madman stood in their midst. Anderson thought of these people, and walked past John Bemis, sensing the madman�s eyes upon him as he passed. From the corner of his eye he saw Bemis� hands jammed deep into his coat pockets � Paddy�s coat pockets.

Anderson took five more paces and whirled about. �Bemis!� he shouted. �I�m going to get you!� He dug under his coat with his right hand, and watched Bemis� coat pocket lift and point at him.

He saw Short�s heavy figure closing in behind Bemis, and when he thought the split-moment of time had come he threw himself flat on the concrete platform. He heard the crash of the madman�s shot, heard it sing by and smash into the wall above him, and then dared to lookup.

Short had one thick arm about the madman�s neck, his other hand clamped upon the smouldering cloth about Bemis� pocket. The detective with the Captain grabbed Bemis� wrist, did something fast with his hands, and stepped away with the madman�s gun. In the struggle, Bemis� coat came off his shoulders and his hat fell to the walk.

Anderson got to his feet, seeing Bemis twist in the Captain�s grasp, his eyes rolling with helpless fright. Then, as suddenly, the madman stopped struggling, dropped his head on his chest, and began to cry. Short released him, and the other policeman handcuffed him. He resisted no more, and continued to cry. Short shook his head, his face gray, finally looking away from the weeping man beside him. His eyes softened as he looked at Anderson.

�That was nice,� he said. �Paddy would have liked what you did for the people here.�

Anderson nodded and stepped forward. He bent and picked up the light blue hat which had fallen from the madman�s head. He brushed it off and held it almost tenderly, and Captain Short nodded in recognition. �So that�s how?�

Anderson gestured meaninglessly. �Just last night he won it from me. I should have remembered it sooner.� He looked at Bemis� writhing hands and grief-twisted face, and suddenly felt an anger which was an actual pain within him. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

�Get away from him, Don,� Short said. �You�ve had enough.�

Anderson nodded numbly and turned away, walking stiff legged back into the station, trying to put it all behind him. He walked alone within himself, sure there was nothing he could do, nothing to bring Paddy back. He saw people passing by as if nothing had happened, and silently damned each of them.

He knew they would never know how lucky they were, and as suddenly knew that there was something he could do. One thing. He could pass Paddy along to them. Through himself and the Irishman�s son. He could tell the boy and make him understand. It wouldn�t be easy with the mother knowing how Paddy had felt about Don Anderson. But he could do it. He would have to do it.

Luis and Danny talked and talked. Came to an alley. And then there was no talk at all.

Two months ago if he�d told any of the old gang that he wanted to cut out and get home so he could do his homework, they�d have thought he turned loco, lost his marbles, they�d have laughed him clean out of the neighborhood. Two months ago he, too, would have thought he was flipping his lid if he�d found himself looking upon schoolwork as anything more than a pain in the right breast. But things were different now. The old neighborhood, the gang, the cops, they were all things of the past. And he was glad his mother and father had decided to pack up and move from the city when they had, and he was grateful to them, and he wanted to show them he had ambition to be somebody, that he appreciated all they were doing for him.

He smiled with satisfaction now and began to whistle softly as he adjusted the schoolbooks he was holding and started down the steps of the six-month old high school building.

He stopped suddenly as he crossed an expanse of lawn speckled with autumn leaves, his eyes catching sight of the young man leaning against the fender of a car parked up ahead. He looked at him and felt a sudden chill stab through his spine despite the fact that he was wearing a heavy woolen jacket, and he did not want to believe that the small, dark-haired youth casually smoking a cigarette and eyeing him steadily was Luis Anaya. He gaped at the black leather jacket with its brass zippers and shiny snap fasteners, and then his gaze shifted back to the taut expression on the bony, acne-scarred face. Warily he shifted his school books to his left hand. And he asked himself, what the hell is Luis doing way out here?

All at once a thought flashed across his mind like a bomb burst, and he felt that he knew why Luis was there. It made him tremble a little. But that�s silly, he thought. Christ, that�s silly. I�m not in the gang anymore, not since we moved away. Those guys knew I wanted out, and I bet they were glad to get rid of me, too, just as glad as I was to shake them, get them off my back. He began walking again, staring hard, trying to tell himself that it wasn�t really Luis at all, just a guy that looked like Luis. Christ, lots of guys wear black leather...

It was Luis Anaya, all right.

He bit on his lower lip nervously. Hesitantly, he continued walking right up to Luis. His body felt weak, drained, as he stood there and watched Luis nonchalantly take a last, long pull on the cigarette and flip it away, pulling back his upper lip over gleaming white teeth and letting the smoke spill out in one thick stream. Luis did not move. He retained his slouched position, tilted his head to one side and looked up at him. Luis could make a guy nervous as hell with that look.

At last Danny�s throat found voice, and he tried to hold it even, and casual.

�Hello, Luis.�

Luis� dark eyes travelled the length of him, then finally fixed on his face again.

�Hiya, Danny boy,� Luis answered, his voice high-pitched, almost like a girl�s.

But it was a fooler, because hearing that voice, and seeing the size of him, a guy was tempted to get cocky and try to push Luis around, and that would be a big mistake. Lots of guys found that out, the hard way. Luis was a guy you couldn�t finish off, short of killing him. It wasn�t like pounding hell out of a guy in a street fight and that was the end of it. Not with Luis. He was fast and he was wiry as a panther, but he could be taken, especially if a guy was strong and had a good solid punch, and was a good head taller than Luis, like Danny was. You could drop Luis, but he would come back. You could drop him again, and he would come back again. He would always come back. Maybe you could even walk away from the brawl with Luis sprawled on the street, his face all battered to hell, and thinking you�d shown this guy who was top man, but you�d be wrong. You�d be dead wrong because the fight was never over until Luis won. He carried his hatred for you around inside him like a vendetta, and he�d wait for you, patiently, until he thought the time was right and then he�d get you. He�d get you when you least expected it. That�s what he enjoyed, getting you when you didn�t know it was coming. And he�d get you just enough to let you know it was a big mistake you made messing with Luis Anaya, and you didn�t go yelling to the cops, either, because you knew that Luis would always be waiting, and if you think you can beat a crazy hop-head like that go ahead and try it.

Danny was glad he�d never tangled with Luis.

�Nice to see you, Luis,� he said, trying to make it sound genuine.

�Same here, Danny.�

�Uh � what�re you doing way out here?�

Luis smiled weirdly. �It�s a free country, ain�t it?�

�Sure. Sure,� Danny said agreeably, wanting to stay on good terms, but also wanting to know what Luis was up to. He was damn sure Luis hadn�t come just for a social visit. �I was just wondering, that�s all. You coining all the way out here from the city...�

�I got lonesome. I said, �Luis, it�s time you went to see your good friend, Danny, in the country�.� Luis paused, shrugging and spreading his hands before him. �And here I am.�

Danny shifted his weight uneasily. �That�s nice of you, Luis. Uh � how�d you know I was here, at the school?�

�Now, what kind of a question is that to ask?� Luis said, his face mocking a hurt expression. �I found out. Wanting to see you and all, I found out.�

�You didn�t go to my house, did you?�

�Say, what�s eating you, anyway?�

�Nothing, why?�

�You look nervous.�

�No. I ain�t nervous.�

�You sure?�

��Course I�m sure. What�s there to be nervous about?� Danny tried to shrug casually. �Just wondering how you found out where I was, you not knowing the neighborhood or any of the kids out here.�

Luis straightened and dug his hands into the angular slash of his blue jeans pockets. �All right. If it bothers you so much. I went to your house and your old lady told me you weren�t home from school yet. So I asked a guy where the school was and he told me.� Luis paused and cocked his head to one side. �What�s the matter, you ashamed I went to your new house?�

�No. Of course not, Luis.�

�Maybe you don�t like the idea your old lady meeting one of your old buddies, huh?�

�Hell, no.�

�You don�t act so glad to see me.�

�I�m glad to see you, Luis.�

Luis grinned a little and pulled a package of cigarettes out of his pocket. �Nice joint you got there, Danny. Real nice.� He extended the package to Danny and Danny took a cigarette, bending his face down to Luis� cupped hands and accepting the light. He hoped Luis hadn�t seen the trembling of his hand.

�It�s nothing fancy,� Danny said, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs. �But it�s better...�

�Better than those rat traps uptown, eh, Danny?�

�Anything�d be better than those dumps.�

�Yeah. Sure. Guess you�re glad to get away from the bums who live in those dumps, too, eh, Danny? Bums like me and...�

�I didn�t say that, Luis.�

Luis dragged on his cigarette and stared up at the good-looking blond kid, and Danny felt he saw hate, and resentment in those hard, black eyes. Danny swallowed, and clenched his jaws, and bunched his jacket collar up around his neck.

�Your old man musta finally hit a winner, huh, Danny?�

�Huh?�

�The horses, I mean. He musta caught a bundle. Moving out here, and buying a house and all, that takes a lot of gold.�

�No. No, he don�t do that no more.�

�No horses?� Luis said, his brows hiking abruptly. �You must be kidding.�

�I ain�t kidding.�

�Jesus, next thing you�ll be telling me he don�t hit the bottle no more, neither.�

�He don�t. He give that up, too.�

�Come on, what kind of snow job you trying to pull on me, anyway?�

�I ain�t snowing you, Luis. I mean it.�

�How�d your old man swing it then?� Luis asked sullenly. �He rob a bank or something?�

�He got a job in one of those factories that make parts for airplanes.�

Luis laughed. �What the hell does your old man know about making airplanes?�

�You don�t have to know about airplanes in order to work there.�

�No? What�s he do?�

�He has charge of the scrap aluminum. He collects it and��

�A junkman, huh?�

�Well, no, not exactly��

�If he�s not a junkman then what�s he doing collecting junk?�

�Well, he�s in charge of��

�King of the junk pile, right?�

�No, he��

�Look, Danny, anybody who collects junk is a junkman, isn�t he?�

�But he isn�t that kind of��

�What�s the matter, you too high class to admit your old man�s a junkman?�

�No, I��

�Well, then don�t talk in circles, Danny boy. Just come right out and say your old man�s a junkman.�

Danny thought, Jesus, what�s he riding me for? What�s he got against my old man? If the son of a bitch�s trying to needle me, I�ve got to keep my head and just not get needled, that�s all. Play it cool. Maybe I�m just nervous, about what happened and all. Sure. Maybe I am talking in circles. When you get right down to it, I guess my old man is a junkman, and I guess Luis is all confused, my telling him he collects scrap and then saying he�s not a junkman.

Either that or he�s trying to confuse me. Yeah. A slick tongue, this Luis. Got to play it cool. Can�t afford to get confused.

�You�re right, Luis,� Danny said appeasingly, �my old man�s a junkie. I never thought much about it before and I...�

�A junkie?� Luis said, his eyes widening abruptly, his face mimicking astonishment. �I didn�t know your old man was on the stuff, Danny.�

�He isn�t.�

�But you just said he was a junkie.�

�Yeah, hut��

�All right, so he�s a junkie.�

�That�s not what I meant and you know it.�

�I don�t know what�s the matter with you, Danny boy. You keep talking in circles. Say what you mean, boy.�

�Cut it, Luis! You trying to get me sore or something?�

Luis narrowed his dark eyes, his lips drawing back tightly over his teeth. �Why? You getting sore, Danny? You getting sore at me, Danny?�

Hold it, Danny thought. Jesus, let�s hold it. Let�s not fly off the handle because that�s obviously what he wants me to do. But why? Jesus, why? If he�s got something on his mind, why don�t he come right out and spill it? Why don�t he stop breaking my back? He likes this cat and mouse stuff. He loves it. He just eats it up and I�ve got to keep my head.

�Nah, I�m not getting sore, Luis. I know you�re just kidding.� Danny quickly changed the subject. �How�d you come out, Luis, on the Long Island?�

�Why take one of those crummy trains when I�ve got myself a real good car?�

�Yeah? You really got a car?�

Luis pushed himself off the fender lithely. �Sure,� he said, kicking the front tire. �Whitewalls, too. You like it?�

Danny looked at the black sedan, and he shuddered as he recognized it. He didn�t say anything. He knew what the inside looked like, too, even though it was close to dark now, the sky a cold, dismal dark gray, and the windows of the car so dirty you couldn�t see through them.

�You like it, Danny?� Luis repeated.

He nodded weakly.

�You recognize it, don�t you, Danny? Sure. You�ve been in it enough times. You remember Valles� car, don�t you? Pete Valles? You remember Pete Valles, too, don�t you, Danny? It�s been more than two months, but you couldn�t forget good ole Pete, could you, Danny boy?�

�Look, Luis, it�s getting late...�

�Only Pete don�t need the car no more, Danny, so I bought it from his old lady. Pete don�t need any car where he is. Up there they got crazy ideas that a guy don�t need a car. They got bars and they got a big wall around the joint and they figure a guy don�t need��

�It�s really late, Luis, and my mother��

��Course Pete�s got company though, so I guess he don�t get too lonesome. There�s Tony Collingo, and Solly Aranoff, and Carlos...�

Danny looked down at the sidewalk, unable to hold Luis� gaze. He blinked his eyes as Luis rattled off the names, an aching lump swelling in the back of his throat.

�...Chavez. Yeah, Pete�s got company, all right. Four guys up for five years. Five guys gone, including you, Danny. But you ain�t in no cage are you, Danny? You got a sweet set-up in the country, and you��

�It... it�s dark, Luis. I�ve got to be getting home.�

Luis lighted another cigarette and shoved one at Danny, but this time Danny shook his head. �It won�t be dark for a good half half hour yet, Danny,� Luis said, flicking his eyes up and down the street.

�All the same, my mother��

�Come on, you�re a big boy now, Danny. We used to stay out a hell of a lot later than this, didn�t we?�

�Things have changed. My father gets home at seven now, and... and he don�t like it when I�m not there.�

�Okay,� Luis said tersely, flipping his cigarette and stuffing his hands into his pockets again. He stood up close to the bigger boy, his eyes fixed squarely on Danny�s. �I�ll walk you.�

It was an order. Luis hadn�t shouted, or cursed, or looked particularly angry when he said it, but Danny knew it was an order. He didn�t know how he could get out of it.

�Uh � what about the car?� Danny asked.

�What about it?�

�You going to leave it here?�

�Sure. Your place isn�t far.�

�I know, but...�

�Nobody�s going to steal it, are they?�

�Well, no, but...�

�Nobody steals anything out here in the country, do they, Danny? Everybody�s nice and they love each other and a guy�d rather be dead than steal anything, isn�t that right, Danny?�

The bastard, he thought. The lousy bastard.

But he didn�t want Luis to get started on one of those kicks again, so he didn�t answer. Luis was going to walk him and that�s all there was to it. Nothing short of physical violence was going to keep Luis from sticking with him until he was good and ready to leave. He could have told Luis to go to hell right there, and to stop bothering him and go back to where he belonged, maybe flatten him, too, with a couple of good solid punches. But Luis was an expert with the knife, and he was undoubtedly carrying it now. And even if he could stop Luis from using it, there was later to think about. Luis was the guy who never forgot, and what was the sense in starting something and afterwards being afraid to turn a corner, or go near a dark alley, for fear that this hot-headed bastard would be waiting for him with a switch knife?

Unless...

Unless he stopped Luis permanently. That was the only way to really be rid of Luis. Fix him good, once and�

No, he thought. Jesus, what am I thinking? That�d be worse, that�d be worse for everybody. And what the hell am I getting myself all worked up about anyway? Hell, you don�t start fighting with a guy just because he wants to walk you home. Better to humor the guy, he reasoned, and let him get his beef off his chest, and maybe he�d go away friendly.

�Sure, Luis,� Danny said, �Anything you say.�

They began walking just as the street lights went on, and Danny saw Luis glance at the shiny, spun-aluminum lamp post and nod his head up and down in that funny gesture of his as if he were saying, �Slick stuff. Not bad. Not bad at all.� Danny looked around anxiously as they walked, wondering where everybody was, and then he remembered that it was Friday night and all the guys had hurried home so they�d have time to get dressed up and pick up their dates for the school dance later that evening. He had to get dressed, too, and there was this cute chick, Sally, he was supposed to call for by seven-thirty, and he wished Luis�d get off his back and go home because he didn�t want to be late. As they reached the corner, a husky kid about Danny�s size came hurrying along. He stopped when he saw Danny.

�Hi, Danny.�

�Hello, Frank. See you at the dance?�

�No. I�m not going. I promised my Dad I�d give him a hand finishing off the attic tonight.�

�We figure on starting ours in the spring.�

�That�s a good time to work on it. Pretty cold up there now,� Frank said, eyeing Luis inquisitively.

�Oh,� Danny said, �this is my friend Luis.�

�Hi, Luis.�

Luis nodded.

�Well, I�ve got to shove off, Danny. See you at football practice tomorrow.�

�Okay, Frank.�

�So long.�

�So long, Frank,� Danny said reluctantly, wanting to tell Frank to suck around because this guy Luis wasn�t really his friend. Suck around, Frank, because this guy�s a hop-head and he�s great with the knife and I don�t trust him one goddamn bit. But Frank was gone, and anyhow, he sure would have sounded like a jerk coming right out and saying a thing like that about a little guy like Luis. Frank would have thought he was nuts.

He felt peculiarly alone, and panicky inside.

�What�s with this dance bit, Danny?�

�Huh? Oh... the Fall Dance. Tonight. That�s why I have to��

�Any meat?�

�Well, I... I don�t know these kids well enough, Luis. I mean, I�ve only been out here two months.�

�What�s the matter with you, Danny boy? You used to be able to size up a broad in nothing flat.�

�Yeah,� Danny laughed nervously. �I guess I�ve gone stale.�

�Must be all this fresh air, huh?�

�Yeah. I guess so.�

�Maybe I�ll drop around.�

�Huh?�

�To the dance, Danny. You know I always go for a shin-dig.�

�Well, I don�t know, Luis. You see, you have to have a ticket and a date, and��

�Ticket? Hell, you know I don�t buy any tickets, Danny.�

�Well, the teachers�ll be there and��

�I ought be able to find me a date out of all those broads, huh?�

�Look, Luis, you can�t go barging��

�What�s the matter, you think I ain�t high class enough for this joint?�

�No, it ain�t that, Luis. I��

�Afraid I might embarrass you maybe, huh? You�re fancy stuff now, and you think I might embarrass you. Ain�t that right, Danny?�

�No, it�s just��

�Let�s get a beer,� Luis said, nodding his head toward a saloon crowded among a group of dilapidated-looking stores.

Danny sucked in a deep breath and gripped his schoolbooks tightly. �Gee, I don�t know, Luis,� he said as they approached the dingy, cafe-curtained window. �They�re kind of strict out here about selling to minors.�

�By the looks of this dump, they ought to be glad to get a couple of customers.�

�I wouldn�t want to get into any trouble, Luis. Couldn�t we get a coke? There�s a candy store right over��

�Coke? You kidding? Man, I swear I don�t know what�s got into you, Danny?� Luis reached for the doorknob. �Come on.�

�Now, wait a minute, Luis��

�Jesus, I come all the way out here to see my good friend, Danny, and he does nothing but insult me. Now I want to buy him a beer and he acts like I�m dirty, or something.�

�Christ, Luis, why do you always�?�

�You too clean to have a beer with me, Danny?�

�No.�

�Then come on.�

Danny followed him inside. The interior of the old saloon was dim-lit and greasy-looking, and neither the bartender nor the two grimy construction workers hunched over the bar paid any particular attention to them as they walked to the back and sat down in a booth facing each other.

The bartender, a balding, stocky man, sauntered over after they were seated, wiping his hands on an apron that looked long overdue for the laundry.

�Kind of young, aren�t you boys?�

�You want to stand there and guess how old we are,� Luis said, �or you going to do what you�re here for and get us a couple of beers?�

�How old are you boys?�

�We just applied for social security, okay?�

�You look pretty young to me.�

�That�s �cause we live a clean life. All this fresh air, you know.�

�You�ve got spunk haven�t you, wise guy?�

Luis sneered and slapped a dollar bill on the table. �I got money, too. Or maybe you want we should take our business elsewhere.�

The bartender shrugged, and Danny was surprised when he picked up the dollar and brought the two beers and Luis� change without saying anything more.

�You�re a big football player now, huh, Danny?� Luis said, lifting the glass to his mouth.

�Not exactly,� Danny answered, fidgeting with the beer glass, not feeling like drinking.

�You�re on the team, aren�t you?�

�No, not��

�This guy, Frank, said he�d see you at football practice tomorrow, didn�t he?�

�Yeah, but��

�Then that means you�re on the team, otherwise he wouldn�t ask you to do nothing like that, right?�

�He didn�t mean to say practice. It�s really just tryouts. I�m just��

�Jesus, what gives with everybody around here, anyway? Don�t anybody ever say what they mean?�

�You keep twisting everything, Luis. I�m trying to explain��

�Look, you on the team or not?�

�No.�

�Then why�re you going to practice tomorrow?�

Danny fought to control his temper. It was obvious to him now what Luis was up to. Sure. Luis was trying to needle him into starting something. Maybe so�s he�d have a chance to use that knife of his. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was six-thirty and all at once he felt like getting up and just running out of there. But that�d make Luis angry, and he sure as hell would be coming back again sometime. He had to keep trying, trying to wangle his way out of this without getting Luis angry.

�Just tryouts tomorrow,� Danny said tautly, patiently. �Just tryouts.�

�Oh,� Luis said, raising his brows and feigning that he�d finally understood what Danny was talking about. �But you�ll make the team, all right, won�t you, Danny? A big, husky guy like you?�

�Maybe.�

�Sure,� Luis said, lighting a cigarette and tossing the package on the table. �Sure, you will. You�re tough, Danny, boy. You�re real��

�Knock it off, will you? I know why you�re here!� Danny wished he hadn�t put it quite that way, angrily, blunt, seeing the cold look that came into Luis� eyes. He felt he shouldn�t have said that at all and he stared down at his hands and said quickly, �Look, Luis, what I mean � those guys � Pete Valles and the others � I... I couldn�t help it. The cops had me, and I��

�The cops had me, too.�

�I know, but you�ve been in before, Luis, and this was my first time. I was scared. Scared as all hell. They had me there for six hours, questioning me, giving me the silent treatment, then questioning me again � I��

�So?�

�So they kept threatening me, and telling me they were going to put me away, and, Jesus, I didn�t have anything to do with it. You know that, Luis. You know I didn�t have anything to do with it.�

�Yeah. I heard you chickened out and took off like a little birdie.�

�Jesus, when I saw what they were doing to that poor old guy, beating him up like that for a couple of lousy bucks��

�You took off. You chickened out.�

�I was scared, I told you. I didn�t want to get mixed up in anything like that.�

�Why�d you go right to the cops.�

�I didn�t, Luis, honest. They picked me up.�

�And you sang.�

Danny fell silent, and he began to feel sweat seep from his pores. He fumbled with his hands, and then suddenly finding himself very thirsty he swallowed some beer.

�You sang your head off didn�t you, Danny?�

He didn�t answer. He stared at Luis and thought about that night the cops were questioning him and how scared he was, scared because he knew no matter which way he turned he was in big trouble. If he sang about the others, the cops would let him go, but he�d known damn well that wouldn�t have been the end of it. Not by a long shot. The gang�d have a score to settle, and sooner or later they�d get around to settling it. He remembered how helpless he felt, like the whole world was going to cave in on him, that no matter what he did he couldn�t be right. But then he�d thought about the old man and the brutal beating the others were giving him when he�d run away. He�d known then that he didn�t want any part of it. He�d realized, too, that he didn�t want any part of the gang, either. That night when the cops took him home, he�d seen something strange happen to his folks. They hadn�t said much, but the next day they�d made their decision to move away, and he�d understood. He�d understood and he was grateful.

�You pulled a sweet disappearing act after you sang, too, didn�t you, Danny?�

He clenched his fists and sat up straight in the booth. �We were getting ready to move. I had to help with the packing.�

�For two weeks?�

�That�s right. For two weeks.� Luis grinned and chain-lit a cigarette, and then looked at him slyly. �I suppose your living out in the country and all, you want out now, huh, Danny?�

�I am out.�

Luis blew a stream of smoke across the table. �Sure, Danny. Sure.�

Danny eyed him suspiciously. �What�s that supposed to mean?�

�It means sure, Danny boy. You want out, you�re out.�

�You didn�t come all the way out here just to tell me that.�

�Jesus, Danny, what do you think this is, Russia? A guy does what he wants. I�m head man until Pete gets back and I say, you want out � okay.�

�That�s a crock, Luis, and you know it. You�re sore at me. You want to settle the score, don�t you?�

�Me? Score?� Luis� face was a mask of incredulity. �Man, I swear I don�t know what�s got into you.�

Danny glanced at his watch again, and he figured if he was going to make a break, he�d better get it over with. If Luis had come for more than just talk, it would force him to show his hand. He picked up his books and slid out of the booth.

�I got to be leaving.�

�Me, too,� Luis said, getting to his feet and following Danny to the door.

They went outside and Luis smiled and said, �Walk me back to the car, huh, Danny?�

�I go the other way.�

�Okay. Then I�ll walk you.�

Danny clenched his teeth and began walking, warily. It was dark now and he walked close to the store fronts, staying in the light, his muscles tense, his nerves edgy, watching Luis out of the corner of his eye and wondering when Luis was going to make his move.

�How come you�re so quiet all of a sudden, Danny? You ain�t worried or anything, are you?�

He didn�t answer, just kept walking and watching Luis.

�You gas me, Danny. Man, you really gas me. Like I said, this ain�t Russia, you know. A guy does��

It was a quick move, a calculated move. Luis sprang at Danny, shoving him off balance into the narrow alley between the stores. But Danny�d seen it coming and ran deeper into the alley until he slammed into some garbage pails. As he whirled around, he heard the click and saw the flash of the blade. He reached behind him for a lid from one of the garbage pails, holding it like a shield as Luis circled him, feinting jabs with the knife.

�You wanted out, Danny boy,� Luis said softly. �Now I�m going to cut you out, but good.�

Danny held the cover before him, turning and keeping his eyes glued to the blade. He wanted to get that knife away from Luis, so he swallowed against his fear as he dropped the cover, exposing himself.

Luis lunged at the opening and Danny sidestepped, whipping his books around and slamming them down hard against Luis� arm. That knocked the knife out of Luis� hand and Danny caught him with a left flush on the face that sent him reeling back. Danny dropped his books as he dove for the knife, grabbed it, and then he spun around suddenly with the knife gripped in his fist, the point of its blade forward, as he heard Luis curse and come charging at him.

He tried to pull himself out of the way, but Luis was already up against him, and then he heard the gasp come from Luis� throat and he felt the sticky warmth that ran over his fist and began trickling down his wrist. Danny let go of the knife handle and took a couple of quick steps back. He stared as he saw Luis sink slowly, become an unmoving lump at his feet. He stared like that for a long moment, feeling helpless, and confused, like that night at the police station when he didn�t know which way to turn. He felt exhausted and bewildered.

He wondered if he really ever would be �out,� as he walked slowly, mechanically, to the end of the alley to call the cops.

The disgrace had to be wiped out. In blood if necessary. After all, a Raven deb had been insulted!

The rest of the gang is already there when Satch and me comes down the steps. Our clubroom is in a basement. It�s been a dull day, but right off I know things are going to start picking up. Patdo is mad as hell. He meets us at the foot of the steps.

�What�s wrong with you, punk?� he wants to know. �When I call A Council of War, I don�t want no slackers.�

�Well, we�re here ain�t we?� Satch says off-handedly. That Satch is a cool stud. He ain�t big, but he don�t scare easily. Satch ain�t too bright.

The whole gang is there. Duke, Hammerhead, Tony, the works. Even Madge and a couple of her Debs. Everybody is alike. Black leather jackets and T-shirts, blue-jeans tucked into motorcycle boots. The uniform of the Ravens.

I can see it�s going to be a real cool evening. Somebody passes a bottle of cheap wine. We all drink. Even the Debs. I feel better. I relax. I look at Madge and start having thoughts.

She�s a spitfire with black-eyes, black hair. A real cute skirt. Only it�s hands off. She�s Patdo�s girl and leader of the Debutantes � our auxiliary.

The Debs are our skirts. We dance together, and they hang around our club. They don�t mess with a stud unless he�s a Raven. The rest of the punks lay off. Madge is mad. So is Patdo. I know something is up. Patdo holds his hand up for silence. We cut the lip and pay attention. Patdo is leader of the Ravens. He clears his throat and looks around.

�We�re going to have a rumble,� he says. There is quiet in the basement. �It�s them lousy Seminoles. They insulted one of the Debs. We�re disgraced. Nobody � nobody, in the Ravens has ever been disgraced before, and no Raven ever will. You get what I mean?� He looks around. We nod. We understand. One of our girls has been insulted. That means the Ravens have been insulted. You don�t get away with that. The Ravens are hard � real hard.

�When�s it going to be?� Satch speaks up.

�Now � tonight,� Patdo says. �Tonight we�re going to give it to them. We meet back here at eight sharp. Don�t forget to bring your artillery, and you punks who have rods, drive �em.� The meeting is over. I stop Duke on the way out.

�Who got insulted?� I ask. He says it was Madge. Yeah, it�s going to be a real cool evening.

Satch and me walk around the block to the pool room. He�s rolled a drunk the night before, and has a dollar in change. We play a few games of pool, and buy a pack of Camels. Then we order a round of beer. It�s still early. Satch is all keyed up about the rumble, so he ain�t interested in a show. Another beer finishes his money. We�re broke.

�What�s to a walk out to the city dump?� Satch says. �I want to get me a piece of pipe. It makes a good clobber.�

We walk out to the dump. I like Satch. He�s as good as gold.

We meet back at the clubroom on the dot. The place is teeming. Some of the Debs are there, but they stay put. We ain�t pairing off tonight. We got work to do. Patdo gives us a quick run-down. Usually when there�s to be a rumble, the commander-in-chief of the two gangs meet to decide where it will be held. Sometimes it�s in the park. Sometimes at the city dump. Only tonight it�s going to be different. We�re going to drive right down to 4th Street and teach them bastards a lesson.

Our spies have cased their meeting place. It�s a basement like ours, and there�s going to be a dance going on when we get there. We laughed. They wouldn�t be expecting us.

We move out of the clubroom and load into our rods. Me and Satch pile into Duke�s rod with several others. One of the gang has a bottle of peach brandy, and we take turns pulling at it. Duke turns the car radio on full blast and it�s really cool. We snap our fingers to a rock and roll and start feeling real good. Satch keeps slapping the palm of his hand with the piece of lead pipe he�s carrying. He�s spoiling for a fight. So is the rest of us. We are all armed to the teeth. I have a switchblade and a pair of knucks made out of a length of chain. Duke has a .22 target pistol. We�re loaded for bear.

We drive through the main drag of town at a cool eighty, and take the curves on two wheels. We�re like a convoy going through town. There must have been eight or nine rods headed for 4th Street.

We ain�t long getting there. There is a lamp-post right in front of the Seminole�s club, and we spot several of them lounging out front under it. They�re smoking and passing a bottle. They spot us and try to make a break for it. We don�t wait for the rods to come to a complete stop before we start piling out. We�re on �em like a pack of tomcats.

I rap the chain around my fist as I pick out one who is trying to get back in the clubroom. He don�t make it. I grab him by the shoulder, spin him around, and belt him right in the kisser. He screams as the chain rips out flesh and teeth. He falls down the stairs. What was once a mouth is now a bloody hole. I really laugh.

The Seminoles try to get up the stairs. We�re waiting for them. They drop back, and we crowd into their clubroom. There are skirts there. They start screaming. A record player is putting out with some song in the corner, but it�s drowned out by curses and the sound of flesh beating flesh. The Seminoles are really cooking.

A big fat slop starts rumpusing with me. I give him a crack on the cheek, and the chain cuts out a hunk of flesh. But fat boy don�t go down. He lands a punch that almost knocks my head off. I hit the floor on all fours. I start to get up, but this Seminole skirt comes out of no-place and kicks me in the guts. I double up in pain. I try to straighten, and this time I almost get her foot rammed down my throat. I get mad. I don�t usually hit skirts see, but I�m real mad. I jump up and belt her one. She moans and hits the floor. She�s bleeding like a stuck pig.

Fat boy moves in. He�s got murder in his eyes. I duck a blow and belt him one high on the forehead. He staggers, but that�s all. I�m scared. Fat boy is tough. Real tough. I throw the chain away and go for my switchblade. Fat boy hits me again, and I can almost hear the bones in my nose break. I�m bleeding like hell. It hurts. He�s on me. I�ve got to use it.

�Oh, my God!� Fat boy squalls, reaching with his two hands at the blubber hanging over his belt. I�m scared, but make myself laugh. I tell myself I gave him some of his own medicine. But now I wish I�d stuck to using that chain or shouted for us to get out of there sooner.

The place is in an uproar, but I can hear them. Police sirens away off, but coming close. It don�t take no brains to figure what�s happened. Somebody�s called the cops.

Fat boy is on the floor. We head for the steps. Then I see Satch.

He�s down on his knees in a corner. Some bastard got him with a knife. I watch for a second, fascinated, a cold chill in me. Then Satch falls forward on his face, and I know he�s done for it. Just like I know about Fat boy. I get out on the street and pile into the nearest rod. The sirens are screaming their heads off. We get out of there in a hurry.

Back at our club we break up to make our alibis. The cops are sure to ask questions. I don�t feel good. Even a pretty Deb don�t help. She keeps asking about the fight. I want to forget. I�ve stopped bleeding, but my nose ain�t never going to look the same. I keep thinking about Satch. I�m going to miss him. He sure went down in a blaze of glory. The gang is pretty beaten up, but it will be a long time before anybody disgraces a Raven again.

Madge and Patdo walk by. I stop her. I want to know how she was insulted. She makes a face like she�s still mad.

�One of them Seminole bastards winked at me,� she says.

I stabbed her nine times. Naturally, I thought I was rid of her.

There�s a great deal of blood. He kept staring at it and Julia�s body and saying that to himself. I never expected her to bleed like this. A butcher, that�s what I am. A butcher.

Well, what did you expect from nine stabbings? he asked himself.

I went out of my head. I couldn�t help it. The first one slid in so easily, I just went out of my head and hit her again and again...

He picked up the knife that lay at her side. The knife once used as a kitchen implement; and now, in his hand, dripping wet and glistening. A murder weapon.

Don�t make excuses. I know you hated her, but after all wasn�t this slightly overdone?

Can�t you understand? I just went out of my head.

But look at the mess you made, he answered himself.

Messes can be cleaned up. She was a mess. I cleaned her up and now I have another mess. You can�t win. Silly isn�t it?

Nobody�s laughing.

No, of course not. This is really tragic. He shook the knife and some of the blood flung to the floor.

I suppose I should wash it and put it away.

Oh, yes. Let�s be methodical. First you were sloppy and now you�re clean and neat.

Oh shut up. He washed the knife carefully and put it in the drawer. There, he said. That�s done.

He bent over Julia�s body and almost touched her with his hand. He thought better of it and stopped.

This is really funny. Now you�re afraid to touch her.

He fumed slightly. With his foot, he eased the inert frame until it settled on its back and the heavy breasts beneath the print housecoat spread themselves flatter and the arms slipped to the sides. There was a gash in her throat and a few on her breasts and stomach. She was covered with blood.

I wish now I hadn�t got so carried away, he said. I feel cold all over.

How about a shot of bourbon?

An excellent idea.

He poured himself a stiff one from a bottle in the pantry. He shuddered after he drank.

Feel better?

A little.

I suggest you finish this grisly job before you drink too much, though.

It isn�t grisly.

Oh come now.

He set the glass down hard. Why don�t you leave then if this is grisly?

I�m an accessory after the fact so I better stay. Anyhow, I may have some suggestions as to the disposition of this mountain of flesh.

You didn�t like Julia either.

No more than you.

No man had a worse Nemesis.

Take hold of yourself. Self-pity at this stage is suicide.

You�re right. He sat down on a kitchen chair.

That�s it. Relax. The worst is over. She�s dead and now all you have to do is get rid of Julia�s body.

I thought I was rid of her when I killed her.

He laughed. Julia is evidently playing hard to get rid of.

He looked down at the flaccid face, like so much unrestricted dough. To think I once kissed that ugly mass. I held her to me. I feel like vomiting.

Get hold of yourself. You can�t crack up now.

I know, I know.

Well, do it.

Yes. He sighed. He slapped his palms on his knees and stood up. What would you suggest?

Get out of here and leave her as she is.

What?

Just get out of here.

But why?

Can�t you see? What you did to Julia had been building up a long time, right?

Years.

Everybody knew you hated her.

I guess so. I never tried to hide it.

The murder was premeditated then, they�ll say.

I guess so.

You didn�t plan her death. You got angry and went at her with the knife. For all your seeming intelligence, you sure pulled a blunder.

What are you driving at?

If you had thought of a plan instead of letting your emotions pile up so that you stabbed her nine rimes, your problem would have resolved itself.

Do you have to keep reminding me that I stabbed her nine rimes?

Will you keep your voice down?

I�m not shouting!

Yes, you are shouting.

All right so I�m shouting.

I�m trying to help you, but I don�t think you realize it.

Well, then help.

For the third time, get out of here.

And leave Julia there?

I don�t suggest wearing her around your neck like a muffler.

He grimaced. Don�t talk like that.

Sorry.

I can�t very well leave her like that.

The longer you stand here arguing the less your chances are of getting away. Since Julia�s death is so obviously murder; and since you so obviously hated her, it would be simpler than adding two and two to the police.

But if I get rid of the body, I�d be in the clear. They can�t convict you of murder when there isn�t any body.

How do you propose of disposing of two hundred pounds of Julia? She could barely carry it around herself.

He laughed. That�s very funny.

Since you acted on pure instinct, you may as well keep on that track and instinctively run.

And not dispose of Julia?

No.

You�re crazy.

It was a suggestion. You don�t have to follow it.

I�m not.

What did you have in mind?

Nothing definitely. But I do know I have to get rid of Julia�s body.

How?

I�ll think of something.

Give me an example.

He thought a little. I know, he said finally. I�ll wrap her up in my old army blanket and tie weights onto her and I�ll drive down to the river and dump her in. He smiled and felt very pleased with himself.

And after that, what are you going to do?

Do? I don�t know. Get some sleep. Lord knows I could use some sleep.

After you drop Julia off, will you run away?

I don�t know. I haven�t decided.

I think you should.

Why does my running away mean so much?

No matter what you do about Julia, the police will know it was you who murdered her.

If I run, that will prove my guilt.

They�d sweat it out of you anyway. Police have a way of getting a confession out of a person.

I�ll never admit it.

You haven�t a chance. Your only choice in the matter is how long you can keep away from the police.

That�s ridiculous.

Oh, is it? You�re a murderer and murderers get caught.

Don�t talk like that, will you?

It�s the truth.

Like hell it is.

As an accessory after the fact, I can�t afford to get caught either.

He considered the logic of that. Yes, of course. If you think it best, then I�ll leave.

Good.

But not until I get rid of Julia�s body.

We�ll compromise on that score. Go ahead and dispose of her.

You won�t help?

In an advisory capacity only.

All right. He went to the attic and rummaged through the big cardboard box that contained his old army gear. He came back down with a blanket, and a web belt with a holster and a packet of two clips attached to it.

What�s that? he asked himself.

My old forty-five. I feel better with it near me. He drew the gun from its holster, shoved in a clip and slipped it under the waistband of his trousers.

He spread the blanket over Julia�s body and tucked it under her. He straddled it and heaved it over on its stomach so the blanket was now underneath. Then he overlapped the ends and straightened up.

Now to get some line from the garage.

In the garage he uncoiled about thirty feet of clothesline and cut it with the pruning shears. He looked around at the walls of the garage. What should I use for weights? he asked.

Any old piece of scrap metal lying around.

What about the tire rim?

For a starter. Remember how much you have to hold under the water. The memory almost sickened him again. She ate like a horse, he said.

And not a race horse, either.

She could have pulled a beer wagon. He laughed.

He collected the tire rim and an old tire jack and some lengths of pipe that had been stacked against the corner for years.

He returned to the house and tied Julia up with all but ten feet of the clothesline. He dragged her to the back door and cleaned up the blood and flushed the rags down the toilet. Then he got the car from in front and backed up the drive.

Think it�s dark enough now?

Yes.

Holding his breath to keep from grunting he pulled Julia into the back seat of the car. He put the weights in the trunk, then got in the driver�s seat and started the motor. Oh, I forgot, he said. He got out and came back with the pruning shears. Have to cut the line with something. His mind was quite clear.

He drove slowly, cautiously down residential streets. The night was still. Once on the River road he speeded up and kept it there until he got beyond the city limits.

Any place along here ought to be all right.

Yes, it looks good.

He stopped the car and jockeyed it as close to the bank as the bushes would allow. He tugged Julia out of the back seat and onto the ground. She seemed stiffer now.

With the remaining clothesline he secured the weights to her body, cutting the line in sections to accommodate them. Finally, he was done. Julia was ready for burial.

Shall I whistle taps?

You seem awfully gay for so solemn an occasion.

I can�t help myself. He bent over and rolled the package until it reached the bank. Julia hung suspended for an instant and then there was a soft splash. He felt relieved and free.

Julia is gone.

Forever.

There was a long silence.

Let�s get out of here, he told himself.

In a minute. I want to enjoy this feeling a little longer.

You�re a fool.

Am I?

A fool.

That�s very easy for you to say, isn�t it? You�ve always been coldly critical of me. Too much so, in fact.

Now I know you�re a fool. Listen to you talk. Julia is gone and the bravado in you emerges.

I�ve never felt so exhilarated. He breathed deeply and exhaled vastly and the gun dug into his stomach.

Are you coming?

When I feel like it I will. Not before. He stared down at the water where Julia lay, invisible in the depths. Rest in peace, Julia, you bitch. He threw back his head and laughed.

You�ve gone completely out of your head. Are you coming?

Shutup.

Well?

I said shutup. Just shutup. If I want you to say something I�ll tell you, so again shutup.

We�d better go.

No! I told you to shutup. Let me alone.

Can�t you be sensible? Somebody will hear you.

Damn you to utter hell! he shouted. He drew the gun, pulled back the slide and released the lock; a bullet snapped into place.

Put that gun away.

No. I won�t put the gun away and you won�t tell me to either.

You�re mad.

Mad am I? I�ll show you how mad I am. He squeezed the trigger and there was a loud noise. A burning swath cut into him and he could feel liquid running free inside him. His intestines were broiling. He dropped the gun and followed it slowly on one knee. He clutched his stomach trying to dam up the churning liquid.

What happened? he asked, bewildered.

You shot me.

Shot you? His other knee moved down and he sank to his side.

Through the stomach. Hurts doesn�t it?

Yes, it hurts.

I hate to say I told you so.

Please.

You wouldn�t listen. You had to go wild again.

Please, he said.

Killing Julia, dumping her body and now this. A perfect cycle.

I didn�t mean to.

It doesn�t matter now. You won�t live long. In a few moments you�ll be with Julia again.

Julia? She�s gone. I got rid of her. The pain oozed down his legs; they seemed to be falling asleep. No more Julia. He, too, felt sleepy.

Julia is waiting for you. You�ll soon be with her.

She�s gone I tell you. I�m rid of Julia. She�s forever gone.

She�s waiting for you.

No! She�s gone.

Say hello to Julia.

His eyes weighed a ton apiece. A warmth piled up under his clutching hands and escaped between the fingers. He pulled his head nearly to his knees and cried softly. Stay away, Julia, he said, please stay away.

Two�s company and three�s a crowd. Especially when three is a corpse.

Everything now would have been the same beautiful routine if only I had quit after the first one, but no, I had helped chip in for the bottles and I guess I had to have my money�s worth. The bottles were for the second floor office party. Everyone in the second and third floors of the building had a little office like mine. Most were one-man businesses. One guy read horoscopes for rich women, another ran a literary agency. I was doing free-lance publicity and doing all right � I was able to take care of Jeanne and the kids.

At the beginning of the party, everyone was a little formal and awkward in the conference room the tenants shared. The liquor included all the second-rate labels, the hors d�oeuvres were turning black at the edges. Lots of small talk at first, kind of dull.

I checked my watch and figured I�d get home early, spend the evening with the kids. But after two more drinks, the small talk became interesting; people began to relax a little. A couple of guys near the water cooler started to tell dirty jokes. I found myself joining in. I felt myself beginning to feel mellow.

Then this one guy started to look for women because there were only two of them around, the old maids we called them, and they didn�t count. The guy who was looking was a salesman three doors from my coop. �Let�s dig up some women,� he said waving his paper cup of scotch and water.

I was going to beg off, but swallowed the rest of the bourbon in my cup and said, �Sure, let�s go.�

He gave me a salesman�s slap on the back and we made our way out of the room to the stairway outside. �I hear there�s women on the third floor,� he said somberly.

�I guess we work on the wrong floor,� I said climbing behind him. I was beginning to feel light. I had had about nine, maybe more since the party began. I sort of floated down the hall after him doing things I wouldn�t do when sober, like knocking on all the green doors along the way and calling at the top of my lungs, �Any dames in there?�

The other guy disappeared, around a corner, knocking on doors. I wondered what the hell we would do if there were any dames inside, but I was having fun and laughing and feeling no pain.

I reached this one green door and knocked hard. �Any��

She opened the door and I checked my fist short of rapping her on the nose.

The first thing I noticed was the grey hair and the young, pretty face under it. �Well, hello,� I said, beginning to realize that I was pretty high, because when I�m sober and see a girl like that I clam up-speechless. �We... we�re having ourselves a ball downstairs,� I stammered, �and I have been appointed a committee of one to come up and bring you down... Well, would you like that?�

�I don�t know if I can leave...� she said in a real sweet voice.

�Oh, I�m sure you can.� I watched her eyes looking me over. They were deep eyes, and I didn�t know what thought they expressed, but they were looking me over and I shifted around.

�Well...� she was hesitant.

�It is a holiday,� I said and moved closer, touching her arm.

She smiled, a nice smile. �All right, Mr. Warren.�

�You know my name.� I looked at her quizzically. She shrugged, still smiling.

I felt pleased. She must have noticed me and asked the second floor receptionist. I looked her over carefully. When her hand slipped into mine it felt good. We started for the party.

It was beginning to liven up. The older guys were acting silly and the two old maids were giggling and shooting glances around, taking in everything. I spotted the salesman with a little middle-aged pixie he must have found upstairs. His face swung open when he saw my find.

She told me her name was Henny and I found out she knew how to drink. When I first saw her she was a little tense, but the liquor relaxed her quickly. We seemed to agree on everything. Some of the guys looked on mixing pleasure with envy. A few came over and made some party remark, then blew off. She stuck close to me.

The old maids watched like two hawks, figuring what a choice bit of gossip this would make the next day. But they didn�t bother me, then. I never brought Jeanne to the office anyway. You know how it is when you�re drinking... you sort of take a what-the-hell attitude. Things were going fine.

Then he came in.

I�d seen him around the corridors once in a while but never paid attention to him. I felt Henny stiffen when he entered. He looked as if he had had it. His cheeks were flushed a splotchy pink, the few traces of fuzz on his bald head were mussed up. The people who saw him come in shut up as he approached them.

�What�s the matter?� he asked roughly.

Henny started downing her drink fast.

�You do not like me,� the bald guy said and I noticed that he had a trace of a foreign accent � maybe French. �I am a foreigner, huh? Pah on you and you and all of you!� Seeing Henny, he spun around to us. He smiled the dirtiest, lousiest smile I ever saw in my life.

She moved a bit closer to me as he wobbled over to us. �Ah � what a delightful � dish to set before the king, you know.� He was struggling for his words, trying hard to be smooth but stammering and getting hard to be smooth but stammering and getting lost. He held a bottle in one hand, one of the bottles we all paid for. �You are � charming,� he said to Henny and sneered. I saw his hand working up, the hand with the bottle. He was going to pinch her cheek and it seemed as if it took him hours to get there, struggling to keep the bottle in his hand and trying to form his fingers to pinch at the same time. Just before he touched her face, I pushed his hand down. Henny stood there like a statue. I could feel her breathing hard. He struggled to save the bottle.

�You are a moron � you... you.� As he spoke he blew saliva over my face. �I am � I do not take this from your kind.�

I had enough. His bloated face was beginning to get me sick, but I knew the jerk was loaded, so I tried to stay calm.

�Don�t let this bum bother you, kid,� I said to Henny.

His free arm touched my shoulder roughly. It got quiet in the room. I brushed the arm away a little harder than before.

�I... I interrogated for the Gestapo once,� he said heavily. His face was redder and his glassy eyes looked like phlegm. �I do not take this from you or anybody.� He raised the bottle meanancingly, but didn�t move. Just stood there swaying and glowering.

�I tell you about her��

That was enough. I pushed him back. He staggered away, stopped, glared at me and uttered, �Moron... moron!� Then he let go a drunken harangue that matched anything I�d ever heard, some of it in a foreign language I couldn�t figure out. I felt it coming and I knew I couldn�t stop it. The drinks, as they always do, made me feel like everyone�s buddy, but this guy had overstepped.

Henny�s hand touched my arm as I started for him. �Don�t�� she began. �Let�s go, please?�

I got away from her and grabbed his shirt front in my fist. I shook him until I thought his phlegmy eyes were going to roll out of his head. �Crawl back into your hole, worm,� I said through clenched teeth. Then I shoved him loose and he bounced lightly off the wall.

Still clutching the almost full bottle, he glared at me; then he put on that dirty smile of his. There was silence in the room. They were all watching us now. He kept it up. It burned right through me like a message, but I couldn�t read it. It was more than a smile, it was a story, and I shook my head, trying to get out of the whiskey daze, to read it; but he was gone, walking off, babbling quietly to himself.

Then one of the guys said, �He�s got our bottle. The creep has our bottle!�

It seemed natural that I was elected to return it. I called after him, but he kept going, making his way to the little room. His door swung shut when I got there and I pushed it open. It swung back, crashing into his bookcase. Papers and notes splashed to the floor.

He watched from the desk, a stupid, startled expression on his face. The place smelled queer. �Get out,� he said. Then he began laughing to himself. He sank down into his chair, looked at me, and laughed even harder, pointing a finger at me and laughing. I grabbed for the bottle on the desk and made out with it.

When I got back I saw her standing in one of the corners making talk with one of the guys, I forgot about the bottle incident. Her hair was a little mussed and she looked just a little tipsy standing there with the drink in her hand. She looked up for me, and when she saw me, her face lit up brightly. She walked over to meet me leaving the guy standing there.

�I thought you�d never get back...�

I looked into her eyes. Hers shut momentarily. Then they opened wide. �What do you say we make this a private party?� she whispered.

I figured she must be wild for me.

Some of the original cast were still there when we left. A few of the guys and the old maids were still going strong � after all, what other opportunity would the old dames have to be surrounded by a bunch of men?

It was clear in the hall; no one was watching and we cut around the corner on the way to my room. We had to pass the bald guy�s room and just as we thought it was all right, he popped out. He leaned against the wall, hands behind him, smiling that damned smile as we passed him. It seemed like a year until we reached the next corner, walked by four green doors and ducked into my room. I knew no one saw us, but the back of my neck felt cold, like someone had his eyes on me from behind. Henny plopped into one of the chairs. I closed the door behind me and stared at her, forgetting all about that office party and everything that went with it.

We didn�t bother to introduce ourselves any further. The alcohol knocked out any thoughts of home from my small brain. I was lost with her; the drinks made her kisses and the feel of her body seem much better than it probably was...

She called me �honey� and made little animal noises, her eyes looked unlike before. Now they were a little wild and intent�

The door swung open. The bald guy swayed there for a moment, then lunged for us.

I jumped up to stop him but lost my balance and fell. He hurtled past me and landed on her. Her chair went over backwards with him on top. By the time I could get to my feet he was holding her hair in one hand and hitting her with the other.

�Stop it, Alan!� I thought I heard her say. Her voice seemed icy cold but unalarmed.

I ripped him off, spun him around and shoved hard � really hard. He shot back, tripped and fell. The back of his neck connected with the edge of the metal desk. There was a dull snap. I knew he was dead before his body settled to the awkward sitting position.

Then it was quiet, except for her breathing. She sat on the floor gulping in the air. Her eyes were wide, staring at the fresh corpse with interest rather than fear. I watched as a hand went up to her hair and put a lock back in place. I opened the door. Quiet. No one around. Sounds of the party seeping through the halls from the conference room.

I closed the door, locked it, and helped her to her feet. She sat in the chair, sober now � and so was I. When the heavy breathing stopped, she said, �You killed him.�

�Yes. He�s dead.�

�Good.�

Good? I stared at her. Her eyes went from the corpse to me and back again and I felt myself beginning to panic inside. I knew we were stuck in the room until everyone left the floor so I lit a cigarette for her, then for myself. I puffed hard, trying to straighten out in my mind the lunatic series of events.

�Do we have to stay here?�

�Yes. I want to be sure everyone leaves. It can all be worked out.�

�What are you going to do?�

�When they clear I�ll take him back to his office. He fell. He knocked his head against something. How should I know? Look, nobody saw us with him. Nobody saw us come in here except him.�

I touched her shoulder. �Well?�

She looked up. �It�s not going to work.� She bit her lip.

�It�ll be all right.� Then I remembered the argument with him and the shoving around. They all saw it. The only way out was to put him back in his office, make it look like an accident. Go home, forget about it. Come in the next day and be surprised like everyone else. I told her that.

She sort of shuddered. Her eyes were studying me.

�What the hell did you mean when you said good. I don�t get it.�

She blew smoke. �You really want to know?�

�We�ve got plenty of time.� I leaned against the wall. Too jumpy to sit. It took her a while to get started.

�I got to town a few months ago. Went to work upstairs. This man,� she nodded toward the stiff, �he seemed so nice. I saw him almost every day around here. He was always so nice.�

She paused. Her eyes met mine. She was waiting for a reaction. �So?�

�He would hold doors for me and I always saw him downstairs at the luncheonette. One day he asked me if I would like to meet some young people � he seemed concerned about my not having any friends here. He promised me they would be a nice bunch � my age, you know. He said there was this little gathering that night at his place. He helped produce for a little theater group he said and these people were connected with it. It sounded like fun.� She blinked and began to cry softly. �I said yes. I was � lonely.�

�Go on.�

�No one there. He told me it was too early and got me a drink... he had the strangest looking apartment. The phone rang. He said it was the crowd and they�d be a little late. It still seemed fine to me. Well, he got me a drink. I began to feel funny � real funny. I know he put something into the drink. In a little while I didn�t know what was happening; I wasn�t drunk, I sort of passed out but not really. I felt him doing things to me and I knew I was mumbling, but I couldn�t talk. I thought I saw lights going on and off, on and off � that�s all I remember from that night.�

She had stopped crying. Her eyes narrowed a little and she looked up at me. I didn�t move. Her head went down fast as if she were going to start bawling again. I rushed over and patted her shoulder.

�Take it easy, come on honey, relax. It�s all going to be all right.�

Her hand went up and touched mine, clamping it to her shoulder.

�The next morning I woke up on the couch. I wasn�t wearing anything. I began to scream. He came in and made me stop.�

She turned away from me. �I didn�t see him for a week after that. Then he came into my office when I was alone. I tried to make him go, but he wouldn�t. He just-smiled and showed me those pictures. They were horrible. He said I had to show up at his place that night or he�d show them to my boss, to everyone.�

�You went.�

�Yes, I went...�

�And he made love to you from then on.�

�Yes.� Her tongue ran over her lips. �Want to see what he did to me? Here, I�ll show you.� She stood up and unbuttoning her blouse, pulled it down over her skirt with trembling fingers. She turned her back to me.

I stared at the long, thin, red welts running across her back in horizontal lines. She stood like that, then put her blouse on. Facing me, she studied my face intently. I looked down at him. I had killed him too easily, I thought.

�I�m sorry, kid.�

A shadow of a smile seemed to cross her face. �I�m glad he�s dead.� She bit her lip and looked at me.

An hour later it was completely silent in the hall. It was then or never.

She had sat there, calm now, watching me. �I�m taking him back. Get yourself ready.� I picked him up by his armpits and half dragging, half carrying, made my way to his office. I tried to make it look as much like an accident as possible. I even went back to the conference room, found that bottle, and broke it over his desk. �He finally got his bottle,� I said glumly.

We hit the street unnoticed.

�I think we�re all right now. May I take you home?�

She paused. �It�s not all right. I think we ought to tell what we did. We�re in trouble, we have to. If I told about him��

I thought fast. �Look, let�s go into a bar. We must have a drink. I mean it � we need one. Please.�

She walked with me. �All right.�

�Good.�

�I�m sorry,� she said, �really sorry.�

I ordered them straight. We downed them and I felt a little better. We whispered about what had happened, going over everything. �It�s funny,� I said, �I sort of felt that he was trying to tell me something...�

�He was drunk,� she said.

Then I worked her over. I talked, talked to save my life. I brought in the wife, the kids, even the dog. I admitted that I had been a fool, how I deserved the worst for what I had done. I really meant every word.

She listened, not giving me a clue. I repeated the whole bit again, and I swear, there were tears in my eyes.

�You�re in love with your wife � really in love?� she asked.

I looked up surprised. �Yes, I am.�

She smiled. �That�s good. That�s very good.� She looked down at the picture of the kids I had shown her. I was playing it all the way. She turned the picture over several times, then she looked up and smiled at me. �All right,� she said. �We do it your way.� I felt re-born.

I put her in a cab. It took off and I watched, feeling my eyes burning when I thought of what the poor kid had gone through with that guy. I almost felt proud too, because I had handled the situation well. I realized, now that I was sober, that she really wasn�t so hot after all � on looks. My wife made her look silly; but leave it to a few drinks to uncork a guy. The funny part is, I didn�t feel so bad about killing the guy. It was as if I had exterminated a vicious germ.

The night was torture, though. I relived everything. The next morning I almost got killed driving to the train. My mind was a jumble of fear and panic.

The trip downtown seemed an eternity.

I walked through the building entrance, the same old entrance, only this time each step I took seemed final. I thought I�d never make it upstairs. Before the elevator door opened I had visions of cops all over the place, waiting for me, asking about the fight I had with him.

The door slid open. I stepped out. It was quiet.

The two old maids hovered over the receptionist�s desk, talking. The clock read nine-thirty � it was late.

Berte, the receptionist winked at me. �No mail, Mr. Warren.�

I tried to force a smile. The old maids talked.

�They took him away at nine-thirty. All wrapped up.�

�He just wasn�t a nice man.�

�It was exciting, though.�

They stopped and both looked at me sternly. Then they took off. About ten feet from me they began jabbering again. �He drank too much,� one said.

�They say he fell, slipped on the wet floor. It was whisky on the floor, you know.� As they vanished around the corner, their voices trailed off.

I looked at the receptionist. �Excitement this morning?�

�I�ll say. They found Budres dead. Liquor all over. Fell. Hit his head on the desk.�

I cleared my throat � it was beginning to choke up. �Police here, huh?�

She smiled. �Oh, yes. But they were fast. They spoke to everyone who was at the party.�

I forced it out. �What about � that argument I had with him?�

�What argument?�

�Ah... I�� I couldn�t say another thing, just looked at her stupidly.

�No one at the party saw anything.� She winked.

�Oh.� My heart seemed to beat better. �What about me? Any questions for me?�

�No, I don�t think so. You were just there at the beginning. You know the two old maids � talk, talk, talk. If they can�t gossip they can�t live.�

�What did they say?�

�They�re convinced you left the building with the girl from the third floor. Before the party got hot.�

�They... they saw me go?�

�You know them. They�re convinced. They think it�s just awful. A married man like you. But I promise not to tell your wife on the phone. Nutty old ladies, huh?� She laughed.

�Yeah, real nutty. Thanks, thanks a lot.� I walked on toward the office. Berte called. �I have a message from that girl for you.�

I turned back. �Yes?�

She called, said to tell you she quit her job and went home.

�Oh, that�s fine. Thanks.� I wanted to jump up and click my heels. I passed the open green doors on the way back to my little office and saw them all back at their desks, talking into phones, writing on paper. They waved and nodded at me. I wanted to run in and hug them all, especially the crazy old maids. When I reached my door, I really felt human again.

I opened the door.

It felt like a punch in the nose. The blood seemed to flow from my head and I had to hold on to something.

�I... I thought you went home. They told me��

She sat at my desk wearing a tight dress, her legs crossed, smoke flowing from a half-smoked cigarette. �I came in the back way,� she said, smiling. �No one saw me. Relax, Mr. Warren.�

I stepped in, tried to pull myself together. �I... I don�t get it, Henny.�

�You will, in time. I�m taking an apartment in midtown. Incidentally, you�d better get to work earlier in the future. You�ve got to pull in some real money now, to take care of me.� She looked at me and smiled through the cigarette smoke.

It began to clear. Things had worked out perfectly for her last night.

�Then that�s the deal,� I said.

�That is the deal. Can you blame me,� she said. �You for him.�

I was hers now. One word from her...

She shrugged. �Not too bad, huh?�

But what had the bald guy been trying to say � and what about? Something...

�What about those bruises on your back?� I asked.

Her eyes narrowed. I didn�t like the way she looked at me � she still wore that smile, that damned smile. Her eyes moved over me from head to foot and her tongue moistened her lips.

�Honey,� she said evenly, �that�s your job now...�

The gun jammed into Foster�s guts. The voice said, �Keep your mouth shut or your wife�s a widow...�

Foster reached the church on the corner with the squeak of his shoes in the snow keeping time to the swing of the bowling bag in his hand. His breath puffed vapor. The clock in the tower boomed midnight. The whip of the zero wind echoed the sound down the deserted street.

As he passed the end of the church, a voice hissed, �Hold it, mister!�

Foster turned. Bright light struck his eyes and blinded him. He sucked in his breath, dropped the bowling bag in the snow. The flashlight switched off, and Foster blinked his eyes a couple times.

A man in a dark topcoat stepped out of the shadows. His features were rugged. The flashlight had disappeared. Both hands were hidden in his topcoat pockets.

Foster said, �So this is what it�s like.�

�What�s what like?�

�A holdup.�

A grunt. �My name�s Ryan. Lieutenant. Homicide. Who are you?�

�Rush Foster.�

�Come again.�

�Rush Foster.�

�Not the Rush Foster that used to be running guard for the Bears couple years ago? Don�t give me that stuff. You wouldn�t hit a hundred and eighty, soaking wet. That Foster had shoulders as wide as a barn door.�

Foster grinned. �Shoulder pads can fool you up in the stands. Forget the Rush. That�s a family name. My friends call me Turk.�

�Why?�

�Short for Turkey.�

�What�s that?�

�A bowling term. Three strikes in a row.�

�That good?�

�Good enough.�

�How good are you?�

�Carry a one-ninety-six average. Bowl anchor.�

�Five men on a team. I bowl last.�

�Like a clean-up hitter in baseball?�

�Something like it.�

�Where do you bowl?�

�The Playdium.�

�What league?�

�Commercial.�

�What team?�

�Bailey Brothers. Second shift every Tuesday night.�

�You work for Bailey�s?�

�I do.�

�What kind of work?�

�I manage the electric appliance department. Not for long. I�m going to night school. Studying to be an electronics engineer.�

A gruff chuckle. �You must be a smart guy.�

�On electronics, maybe.�

�Where do you live?�

�This all you guys got to do? Stop taxpayers and ask silly questions?�

Ryan�s jaw set. �I don�t tell you about electronics or how to bowl. Don�t tell me how to do my job. Now, where do you live?�

�Here.� Foster moved his hand toward a modernistic little home that was separated from the wall of the church by a walk that led around to the back door and then to the alley fence. The house itself was not large, but the design was rambling and the overhanging eaves, the wrought iron railing around the stoop and the big picture window gave the impression of spaciousness.

�Nice joint you got.�

�About all I own so far is the lot. Got married two years ago. Had a preemy. Special care costs dough.�

�What�s a preemy?�

�Premature baby. Incubators and all that. Got my head above water now. Ricky�s ten months old. Getting along fine.�

Ryan said, �Ever hear of a guy called Mitch Bellem?�

�Some.�

�Newspapers�ve been full of him. Ex-con. Killed a woman in a currency exchange two days ago. Hour ago he killed an off-duty cop who spotted him in the Orpheum Theatre. Bullet in his arm. He�s still in the neighborhood.�

�What�s that got to do with me?�

�Too cold for him to get far. Got no car. Got no overcoat. You got no car. No overcoat. A bowling bag would make a good gimmick to let a killer slip through a ring of cops.�

�The Playdium�s only two blocks away so I didn�t need a car or a topcoat.�

Another grunt. �The Playdium�s right next to the Orpheum.�

�And a bowling ball weighs sixteen pounds.�

�So what?�

�Would a guy with a bullet in his arm be lugging a bowling ball around in zero weather?�

�How�d you know he got shot in the arm?�

�I didn�t. Till you just told me.� He grinned. �Believe me, my name�s Rush Foster, not Mitch Bellem.�

�Real sharp, ain�t you? Sharp enough for a driver�s license?�

Foster dug it out of his billfold. Ryan looked at it under the flashlight. Gave it back. �Okay. You can go now.�

�Thanks. I hope you guys find Bellem. Blast him.�

�Not if we can help it. We like to take cop-killers alive.�

Foster picked up his bag and moved up the walk toward the house. Ryan called softly, �Foster.�

�What now?�

�Keep your doors locked. This Bellem�s a vicious bastard. He�s killed twice. He�ll kill again. The Currency Exchange people put up five grand reward for him.�

�I�ll remember.� Foster went around the house to the back porch. He put his bag on the step. He picked up a paper sack filled with garbage and carried it to the alley fence; leaned over and dropped it in a can.

He returned to the porch, picked up his bag and inserted his key in the kitchen door. The bag bumped against the side of a cabinet Mary used in the summer time to store garden tools. Now it contained a snow shovel and a bag of rock salt. He made a mental note to get up early in the morning and shovel the walk. Be good for his waistline.

He pushed the kitchen door open and flipped the light switch. The pleasant warm air of the gas furnace hit his face. He wondered if Mary had remembered to turn down the thermostat.

Something hard was jammed into the middle of his back. A gravelly voice barked, �Keep your mouth shut or I�ll knock your brains out!�

Foster tried to turn around. The hard object jammed again. �Want to make your wife a widow?�

His unseen captor pushed him forward into the spotless kitchen. He heard the spring lock snap shut behind them. He put his bowling bag on the floor. Stood quietly beside the chrome and yellow formica table. Looking down, he saw his captor�s left hand, raw with cold, resting on top of the automatic toaster he had given Mary for Christmas the year before. He smiled at a thought. Up to his ears in debt for the house and still paying for Ricky, they had given each other gifts for the house instead of purely personal stuff. He wondered if he�d live long enough...

Mary�s voice called from the bedroom, sleepily, �Did you take the garbage back, Rush?�

The gun prodded him. Foster smelled fetid breath over his shoulder, sucking in and out. He called, �Yes.�

Mary said, �How many did you win?�

�Two.�

�Wonderful. You broke the tie. You�re on top all by yourself. Want some coffee?�

The gun prodded. Foster called, �I don�t think so.�

The man with the gun said, �Turn around.�

Foster saw his visitor. He was bulky of build, unshaven and shivering. The upper left sleeve of his windbreaker was stiff with blood. The hand that held the revolver was raw with cold. The pinched nose was running and his eyes were bloodshot. But the man�s jaw line was rock-firm and his bearing was one of unreasoning evil.

Foster said, �You�ve been shot. You need a doctor.�

The bloodshot eyes glared hatred. The voice rasped. �The guy that plugged me needs an undertaker.�

Foster remembered the picture from the morning�s Tribune. The warning given him by Lieutenant Ryan just a few minutes earlier. �You�re Mitch Bellem.�

A flippant grin crossed the pinched face. �Right. Want to try for the sixty-four thousand dollar question?�

Foster weighed the possibility of diving at the man, getting control of the gun. He had thrown a million blocks on the gridirons at Fenwick and Champaign and in Wrigley Field. Violent body contact was natural to him. And Bellem looked half-frozen. He had probably been hiding on the porch for an hour or more. He�d be stiff. He was wounded, too.

Foster discarded the idea. The man was desperate and he was armed. He remembered Lieutenant Ryan�s words: He�s killed twice. He�ll kill again.

�Anybody here but your wife?�

�My son. Ricky. Not a year old yet.�

Bellem�s gaunt and vicious features relaxed, but his eyes did not lose their fevered gleam. �Turn on all the lights and we�ll take a look.� There was a whisper of footsteps across the little entrance hall and Mary was in the arched doorway. She had buttoned a blue corduroy robe around her and her feet were in fluffy mules. Her blonde hair was tousled. She was looking down tenderly at Ricky, cuddled in her arms.

Ricky, one tiny hand clutching the top button of her robe, was sleeping like a cherup.

Mary said, �Rush, he�s got a tooth. A brand-new tooth.� She looked up and saw the man with the gun behind Foster. Consternation flooded her face. Her lips parted.

Bellem hissed, �Hold it, lady!�

The scream died in her throat. Ricky stirred in her arms and began to whimper. Mary hushed him and stared at her husband. �Who...?�

�His name�s Bellem.�

Her features froze. Her voice was hoarse. �Not the...?�

The despair in Foster�s face was her answer. She put one hand to her mouth. She hugged Ricky closer.

Bellem growled. �You know me now.� He stared at Foster. �Who the hell are you? And what�s your racket?�

Foster told him.

Bellem let his lips curl back over yellow teeth. �Electronics, huh? I got nothin� to be afraid of. Them super-duper blooper rays ain�t gonna disintegrate nobody like Mitch Bellem.� He waved the gun. �Let�s take a look around the joint.�

Foster walked through the rooms and turned on all the lights. Bellem watched from the entrance hall, his gun ready. �You own a gun, mister?�

Foster shook his head.

Bellem showed yellow teeth in his evil grin. �I can�t take your word for that.� He walked into the bedroom, searched the closet, rummaged through the dresser drawers, the night cabinet beside the bed. He picked up Mary�s sewing basket from the top of the cabinet next to Ricky�s crib and came out of the room with it.

He motioned with the gun. �Move the kid�s crib into the living room.�

�What for?�

�Move it, damn you!�

Foster rolled the crib into the corner of the living room, just beyond the chair that stood in front of the picture window. Bellem watched him from the other side of the room, standing by the little table that held the telephone and the tiny pot of African violets that was Mary�s pride and joy. He jerked the cord on the lamp next to the sofa. Nothing happened, �What�s the matter with the light?�

�Not connected. There�s a short in the wire.�

The yellow teeth were bared again. �A hell of an electronics engineer you are.�

Bellem crossed the room and pulled the drapes on the picture window. He sank down in the chair. He gestured at Mary. �Put the brat in the crib.�

Mary hesitated, looked at her husband. He nodded. She held Ricky close and put a kiss on his cheek and put him in the crib. She tucked him in tenderly.

Bellem frowned at her. �Now turn out all the lights and hit the hay.� He put his head back and leered up at Foster. �Don�t get no fancy ideas about sneaking out to get the cops. Don�t get any ideas, period. First time I hear a peep out of you or you try any funny stuff, I got the answer.� He held up the gun. �I smash the baby�s skull!�

Dirt in my mouth and pieces of gravel, as they drove off. The siren screamed in the street...

The little bald-headed guy�s eyes got big, and he opened his mouth a little so you could see the end of his tongue. I thought he was sick.

And then Joey said, �Just the rings, buddy. In a sack.�

I looked at Joey, and I saw the gun. He was holding it loosely, almost as if he didn�t know it was there. It hit me the same way it must have hit the little guy behind the counter. I could feel my belly tighten.

Joey winked at me. �You better help him, kid.�

�Joey, wait a minute�!�

�Scared?� He grinned a little and waggled the gun. �Come on, kid. You�re learning something.�

I went over to the display counter and looked at the diamond rings. The little guy was already clawing them out five or six at a time and dumping them into a paper sack.

Joey said, �Get with it, kid.�

I tried to say, �Sure,� only nothing happened. I thought about Pug Wilson sitting outside somewhere in the car. And I thought about Joey, the way it had happened. Come on, kid, we gotta pick up some jewelry. Like an errand. Just like the other times when I�d gone out with Pug to pick up a package or drop one off. Only this time Joey was with us. And the gun. It was like this, maybe, when Joey and Pug went out by themselves.

I could hear the traffic noise loud outside, and there were people going by on the sidewalk. I held the sack for the little guy, and the people kept going by. I could feel the sack getting wet where I was holding it.

I said, �What if somebody comes?�

�They won�t.�

I looked at the front door. The OPEN sign was still there, only now it was facing in. The other side would say CLOSED. �You locked it?�

�On the way in.� He rubbed his paunch with his free hand, working up a chuckle. �Like I said, kid. You�re learning something.�

The little guy dropped the last of the rings into the sack, and you could see sweat on his bald spot.

Joey said, �What�s in the box?�

It was a flat case, maybe twelve inches long. The little guy fumbled it onto the counter and opened the lid. There was a necklace inside and a big glittery pin that went with it.

�That�s nice,� said Joey. �Pick it up, kid.�

I picked it up.

Joey looked at the little guy and grinned. �All right, buddy.�

The man wet his lips. Then it was in his face again, in the eyes and the mouth, only this time it was different. Not sick, and not scared, either. Something else. I looked at Joey, and he had it too: something quick and tight, moving along the flesh of his jaw. He tipped his head to one side, and he stopped grinning.

It sounded a long way off. Then it was closer, rising and falling, making a mark in the traffic noise. The sound of it stuck in my ears.

I said, �Cops?�

The little guy started to laugh. It was a clucking noise back in his throat, soft and scared and full of phlegm. It almost choked him.

�You bastard,� said Joey. He came around the counter all at once, pushing past me, filling the space with his fat body. He ran his foot along the floor close against the display case. Where he stopped, there was a tiny lump in the carpet.

Joey swore. �Direct wire,� he said. �Cute.�

The little guy backed away. He banged into the wall, and the noise in his throat went up and down like the siren outside. Joey raised the gun and brought it down twice, short and quick. A flap of skin peeled away from the little guy�s cheek, and a red gash showed in his bald spot. Then his hands came up, clawing for the gun. He caught Joey�s hands in both of his own. His legs gave out at the knees, and he went down still hanging on.

I yelled. It felt loud, but all I heard were the shots: two of them close together.

�Let�s go, kid!�

The little guy sat there with blood in his eyes and his mouth making bubbles. Joey went past me, moving fast towards the back of the shop. I swallowed hard and ran.

It seemed a long way to the alley. I came out of the building fast. My heel caught on something and I came down straight and hard, flat on my face.

�Kid!�

I lifted my head, and I could see the car a little way off. I could see Pug Wilson hanging out from the driver�s seat, waving his arm. And I could see Joey. He looked at me once and yelled something at Pug. Then he climbed into the back seat and closed the door.

I tried to yell. There was dirt in my mouth and pieces of gravel, and the alley pushed hard against my chest. I lay there and watched them drive off.

Some other time it might have been funny. I�d been running errands for six weeks � a wise-acre kid on the edge of things, playing it smart. I�d figured Joey for a fence, pushing the stuff for somebody else. You couldn�t get hurt working for Joey; you didn�t even know where the stuff came from.

Only now I did.

And I knew something else, too, about Joey. He was working for himself all the way. Just him. When you got right down to it, nobody else had a look-in. Especially me.

My heart boomed, and a twist of fear knotted my belly. I was the fall guy.

The siren screamed in the street, snapping the soreness out of my chest, filling my lungs. There were diamond rings scattered halfway across the alley, fanning out from the shredded remains of the paper sack. The jeweler�s case was beside me. I scooped it up and ran.

At the mouth of the alley, I came hard against the corner of a building. There were people moving, jabbering, running, looking for the siren sound that was whimpering out in the cross-street. Down the block, a second siren picked up the wail, coming fast through the stalled traffic.

I tried for the news-shack. It was ten feet away, jutting into the sidewalk like a dirty green wart on the side of the building. The narrow door was half open, hanging out from the hinges. I went in sideways, falling, and landed in a stack of magazines.

The guy inside jerked his head around � an old guy with creases in his face and a pair of dark glasses riding his nose.

�Sit still,� I told him. �Look at the street.�

He made a noise like a dirty word.

�Quick, damn you!�

He did what I said. I pulled my feet under me and curled down in the shadow, digging a nest in the bundles of newsprint. The siren went by.

The old man said, �What is it?�

�Shut up!�

The siren died. There were footsteps and voices and the sound of traffic starting to move again. I pushed myself up and crept backwards towards the door, keeping my eyes on the old man. Then I heard the voice � not the words, but just the sound, close by, somewhere outside.

A quick panic pushed me flat, and I saw the old man hunch forward against the counter. He said, �I�m all right. You shouldn�t be running over here like that.�

And then the voice again, a woman�s voice, quick and uncertain: �All the sirens, I thought� What is it, anyway?�

�Nothing to do with us, honey.�

�It�s around the corner...�

�You get back to your job,� he said.

�Well, it � it could�ve been you. I thought��

�It�s all right, honey.�

She leaned across the counter and kissed his cheek. I could see her, then, freckles on her face and dark eyes and a bundle of reddish hair topped by a little waitress cap. She was there for a second, kissing his cheek, and then she pulled back out of sight. I started to breathe again.

The old man said, �Run along, now, before you lose your job.�

�Sure.� Her hand reached in and touched his shoulder. �See you later.�

Her footsteps moved away, and some of the tightness went out of my throat. It was quieter, now-just the traffic, fewer people. The old man didn�t move.

�You did fine, Pop.�

I got up slowly, crouching near the door. The jeweler�s case caught on a stack of magazines, and I jerked it away � a flat case twelve inches long, a dead giveaway. It felt heavy and clumsy, and I could see the little guy in the jewelry store the way he had fumbled it open � the way he looked when Joey hit him.

The old man said, �You�ll never make it, son.� He said it quietly, almost to himself. It gave me the shakes.

�Shut up!� I told him. I jammed the jeweler�s case under my jacket. �If anybody asks, you never saw me. Understand?�

He laughed noiselessly.

�You think I�m kidding?�

�Relax.� He turned his head, and I could see reflections in the dark glasses. �I didn�t see you. I�m blind.�

The word rolled around in my head, and I could feel the jeweler�s case crowding my ribs. I studied him. He was blind, all right.

I said, �Lucky, Pop. Lucky for both of us.�

I moved carefully, watching his face. There were newspapers stacked against the wall and more bundles of magazines. I got the jeweler�s case into my hand and shoved it under the bottom of the stack. The old man didn�t stir.

�See you around, Pop.�

I took a deep breath and slipped through the narrow doorway into the street. There were sounds in the alley, and a knot of people down at the corner peering into the cross-street. I headed the other way.

It was too quiet. The streetlights were on, and the dark was growing in the sky above the edge of buildings. People and traffic, and just a thin ripple of excitement, flowing past me towards the news-shack and the alley and the little guy in the jewelry store.

I thought about Joey and Pug and the car driving off, and I remembered the way I felt when I saw the gun � the way it went up and down with Joey�s hand, and the way the little guy looked. Sirens and cops and the sickness inside, and the sidewalk stretching away to nowhere. I didn�t even know where I wanted to go.

The panic got into my legs and I started to run. It was a damn fool thing to do, and I knew it, and I kept running. There were faces and lights and the long sidewalk, and somebody yelled as I went by. Then a shadow moved out from a doorway and something solid cracked across my belly.

A big hand closed on my shoulder, and there were pinpoints of light and a fuzzy blur. It came clear, and I could see the end of the nightstick waggling slowly under my nose.

�Don�t tell me,� said the cop. �You was looking for a policeman.�

I got sick.

The cop waited till I was through. He spat at the mess on the sidewalk and grinned. �You�re running the wrong way,� he said. �The excitement�s down that way.�

�I don�t like excitement.�

�I bet you don�t.�

He jerked my arm and we started to walk.

The rye was strong and girls sounded like fun, so he went along...

You cops make me sick. All the time asking why. Why did you do it? What do you have to know why for? What difference does it make?

All right, I�ll tell you, but you ain�t gonna like it.

I�m in this saloon, see, Jerry�s Bar I think is the name of it, over on Eighth Street. I�m drinking a beer, and through the window I can see this guy outside, standing on the curb and looking up and down the street, like maybe he�s expecting somebody he don�t exactly want to see. Then after a little he turns and ducks inside the door. Real quick. Once he�s inside he relaxes. He stands next to the door and lets his eyes get used to the darkness inside.

He�s dressed sharp and he carries a leather case, like a salesman, so he looks out of place in this crummy joint. But he walks over and greets the bartender, and the bartender says, Hi, Harry, so I figure he must have been in before.

There�s nobody in the place but him and me and a middle-aged couple at a table on the other side of the room. I�m at the back end of the bar, and this guy � this Harry � he climbs up on a stool two places down from me and orders a beer. The bartender draws one and rings it up, then he goes down to the front end of the bar and leans against the empty beer cases. I notice that he�s watching this Harry out of the corner of his eye.

Well, I don�t think anything of that, and I�m sitting there drinking and so is Harry, kinda slow and easy like, enjoying the cold beer, with his hat pushed back a little and his salesman�s case on the bar beside him. Then first thing you know he slides over on the stool right next to me. Ordinarily, when something like that happens it�s either a guy trying to put the bite on me for two bits or a cigarette or something, or else it�s the cops. I can tell this guy�s neither one, so I just sit there and wait him out.

Sure goes good on a hot day, he says, and drains off his glass. I say it sure does, and I drain mine. Let�s have another, he says, on me. So okay. We have another, and then another, and then some more. All the time he�s talking real friendly like about the weather and the ball team and one thing and another. Me, I don�t say much but yes and no and how-about-that. I can�t afford to go shooting off my mouth to everybody and his dog. So he talks and talks, and pretty soon the couple at the table get up and leave. Then Harry leans over and says, I got enough of this hogwash. Let�s have something that�s got a little charge in it. So he orders rye for the both of us, and as long as he�s paying why should I care?

I don�t know how many of those we have, but I�m beginning to feel it. Harry, though, is tossing �em off like water and coming back for more. Finally he leans over toward me, and he puts his hand on my leg and he says, How�d you like to have a little fun?

Well, I says, that depends on what you call fun.

He squeezes my leg a little and says, Up in a hotel room. You know.

I shoulda tumbled to the caper then and there, but, well, I�d had quite a lot of the rotgut and I guess I�m not very bright anyway, so I ask, What�s the pitch?

He looks at me kinda funny for a minute, then he says again, You know. Up in the hotel room.

Dames? I says.

Yeah, sure, he says.

I ain�t got that kinda bucks, and I tell him so, and he says, Forget it. It�ll be on me.

You�ll take care of everything? I says, and he nods his head.

Well, I figure he�s made his load, only it don�t show much on the outside, and maybe he�s one of these jokers needs somebody along with him to kinda push him over the edge. I�m quite a bit bigger than he is, and I know if there�s any trouble I can take him, even half shot as I am.

He sits there staring at me, waiting for me to make up my mind. What the hell, I�ve got nothing to lose, and besides it�s been a while since I�ve had a girl.

Let�s go, I says, and I climb down off the stool. I�m a little shaky with the liquor and I grab the edge of the bar to steady myself, and Harry says, By the way, what�s your name?

Call me Jack, I says, that�s close enough.

Okay, Jack, he says, let�s have one more for the road.

So we do, and then he buys a pint and drops it in his case.

That�ll come in handy afterwards, he says.

He takes me by the arm and we go out and down the street somewhere. It�s all a little foggy in my mind. I�m really feeling the rye, and I guess I stumble once in a while because I can remember him grabbing me. Finally we barge into this place � I can see it�s a cheap hotel � and Harry leans me against the counter and signs the register.

Then he leads me up a flight of stairs and into a room. I flop down in a chair and I notice he locks the door, but I�m too drunk, I guess, to pay much attention, or to wonder why. He takes off his hat and puts it on the dresser, then his coat, and he hangs that on the chair. Then he gets out the bottle and twists off the cap. He hands it to me.

Drink up he says.

I take the bottle, but I don�t drink. I look around the room. There�s only a single bed. No women.

Wait a minute, I says. It�s gonna be pretty crowded in that bed with four of us. And that reminds me, I says, where�s the dames?

Don�t worry about it, Jack, he says. Drink up.

He goes in the bathroom and shuts the door. I sit there trying to get the picture. The way it stands, I don�t like it. And that�s bad. Because I�m a guy will go along with any gag as long as I�m not the patsy. But I�m also a guy will get plenty rough when I�m handed the short end of the stick. In fact, that�s where all my past trouble with the cops comes in. Assault and battery. Assault with a deadly weapon. Assault with intent to kill. These are the raps they made stick. That ain�t saying anything about the times I beat the rap, and the times I wasn�t even picked up. I�ve never been able to do anything about it, though. A guy gets me mad and I get crazy-mad, especially when I�m drunk. I wade in and keep on coming until the other guy runs or somebody � usually the cops � interferes, or I get the hell beat outa me. Or until the other guy lays there and don�t get up no more.

Naturally, Harry don�t know this, and I�m hoping he don�t have to find out. But I�m sitting there, and I can feel the liquor boiling in my guts, and I begin to get the notion that there ain�t gonna be no dames.

I take a big slug outa the bottle, then I call to Harry: What are you doin�, Buster? When are the girls coming? Just to see what he�ll say, you know.

Well, with that Harry comes out of the bathroom. You shoulda seen him. It was enough to turn your stomach. His eyes are popping out so you could knock �em off with a stick, and his mouth was open in a slobbery grin, and I�m a sonofabitch, he didn�t have any pants on. He says, real soft-like, We don�t need any girls, Jack. Just you and me. We�ll have fun all by ourselves.

I jumped out of the chair, and the whiskey bottle fell down and slopped all over the place. I�m fighting it now, fighting the mad that�s beginning to pound in my brain.

Look, mister, I says, if you know what�s good for you, get the key and open that door and let me the hell outa here. Fast.

He runs over and flattens himself against the door. His eyes are almost wild now. If I wasn�t so burned up I�d be scared half to death.

No, no, he barks at me. You can�t leave me now. I won�t let you go.

I�m standing right in front of him. It�s so sickening I can�t hardly look at him.

Listen, oddball, I says, I been up three times for beating guys. I�m gonna count to three, and you better have that door open or you�ll be next.

I start to count, but he kinda crouches down, with his arms spread open like a wrestler ready to put on a bear-hug, and he starts moving toward me, real slow.

You don�t know how long I�ve waited, he says. You don�t know what it�s like, to be the way I am, with a good job and a place in the community � and to have to scrounge around in skid row to find the thing I really want.

He comes in fast, then, and I step back and I yell, Get outa my way!

But he keeps coming.

Then I�m swinging, and the blood is running everywhere... and he don�t get up.

After that I don�t remember nothin�. I don�t know how I got out of the room or out of the hotel. I don�t know how I got to that alley where you found me.

I didn�t really want to kill him, Sarge. Honest, I didn�t want to kill him. I only wanted him to let me alone. And that�s why...

Does it make a difference, Sarge? I counted to three. Honest to Christ, I counted.

Everything must come to an end � dreams, and money, and friends. But such a rotten end...?

Harry Jelson�s hands shook as he took out the Prince Albert can and thrust a waxy forefinger inside. During a moment of frantic probing he thought the money was gone, then his finger felt the paper and he drew out the hundred dollar bill.

He started at it with blood-flecked eyes. It was his last hundred dollar bill, the last of a number of large bills that had once filled the can and he was thinking how careful he�d have to be with it because it would have to last a long time. He didn�t want to think how long.

He snapped the top of the can down, put it back empty on the dusty cabinet shelf underneath the sink where he always kept it. Then he carefully folded the bill, put it in his pocket, moved out of the room, a thin, hungry-looking man with silver beard stubble, rheumy red eyes and a consuming thirst.

A little later Jelson returned, his step lighter on the stairs. He set the fifth he had bought on the table, went into the kitchen to wash the old cracked cup, came back and started to drink, eager at first, spilling a little, then taking it more slowly and relaxedly, feeling the tension ebbing, the warmth returning, the good feeling coming on again.

He kept on until the bottle was empty, taking the last of the liquor quickly. Then he settled back for release. He slipped into it smoothly and easily, welcoming it as a familiar thing, embracing it as a lover.

Then they were slapping him and he didn�t want to leave the warm dream and he kept slipping back because the dream was where he wanted to be, but when they dumped the cold water on his head and he drew in a quick breath he knew then he wasn�t going back. They weren�t going to let him.

They yelled at him and hit him and he could see their shapes but he couldn�t see who they were and he had a wild thought that maybe they were cops, but then he knew they weren�t because cops wouldn�t come in and act like this just because he was on the bottle.

�Come on, come on.� He was slapped again and he could feel the sting of palm, that�s how far he was from the dream, and now he could even see a little. Why were they here? Why couldn�t they let him be, him and his dream? He wasn�t bothering anybody. Then he had a sudden agonizing thought: Maybe they�d come for the bottles, those lovely bottles, all of them full, row on row of them underneath the sink. But then he knew they hadn�t because there weren�t any bottles there any more. Not full ones, anyway. Only empties. They wouldn�t want those. Maybe it was the money in the Prince Albert can! But nobody knew about that but him, so they wouldn�t be after that.

They had him on his feet and were walking him around the room, massaging him and shaking him and yelling. �Come on out of it, old man!�

Jelson caught a clearer glimpse of face and muttered �Stelder� in relief because that�s who it was � Stelder � and he knew Stelder wouldn�t touch the bottles. No, not the bottles. They were empty. The money? No. Stelder wouldn�t touch that.

�That�s better, Harry,� Stelder said, planting himself in front of him and Jelson could almost see him distinctly, his massive face, the cold-as-marble eyes.

Jelson became aware of others in the room, sensed they were watching him, his bobbing head finding a white-faced man in the corner, hand to his shoulder.

�All right,� Stelder said. �See if he can stand up.�

The arms gave way and Jelson wavered precariously and he longed more than ever for the dream and would have fallen back into it, but he was caught and brought up again. He stood alone now, swaying on his feet, with massive effort focussing eyes to seek them out.

He knew all but one. There was Stelder, big and impassive, standing by the kitchen door; there was a girl � who was she?�� sitting on one of the chairs they�d got from the kitchen; Peewee was on the bed, lighting a cigarette; and there was the wounded man. Jake Lister. He saw, too, that Jake had it bad. He could see the blood oozing through the fingers at the shoulder.

Jelson leaned against the table in the middle of the room, his breath rapid and shallow, feeling heavy in every joint, tasting his sour mouth.

�He don�t look like a doctor to me,� the girl said.

Stelder snorted. �He�ll do. He�ll have to do. Used to be quite a doc in the old days, didn�t you, Harry?�

�Long ago,� Jelson said feebly. �Long ago.�

�Not so long,� Stelder said evenly. �You can do it.�

�No,� Jelson protested, shaking his head and nearly losing his balance with sudden dizziness.

Stelder laughed and Peewee jerked his head up from cleaning his fingernails to squint darkly at Jelson through the thread of smoke.

�You�ll do it.� Stelder turned indifferently to Lister. �On your feet, Bum. And do as the doc says.�

�I don�t have a license,� Jelson wailed.

�Don�t make me laugh, Harry. You ain�t had a license for years.�

�I quit. I can�t do it, Stel!�

�You�re back in business, Harry.�

�No!�

�Jeez!� Lister groaned through clenched teeth. �I got to listen to all this? This shoulder�s killin� me!�

�I said on your feet.�

�Let�s go someplace else.�

�You got a place in mind, Jake?�

�I don�t like this set-up.�

Stelder advanced toward Lister, saying coldly, �Maybe we should have left you where you got it.�

Lister�s eyes mocked him. �You know damn well why you couldn�t do that.�

�All right, have it your way. But you better let the doc get started.�

�I�m not doing it,� Jelson said, trying to stand straight to let them know he was saying it with strength.

A blow on the side of the head sent him reeling to the floor. The dream was awfully close then and he almost embraced it, but the delayed pain of the fall brought him back.

�This place stinks,� the girl said.

Stelder said, �Shut up, Baby.�

Jelson looked at Baby now, saw she was young, blonde, a little on the buxom side and a little hard in the mouth, but otherwise nice, almost as nice as some of them he met in his dream...

�He�ll be all right,� Stelder said. �Won�t you, Harry?�

They helped him to his feet, Jelson feeling his years and wondering why it had to happen and thinking that he was tired.

�Where do you want him, Harry? On the table?�

�I don�t want that dirty old man workin� on me,� Lister said.

�You want to die I suppose?� Stelder said. He ran a forearm along the tabletop and knocked off a saucer full of butts, the old cracked cup and the empty bottle. The sound exploded in Jelson�s head and he closed his eyes with the pain of it.

�Come on, Jake,� Baby said in a bored voice. �Get it over with so we can get out of here.�

�What d�you need?� Stelder growled.

�I need a drink,� Jelson wailed, his lower lip trembling uncontrollably. �I need one bad.� He started to shake.

�Christ!� Peewee said in disgust.

�Get him a bottle,� Stelder told Peewee in a moment of decision.

�You want I should go out?� Peewee said in amazement.

�There�s a place on the corner,� Stelder said. �Nothing�s going to happen to you.�

When Peewee came back Stelder let Jelson drink a little, then Stelder said, �What�ll you need to fix Jake up, Harry?�

�He�ll need morphine.� Jelson said in an almost normal voice.

�We�re fresh out, Harry,� Stelder said.

�Chloroform then. Or ether.�

�You got any of that?�

Jelson shook his head, eyed the bottle Stelder held. Release was in there, right in there with the brown liquid that sloshed and sparkled as Stelder said, �What the hell did you do with all your stuff, Harry?�

Jelson shrugged. �Sold it.� He didn�t take his eyes off the bottle.

Stelder rationed him another drink and they talked about what they�d need and Jelson, feeling better, settled for a paring knife Peewee sharpened while Baby was sent out for a little chloroform for her cat and Stelder cut up an old sponge he found in the kitchen and tore up the dirty, holey sheet off Jelson�s bed. They put it all in a pan of boiling water while Jelson drank a little more to steady himself while he looked over the wound.

It brought back the old days, seeing the hole the .38 had made in the left shoulder. He figured it was lodged in the deltoid muscle and would take some digging to get out.

They brought the pan of steaming water and Jelson, after another drink, got to work. Baby let the chloroform fall drop by drop in Stelder�s handkerchief that Jelson had fixed over on a tea strainer, being held now on Jake�s face. Jelson forgot about the bottle for a while, thinking instead how long it had been since he�d worked like this, and he was surprised how steady his hands were. Twenty years, wasn�t it? All of that, back in the days when Stelder was a young punk and Jelson had the job of putting him and others like him back together again.

Then there were the days after that, days when books were brisk, when slots invaded the stores � even the candy stores � and then the pin-balls and numbers. There wasn�t much business for Jelson then and he turned to another avenue for business. And one of the girls had to die. Hemorrhage. Right on the operating table in the clinic he�d set up. A bad break and an end to his abortion racket. And the end to his license, too.

Well, he�d salvaged quite a pile, put it all there in the Prince Albert can, though there would be only the change from that last hundred dollar bill there now. Enough to buy a bottle after this was over. He�d buy a dozen bottles.

Thinking about it brought on the shakes again. Stelder had to let him take another swig. He took a long one, draining the bottle. He�d have to hurry. Get it over with. Then get some more.

It wasn�t too hard to figure out why Jake had stopped one. The cops were closing them up � all of them � pinballs, slots, numbers � everything. And Stelder and his boys had to turn to something else. What had it been? Holdup? High-jacking? Robbery?

�You got to go that deep?� Stelder said in a strained voice.

�It went way in,� Jelson said. The light wavered and he thought he was going to black out, but when he looked up he saw it was only Peewee who was swaying, staring fascinatedly at the pulsing blood, his face the color of ivory. Stelder snatched the lamp out of his hand and held it.

And then it was over and Jelson was wrapping Lister in the still-wet bandage and Stelder was saying, �You ain�t lost your touch, Harry,� and Jelson was thinking he�d better get some of that money out of the Prince Albert can and go buy another bottle � two bottles � a dozen bottles � or maybe Stelder would buy him one for what he�d done.

They put Lister on Jelson�s bed and Jelson�s mouth felt hot and dry and hungry and Baby said in shrill surprise, �Can�t you wake him up? We got to get out of here! I can�t take much more of this dump!�

�Easy, Baby,� Stelder said quietly. �We�ll have to wait till he comes to, see if he�s going to be all right.�

Jelson started toward the kitchen, the weariness really coming now. He�d really have a case if he didn�t get out and buy something quick.

�Where do you think you�re going in such a hurry, Harry?� Stelder said, moving to the doorway.

�I got to get another bottle,� Jelson said.

�You mean you had a bottle in the kitchen all that time?� Peewee snorted.

Jelson, uneasy now since they barred his way, said, �I got some change in the kitchen.�

Stelder smiled thinly. �You stay in here where we can keep an eye on you, Harry. We don�t want you traipsing off.�

And when they didn�t get out of his way, Jelson said, �I did a job for you.�

�Thanks, Harry,� Stelder said, grinning. �Now sit down.�

Jelson stood looking in growing panic beyond them to the dark kitchen where the Prince Albert can was drawing him like a magnet. His hands were shaking, his throat was so tight he couldn�t swallow, and he kept running his tongue along his lips. Jesus, were they really going to keep him from going out there?

�Sit down, Harry!� Stelder roared, his knee coming up, his hand coming down hard on the back of his head as Jelson bent over. He fell to the floor, but he didn�t care about the hurt, he just knew he had to get the dough, had to get it for a bottle. He started crawling toward the kitchen, unmindful of Stelder�s legs in the way.

Peewee�s foot caught him behind the ear and he went down in a flashing of lights.

Jelson didn�t want to leave the dream, but a finger kept prodding him in the ribs. He was in the kitchen on the floor, he saw, and moving sideways helped get rid of the finger that prodded him.

He looked down. A paring knife was there. With trembling fingers he picked it up.

Faintly from beyond the door he heard low voices and suddenly what he had done in the other room slammed home to him. The knife. He turned it this way and that, seeing the light gleam dully on the polished blade. He had used it to dig the bullet out of Jake Lister. Then they had tried to keep him out of the kitchen.

He turned frantic eyes to the cabinet where the opened doors beneath the sink revealed only empty blackness. Then he was at the cabinet, grabbing the can and opening it. Empty! So that was it! Stelder had taken the money!

Jelson drew himself erect, the knife still in his hand, his thumb atop the blade. He walked slowly, deliberately to the door, swung it open.

Stelder rose slowly from the bed to look at him annoyedly.

�The money,� Jelson said thickly. �You, Stelder, you took it... the money.� He started the long walk across the floor, the knife raised. He lunged.

Baby screamed.

Peewee�s gun popped like firecrackers.

Jelson felt a giant unseen hand push him back, the bullets zipping clean through him, a gratifying indolence coming in behind them, warming his insides like whiskey, spreading comfort throughout.

Release was near now. He could feel it. As he fell he knew by the way it was starting it would be the best dream he�d ever have.

When they were stripping Jelson�s body of anything that would identify it, they came upon the crumpled bills in a pants pocket.

�What a doll!� the morgue keeper said, pulling down the sheet. �Not a mark on her.�

Charlie was cold. Colder than solitary in Joliet. An icy coil of shock started to knot in his stomach. He turned up his topcoat collar and shivered.

The attendant walking ahead didn�t seem to notice the chill draft of stagnant air. Whistling through his teeth, he unlocked a door. And Charlie stepped into the concrete coldness of the morgue.

White enamel tables and white cabinets glared harshly under the torrent of light from the white ceiling.

�You wanna see the D.O.A. hemorrhage case we got today, right?�

Charlie nodded. The icy knot tightened. A faint odor of refrigerated death clung to everything in the room.

The attendant walked to one of the cabinets and pulled it open. Six feet long, it slid noiselessly on roller-bearings. He turned down the sheet.

Charlie looked at the ashen face. Thelma. Like a puppet�s head carved in colorless wax.

�Brought her in about ten this morning. Landlady found her when she went to change the bedding.� The attendant smirked at an amusing thought. �To hear her tell it she�ll have to change the whole bed now. Blood soaked clear through the mattress.�

Charlie didn�t hear him. He stared at the thing in the cabinet. Thelma. No, this was some horrible mistake. Thelma was in her room waiting for his call. Resting the way the doctor said she should. Thelma was home waiting for Charlie to date her and tell her what to do. Thelma would be there to kiss him and run her hand through his hair saying, �Charlie baby, let�s get married soon.� Just like last night.

�No relatives I understand.� The attendant was still talking. �What�s your interest mister?�

�Friend,� Charlie heard himself answer. �I�ll arrange for the funeral.� He didn�t recognize his own voice. The icy knot jerked tight. Another one started.

�What a doll!� The morgue keeper said, pulling the sheet down to her waist. �Not a mark on her.�

Charlie wanted to kill him, wanted to smash his lewd face against the glaring white cabinets. But he couldn�t. A sickening numbness was paralyzing him. The attendant, Thelma, and the cold brilliance of the room began to spin.

�Any idea who�s responsible for her winding up in the freezer?� the attendant asked, still staring at her pale breasts. �Bet she isn�t a day over nineteen, right?�

Choking down his nausea, Charlie turned and ran from the room. But as he stumbled along the corridor, one thought began piercing the frigid wall of shock. �Thelma�s dead � Thelma�s dead...�

Hot coffee didn�t thaw the knots of ice in Charlie�s stomach. But four shots of scotch loosened them enough to start him toward the 800 block on Ogden Avenue. He drove slowly. The attendant�s damning words �who�s responsible� began plodding through his mind as often as �Thelma�s dead.�

Parking the car across from a White Tower restaurant, he opened the glove compartment and checked his .45. There was a full clip. He hadn�t used it on the gas station job two nights ago. Walking to the middle of the block, he crossed the street and stood in front of a Hospital Supplies store window.

The reflection was of an old man. Charlie was startled. He looked double his thirty-one years. Hunched shoulders, thin shadowed cheeks, and dull hopeless eyes stared back from the glass. Charlie mouthed the words, �who�s responsible.�

The knots began to come apart as he gripped the .45 and walked quickly to a nearby door.

Through the dirty pane he could see a woman sitting on the stairs, gagging and sobbing hysterically. Charlie brushed past her taking the steps two at a time.

At the head of the stairs he turned left and faced an open apartment. A woman stood in the doorway talking to someone inside. She heard him and swiveled a low-cut, red blouse in his direction. Charlie knew the visible bra held more than her straining flesh.

Raising a penciled eyebrow, she started to ask his business. She didn�t remember him. �What can I do��

Charlie hit her.

�You punk!� she screamed and lashed out at him. Charlie rammed his left into the rounded bulge of the knit skirt and chopped viciously at the back of her neck as she doubled to the floor. Writhing at his feet, she clawed at his trousers until he kicked her head against the baseboard.

Four women in the shabby room watched horror stricken as Charlie stooped down and ripped open the red blouse. Reaching inside the brassiere, he pulled out a flat wad of bills.

�Take your two hundred apiece and get the hell out,� he snarled, flinging the money at the terrified spectators.

One of them screamed and ran, her hands protectively at her swollen belly. The other three were picking up the fifties and hundreds when a man holding a surgical instrument entered from the adjoining room. He looked like a butcher in his soiled white coat.

�What�s all the noise?� he demanded.

Then he saw Charlie standing over the battered fee collector.

His balding head turned scarlet as he lunged for Charlie. �You lousy two-bit punk,� he roared slashing downward with his weapon. �I�ll cut your goddamn heart out.�

Charlie took the blow on his left forearm wincing as it sliced bone-deep. In one sweeping movement he slid the .45 from his pocket and slammed it against the man�s left temple. He dropped the stained blade and staggered against the wall. Before he could regain his balance, Charlie smashed a knee in his groin and whipped the .45 barrel again and again into his face.

Blood was soaking Charlie�s left sleeve and dripping onto the shattered features of the unconscious man on the floor. Charlie stood over him looking into his office. He could see a brown leather table, jointed and adjusted to raise the legs of a patient. On another table were a variety of surgical instruments carelessly arranged and a pile of absorbent pads. He thought he heard the soft crying of a woman coming from the office.

All the icy knots were thawing, and falling apart. But the treadmill of thoughts was running faster and faster. �Who�s responsible � Thelma�s dead � who�s responsible � Thelma�s dead��

Charlie�s eyes were blurring. His left arm hung limply at his side. He rubbed the back of his gun hand over his eyes and looked down at the figure on the floor. Slowly he raised the .45 until it hovered over the man�s chest.

Then he squeezed the trigger four times...

He was standing there immobile when he heard the siren. All the protection of shock was gone. An uncontrollable grief racked him as he started down the stairs. Each step jarred fiery pain into his left arm. Each step jarred his only two thoughts into sharp focus.

At the bottom of the stairway, Charlie noticed the peeling remains of gold leaf lettering on the door. Dr. Joh� oles�. Spitting a curse, he blasted the glass into splinters with his remaining bullets. Then he dropped the empty automatic into his pocket.

As he stepped through the ruined door, police scurried for the cover of their squad car across the street.

Charlie�s mind spun. �Who�s responsible � Thelma�s dead� hammered louder until it roared and screamed in his head. He tried to take a deep breath. But the raging torment drove him on.

He walked toward the police. �Everything�s all right,� he called hoarsely. �I�m comin� in.�

Ten feet from the car he paused. 38 barrels stared at his chest.

�Don�t come any closer. Put your hands on your head.� The command was as menacing as the .38�s.

Charlie seemed to relax. He almost smiled. Deliberately he jerked the .45 from his pocket...