The Digger's Game

Concluding a new crime novel

Synopsis: The Digger: Aka Jerry Doherty; he is one of those hard Harps. You want a new stereo or TV, he can sell it to you very cheap. If it doesn't burn you when you touch it. You want a clean job of breaking and entering, you see the Digger. Especially right now, because the Digger took one of those package tours to Las Vegas the other day, some very bad things happened at the blackjack table and he had to sign $18,000 worth of paper before he left.

The Bright Red: A bar in Dorchester the Digger owns; he went through a lot to get it and this is one thing he won't sell or mortgage.

Agatha Doherty: She's married to the Digger, and there are a lot of things that bother her. For instance, where does he go at night when the rest of the family has gone to bed?

Father Paul Doherty: Rector of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; the Digger's brother; weight, 290 pounds. He lives in a comfortable rectory, has an eight- or nine-room cottage at Onset, goes to Ireland in the fall. He has bailed the Digger out of trouble a few times in the past, but when he hears about the $18,000 disaster, he does not rush to the rescue. Three thousand dollars from his savings in return for a promise that Digger will stay clear of crime and will never bother him again—that's his deal. The Digger takes it.

Marty Jay: He has something lined up that needs four guys and a car. About $110,000 is what it's worth—split down the middle and the Digger pays the two other guys out of his share, that's his deal. The Digger takes it.

Harrington: When he's in The Bright Red, he's always telling the Digger about how his wife is nagging him to buy a boat. But he hasn't got the 35 big ones. The Digger tells him how he can make $2000, easy. Just by driving some people around one night. It has to do with a load of furs disappearing out of a warehouse. Harrington takes the deal.

Richie Torrey, aka Croce Torre, and Miller Schabb: They run a package-tour business, sometimes for the Holy Name Society or the Knights of Columbus, but the main idea is to fill the planes up with suckers headed for some place with casinos in it, like Vegas. The organization put them in this business, but their trouble is, they got the Greek along with it. They are sure the Greek is crazy. They think that they could have a very nice thing going if only they could figure out a way to get rid of the Greek.

The Greek: He has lots of muscles as a result of working out at the Y every morning before breakfast. Muscles are not bad to have in his business, where some people object to his high rates of interest on things like gambling debts. He gets the paper the suckers signed in Vegas or somewhere and he comes around to collect. He is having a lot of trouble making the Digger see things his way. He has other kinds of trouble with his smartass partners, Torrey and Schabb.

On the southerly side of Hancock Street in the North End of Boston, between Saint Sebastian's Church and the Foreign Seafarer's Mission, there is a block of three-story weathered brick buildings. The windows in teh block are very narrow, framed in white-painted wood, glazed and puttied every year.

On the first floor there is a butcher shop (specializing in veal cutlets and select cuts of pork), a drugstore (advertising Kodak film and Phillip's Milk and Magnesia) and a variety store (in pink neon lights: Late papers—espresso). On teh second floor there are several businesses: a small insurance company, acting as agent, the agent, for its won policies; a loan comapny that does not advertise; and Thomasina's Restaurant. There is no signj outside for Thomasina's.

At 7:25 in the steamy twilight of teh end of summer, Croce Torre in dark suit pants and a white shiret, open at the neck, stood on the sidewalk and listened to the children. Men in dark suit pants and white shirts, open at the neck, lounged against parked cars and discussed the difficulties encountered by the Conigliaros in major-leaague baseball.

Torre entered an unmarked door opening into a narrow flight of wooden stairs. The light was from one naked bulb. He climbed into the main dining area. There was no door. The light here came from dim white bulbs and brilliant blue bulbs. The room was festooned with plastic grapevines. On the tables there were chianti bottles with the wax of dead candles stubbed in the necks. There was a broad brown fan suspended from the ceiling; it turned slowly in the murmur of talk from small groups of men and young couples seated at the tables.

Thomasina stood ten feet from teh top of teh stairs. She was 5'6" and 166 pounds. She wore a black, beaded dress. Torre nodded to her. She nodded in return, angling her nod to her right.

Torre parted the beaded curtain to the internal corridor and stepped through. On his left, the corridor was open to the kitchen. Three men handled stainless-steel pots in extreme heat under bright lights in the heavy smell of tomatoes and oil. In the far corner, a youth pounded veal with the flat of a wooden-handled cleaver. At the end of the corridor there was a paneled door.

Torre opened the door to teh private dining room. He was hit with cold air from an oversized window air conditioner.

In the room there were several Formica-topped tables pushed up against the walls. Upside down, on top of the tables, were bentwood chairs with rush seats. In the center of the room there was one rectangular table. Four chairs had been placed around it. The chair nearest the door was vacant.

Torre shut the door. He bowed very slightly. He said: "Thank you for coming." He sat in the vacant chair.

On his left sat Giuseppe Maglia. He was 76 years old. He had lost most of his hair. He wore a black suit with narrow lapels and apale-blue oxford-cloth shirt. It was open at the throat. His nose was sharp and long. His eyebrows were white and bushy. His lips were thin and his eyes were deep brown and dead. He had a small glass of Cinzano before him. He raised it when Torre spoke. He sipped from the glass. He set the glass down again.

Opposit Torre was Guido Masseria. He wore gray slacks and a pale-yellow sport shirt, open at the neck. He had started to cultivate a mustache. His hair was black and razor cut. "Our pleasure," he said.

Salvatore Barca sat at Torre's right. He was 27 years old. His hair was blond, and styled. His eyes were blue. He wore a red polo shirt adn a lightweight, blue, double-breasted blazer. His elbows rested on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth. His hands dangled below the edge of the table. In front of him there was a double Scotch on the rocks. He said nothing.

A young girl with heavy breasts, constricted in a white-nylon uniform, entered from the kitchen. She carried a tray with four antipasti. She set one before each man. They began at once to eat.

The girl brought a bottle of Asti Spumante and poured each of them a tumbler full. They drank.

She removed teh antipasto plates and brought scampi. She refilled the tumblers and took the empty bottle away. Maglia squeezed lemon onto his shrimp.

The girl removed the scampi dishes and served eggplant parmigiana. She brought clean tumblers and a bottle of red chianti. She set the bottle on the table and left. Shereturned with another bottle of chianti. She opened both bottles. She poured from one of them into each tumbler.

Maglia tore bread and used a chunk to wipe sauce from his plate.

She removed the eggplant casseroles. She served braciola stuffed with peppers and mushroms. She brought four dishes of zucchini.

Maglia said: "More bread and butter."

The girl brought a basket of bread and a dish of butter. She refilled each of the tumblers and took the empty chianti bottle away.

She removed the plates and the zucchini dishes. She served espresso and ponies of Metaxa. She said, softly: "Would you like dessert?"

Maglia stared at her. Barca did not look up. Torre said nothing. Masseria said: "Leave us alone."

The girl left the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

"Begin," Masseria said.

"It was an excellent meal," Maglia said.

"Thank you," Torre said.

"Begin," Masseria said.

"The trouble with the Greek continues," Torre said. "No matter what I do, it continues. He will not listen to reason. I cannot control him."

"You were supposed to control him," Maglia said.

"Don," Torre said, "that was because no one else had controlled him. He is uncontrollable. From the beginning of the enterprise, I have constantly said that the Greek was uncontrollable. In the end, he will ruin teh business."

"He does not understand the ways," Maglia said.

"He's an uncontrollable son of a bitch," Masseria said. "I appreciate your problem, Croce."

"Have you tried to make him understand, Croce?" Maglia said.

"I've done everything I could, Don," Torre said."It cannot be done."

"That's exactly what I mean," Masseria said. "He's an uncontrollable son of a bitch. Nobody's been able to make that bastard listen to reason."

"And it is what I mean, also," Maglia said. "All of this trouble that we have, we are relying upon people who do not understand the way that things are done."

"We haven't got no fuckin' choice, Don," Maasseria said. "I been saying that all along. It's either people that don't understand or nobody. Guys that understand're inna can. Mr. Green went off, we had the Greek. He was the best available."

"It is necessary," Maglia said. "Very well. It is necessary. But becuse it is necessary, Croce what have you done to make him understand?"

"Done," Torre said, "I have argued with him. I have tried to reason with him. I have even threatened him. He will not listen. He can't understand the potential of this business. He will ruin it if he continues. He worries about petty things. He is, he's a small-timer, and that's all he ever will be. I said so from the start. I wanted Bloom."

"You should've had Bloom," Masseria said.

The enterprise," Maglia said, "can you run the enterprise without the Greek?"

"Of course he can run the enterprise without the Greek," Masseria said. "He needs a shy. Anybody can add, got muscles, can be a shy."

"You know, of course," Maglia said, "the Man depends upon the Greek.'

"The Man is badly advised," Torre said. 'I said that when I was told that Mr. Green had selected the Greek for the Man. I said he should have trusted Bloom."

"You did not," Masseria said. "I remember that. You said they're both small-timers and you wouldn't want to have to trust either one of them."

"And then I said," Torre said, "and then I said, I hadda trust either one of them, it'd be Bloom. I didn't know how Bloom was gonna act then. Nobody did. But he was a lot better bet'n the Greek."

"Bloom did not understand the ways eiteh," Maglia said.

"Of course he didn't Masseria said, "none of the best of them ever did. Mr. Green didn't understand the ways. You want a good shy, get a fuckin' kike. Never mind the fuckin' ways. Get the fuckin' money."

"I recommended the Greek," Maglia said softly.

"I didn't mean nothin," Masseria said. "I was just saying."

"Don," Torre said, "you know of my respect for you."

"I do,"m Maglia said. "I knew your father. Your father was a fine man."

"My father knew you," Torre said. "On my mother's grave, I respect you."

"I know that," Maglia said.

"The Greek,"Torre said. "I mean no disrespect to you, Don. The Greek will not listen. I cannot control him."

"Nobody can," Masseria said. "Whaddaya wanna do, Croce?"

"Bobby," Torre said, "I'm gonna have to knock him off. There's nothing else I can do. The fuckin' guy, that fuckin' guy's right out the fuckin' window, he's so fuckin' batty. Before he's thorugh, he's gona fuck the operation. He won't pull out and he won't do what I say."

"That," Maglia said, "that is what you said when he was suggested, that he would complicate matters."

"I did," Torre said. "I said putting him in Mr. Green's place was a bad mistake. I said it would end up, we'd lose a man that was perfectly all right on the small stuff, because he'd get a taste of the big stuff and it'd throw him and sooner or later you'd have to do domething you wouldn't like doing. I said it, and now here we are."

"And I opposed you," Maglia said.

"Mr. Green would've sided with you if he'd been around," Torre said. "He was, he couldn't talk. You weren't unresaonable."

"Nevertheless," Maglia said, "nevertheless, I was wrong. You were right. I will abide by your judgement. For me, you may do what you wish. To repair what resulted from my mistake."

"Grazie, Don," Torre said.

"You did this," Maglia said, "when you need not have done this. I remember that. You might have insisted and done what you wished. I was opposed. You honored my wish. I was mistaken. You may do what is necessary to correcft it.'

"Richie," Barca said, "lemme ask you this: You really gotta knock him off? I mean, something else do it?"

"I don't think so, Sally," Torre said. "I wish to God I did, but I really don't. The guy's in great shape. He works out every day. Carries, too, he's got a fuckin' permit. Look, a thing like that, it'd take three men and all, I wouldn't want to be any one of them. It's either hit him or live with him. Nothin' inna middle."

(continued on page 146)Digger's game(continued from page 126)

"I'm sorry to hear that," Masseria said. "The Greek, who gives a goddamn about the Greek? But I'd rather see somebody mark him up some."

"Me, too, Bobby," Torre said. 'The thing is, you just can't do it is all. Look, I don't hate the guy. I had myu way. I'd say to him: 'Greek, it didn't work. Go on back the G. E. and hustle the chickenshit. No hard feelings.' He'd knock my teeth down my throat. I gotta hit him and he knows I gotta hit him. It's either him're me."

"You want a contract?" Barca said.

"Nah, Sal," Torre said. "He knows it, but he don't really think I got the balls to do it. I can handle this one."

"Ah," Maglia said.

"Tell us what you want, Croce," Masseria said.

"Just the go-ahead," Torre said. "This interest of ours. I was interested in what you thought."

"Sure," Masseria said, "I go along. You can't do nothing else. There isn't a day goes by, somebody doesn't come bitching to me about the Greek. Do the best you can. Take him out. Do me a fuckin' favor. I won't hold it against you.'

Torre looked at Barca. "Look, Richie," Barca said, "you're there. I'm not. I agree with Bobby. Sooner or later the guy's gonna have to be hit."

"Don?" Torre said.

"Your father would be proud of fyou," Maglia sauid. "He also was a man."

"Grazie, Don," Torre said. "You will, you will tell the don? You will see that he is told? And Mr. Green?"

For you," Masseria said, "I'm the don. The don is told. Hit him clean."

Tore looked at Maglia. "He is the don for you," Maglia said.

In the heat of the late evening, the Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight Classic Sedan pulled away with its windows rolled up tight, Masseria driving, Maglia riding. Torre and Barca watched the car leave. On Hancock Street, the children had gone to be. The men talked.

"You keep a straight face better'n any man I know," Barca said.

"Whaddaya mena?" Torrey said.

"How you can go through that shit, I dunno," Barca said. "I seen it and I seen it and now I see it again. You didn't order no fuckin' snails. How come?"

"I hate snails," Torrey said.

"So do I," Barca said. "But still, you done everything else, make believe we're still in Palermo or something."

"Look," Torrey said. "he's an old man. He knew my father. The thing is, it don't take much trouble keeping him happy. My father went back to Naples, the don come around with the dough and the groceries, I was just a little kid. I'm not gonna forget that. A thirty-dollar dinner? I think it's a fuckin' bargain."

"Of course, your old man," Barca said.

"Of course, my old man hadda run, he hit somebody for the don and the don made him take the beef," Torrey said. "So what? I was nine, the old man screwed. I knew him pretty good. He was a mean bastard. We, we're better off, the don's bringing the pork chops around. The don never beat me up. I was in Concord, there? My wife always had the rent paid. The don did that. He never said nothing, I still know who did it. The wife's using the place to fuck other guys, of course, but he don't know that. His heart's inna right place, Sally. I'm just trying to be decent back is all."

"It'l get you in troyuble," Barca said.

"How, it'll get me in trouble?" Torrey said. "I do all right."

"Two ways," Barca said. "H was saying, 'fore you come up, he thinks you oughta get made."

"Uh-uh," Torrey said, "hopping around with the goddamned paper burning in my hadn. None of that shit."

'I did it," Barca said.

"You maybe had something to gain," Torrey said. "I don't. Sooner or later they catch up with some guy, got made the same time you did, he's gonna spill his guts as usual, like every other goddamned ghinny I hear about lately. Then you go to bed at night, you got a state cop under the window. In the morning you get up, FBI onna doorstep. The afternoon, you're having lunch. Treasury guys swap the FBI guys off. Internal Revenue in teh dinnertime. Fuck that. My idea, getting made's a great idea, you want police protection. Otherwise, fuck it.'

"OK," Barca said, "keeping in mind you just fuck me out of a ten-K contract onna Greek, I dunno why I'm being so nice to you, but you better think up some way, talk the don out of teh christening, you know? He's gonna have the wind up his ass, after this. He'll be promoting you all over the plce."

"Tell you what," Torrey said, "tell him I'm a degenerate."

"No shit," Barca said.

"So I'm told," Torrey said. "Greek sayus that."

"hat is it?" Barca said. "Little boys and dogs and that stuff?"

"What is it?" Barca said. "Little boys and dogs and that stuff?"

"Oh, for Christ sake," Torrey said. "No, girls. Always girl. I just do some things with them is all."

"Oh, shit," Barca said. "I thought you meant there's something wrong with you, for Christ sake. You're gonna have to think up something better'n that, you're gonna be slitting chicken necks and drinking blood with him, before you're through."

"No," Torrey said, "no, I told you. I'm not doing it. I don't get no edge from it. No way."

"Look," Barca said, "you know, the other thing, it still leaves that, you know?"

"Which is?" Torrey said.

"The day's gonna come," Barca said, "it's not here already. We're gonna have to whack him out."

"Oh, Christ," Torrey said, "he's and old man. He don't crowd anybody. He don't want anything."

"I still say," Barca said, "it'll come. The Greek? The Greek's his fault. He's too old."

"God takes care the old," Torrey said. "So what, he made a mistake. Leave the old bastard alone. I'll take care of the Greek."

"This's about the ninth mistake," Barca said. "We leave him alone, we're all gonna be inna can. We're gonna have to hit him, Richie. Sooner or later, we're gonna have to hit him.'

"Sally," Torry said, "you come up the wrong way. That's one way of doing things. There's other ways. Leave an old man alone.'

"Sure," Barca said, "and hit a guy, never would've been any need to hit him, the old bastard'listened to you inna first place. This kind of trouble we don't need, cherry tomatoes and a niceah-black-ah suit.'

"Lay off him," Torrey said. "He's an old man and he done the best he could."

"The best isn't good enough anymore," Barca said, "his best. The Greeks we got working for us now, they oughta have something better'n his mistakes to go on. I was with you, Richie, right?"

Torrey nodded.

"I had it my way," Barca said, "the way I think, the Greek's the man with the claim. We took him in, he didn't work out, we knew he wouldn't. It's our fault. We oughta start acting like men."

• • •

"Look," the Digger said, "they got the trooper that the kid shoots onna Turnpike, right? They're all out with the dogs, chasing him through the woods, they think he's out in Hudson some-place. This's the holiday weekend. Registry, cops, all of them, they're all out onna highway Friday night, they're all out tomorrow, too."

"So?" Harrington said. "I could still get stopped, you know."

"Sure," the Digger said. "You could get stopped on Morrissey Boulevard, doing thirty miles an hour and minding your own fuckin' business. In a pig's ass, you could. Because it ain't likely, see, because there ain't no fuckin' cops around. See, it's cops, do the arresting. You just go ahead and drive, there, like I told you. I'll think about things."

"I wouldn't think," Harrington said, "the moon and all, you guys'd want to (continued on page 190)Digger's Game(continued from page 146) tackle something like this tonight." He took the car up the ramp at Columbia Circle.

"Mikey-Mike'll be right here," the Digger said. "Pull up in front of the station there. Moon don't make no difference. Nothing back of this place but more places like it. Nobody sees us."

Magro came out of the subway station. He wore dark-gray chino pants and a T-shirt, navy blue. He carried a parcel wrapped in brown paper. It was three feet long and ten inches wide and two inches thick. He crossed the street and opened the left reafr door of Harrington's Ford Galaxie. He put the package on the seat and got in. "Hey, Dig," he said. He patted Harrington on the shoulder. "How's the virgin?"

"The virgin's nervous," Harrington said.

"In about a minute, here," the Digger said, "the virgin's gonna shit his pants is what I think. He should've been on some of the fucked-up stuff we been on, huh?"

Magro patted Harrington again. "You should've," he said. "You wanted to see nervous, this thing, this thing's a...."

"Tit," the Digger said.

"A tit," Magro said.

"Look," Harrington said, putting the car in gear, "we sit here long enough, talking about tits, we're gonna have half the cops in Boston writing down license numbers. Where're we supposed to go now?"

"Expressway north," the Digger said. "I'll tell you when to get off."

"Look," Harrington said, "you can tell me now. I'm not gonna jump out."

"I could tell you if I could ever remember which one it is," the Digger said. "It's either the Logan ramp you take, the tunnel, or else it's the Garden one. I can never remember which one it is, it's one of them. I see it, I'll know."

"Nice night," Magro said.

"Harrington don't like the moon," the Digger said. "I was telling him: 'Moon don't take no pictures.'"

"Shit, no," Magro said. "Moon's good, actually. Remember that night we go down the Sylvania, there, Dig? Hadda nice moon that night."

"Time we got the swerve from Maloney and them," the Digger said. "Sure, moon saved our ass that night."

"You could've read a newspaper," Magro said, "there's so much fuckin' moon that night. So it's me, Harrington, it's me and Dig and another guy...."

"Brennan," the Digger said.

"Yeah," Magro said, "Brennan, and, shit, we dunno what we're doing. Go over to Arliss, get a truck, go down there like we're three fuckin' idiots out for a ride."

"And then we're supposed to pay somebody about half what we're gonna get from the whole job, just for the goddamned truck," the Digger said. "We didn't know fuckin' anything."

"Marchi," Magro said, "Teddy Marchi. Minute he looks at us, he knows what dumb fucks we are."

"Yeah," the Digger said, "got himself shot, later on."

"Down to Wally's Grove," Magro said. "They had this big argument about a trailer truck, cops all over the place, guys running around, hiding behind trees and stuff, bullets all over and everything, old Teddy walked right into the middle of it. Ka-blam, end of Teddy."

"Teddy should've stuck to minding his own fuckin' business that night," the Digger said. "There was one or two guys around said it's Teddy's fault they had tht trouble about the trailer truck inna first place. Teddy was too fuckin' cute for his own good a few times."

Mangro tapped Harrington on the shoulder. "So we go over Neponset," he said, "North Quincy there, and we take a left and we hook a right, you know how you do, and it seems like we're never gonna get there before morning or something, and we're all practically pissing our pants. See, we never done anything that hig. We're gonna get, it was TVs, wasn't it, Dig?"

"It was either the TVs or the record players anna radios," the Digger said. "One time it's TVs that time we got then the other time, I forget."

"So Brennan," Magro said, "he keeps saying, 'When're we gonna get there, when're we gonna get there? For Christ sake, for Christ sake, for Christ sake.'"

"Brennan's pussy-whiped," the Digger said. "Afraid his wife's gonna find out. Cops, Brennan don't care about caps. He was nineteen, him and a couple guys tried to break in the South Boston Savings one night, they didn't known what the fuck they're doing, set off the alarm. So all these the street, seen four guys jumping off the roof the bank when the cops get there. Cops count upthe ones they got, they got three. The one they haven't got's Brennan. This is the office they got upon the parkway, there. So they got all these lights adn they're all walking around and hollering and everything, and they can't find Brennan. Then there's this one guy, gets sick of it, he goes over and he leans against this maple tree and he lights up a cifarette, and he just stands there, watching all them other bastards running around, and pretty soon Brennan falls out of the tree, right on him almost."

"Got nervous," Magro said. "Started thinking about holding on and not making no noise, first thing he does, he lets go."

"Yeah," the Digger said, "and then it still took about five of them to get him inna wagon. So he does, I guess, three and a half, and he comes out, and boy, has the wife, he got married and she's got him right under the old thumb. Eight or nine years he puts up with it, it's enough to make you puke, and then he finds out, all this time he's been scared shitless of her, she's out screwing this guy she knows before they got married. Seems he come by and fix the stove, he's working for the gas company, he fixes her, too. Poor fuckin' bastard."

"I never knew Brenan, I guess," Harrington said.

"He's over to Walpole," Magro said, "Went in before you come around."

"Take it easy, Harrington," the Diger said. "Wasnt' for nothing like this."

"No," Magro said, "it's for killing her. Beat her fuckin' head in with a paira pliers. I would've done the exact same thing. All the shit he took, and then find tht out, I wouldn't care if there was ten cops waiting outside to grab me as soon's I finish adn shoot me right there, I still would've done it."

"Nobody ever did no time for something like this," the Digger said. "It's impossible. All teh jobs're like this, there wouldn't be nothing but guys like Brennan over to Walpole, that killed their wives'r something."

Harrington's car emerged from the Central Artery underpass. Traffic was moderate. "Start getting over to the right, there," the Digger said. "I think, yeah, take the next one, that says Callahan Tunnel. Then, you come the bottom of the ramp, go up across there, by the fish market. See the fish market? And you get up there, you take the next left and go right around under there."

Harrington drove past Giuffre's Market and the Digger directed him into the Market area. On the right sidewalk of the empty street, a man in a maroon polo shirt and gray slacks walked slowly toward Faneuil Hall. "That's him," the Digger said.

"Right on time," Jay said as he opened the right rear door. "Right onna fuckin' button. That's all right."

"Hey, Marty," Magro said, "good to see you."

"Always a pleasure," Jay said, getting in. "Mikey-Mike, right?"

"Right," Magro said, "been a long time."

"I been doing some other things." Jay said.

"Harrington," the Digger said, "this here's Harrington."

"Harrington," Jay said, patting him on the right shoulder. "OK, I can see I'm gonna have to go down and get the rabbi to fix me up after tonight. This's like the Hibernians' picnic."

"Look," the Digger said, "you could talk your own guys into taking a chance now and then, you wouldn't have to."

"Hey," Jay said, "where the fuck you think we get this thing, it's not my guys?"

"Where now?" Harrington said.

"Jampy as hell, this one," the Digger said. "Cars all set?"

"They're not." Jay said. "I'll find that fuckin' kid and brain him. You know where Valle's is, Route Nine?"

"Yeah," Harrington said.

"Go there'" Jay said, "Now, there's a turnoff right when you get past it, going toward Worcester. Forget about it. I want to go all the way up past the next set of lights, and then turn and come back to it,."

"How come?" Magro said.

"So it looks like we're coming from the ball game out to the stadium, there. Last time they play, I'm out at Valle's with the wife and a whole bunch of guys come by, left their cars there and went to the game. So, nobody pays any attention to them. Anybody sees us is gonna figure we went out to the game in Harrington's car, stopped someplace, had a few drinks and something to eat, horse around some before we pick up the other car.

"Same kind of thing at the other end," Jay said. "Guys we're meeting're gonna get there about half an hour before we do. They get dropped off, go in, sit down and have something to eat. In a while we show up, park the thing off to the side, get in teh other car, tere and that's it. They get through,k go outside, get in teh thing and off they go, just like they left it there when they come in from Springfield. This's that diner right at Route Twenty, you know where I mean?"

"Lot of gas stations and stuff there?"

"That's the one," Jay said. "You oughta get there about five or ten minutes before me and the Digger. Same thing. Go up a little ways, turn around, come back. There's an all-night station right across the street, you'll be able to see us when we come in."

"Candy," the Digger said. "My little kid could do this one. Pure fuckin' candy."

"I still don't like this moon," Harrington said.

"I was telling himm, Marty," Magro said, "you remember the time Maloney sends Dig and me and Brennan down the Sylvania there? You're supposed to be buying then."

"Yeah," Jay said, "record players, wasn't it? That fuckin' Maloney. He tried to set me up at least once, I think. I couldn't be sure, you know? I would've had him whacked, I was."

"Well," Magro said, "that night maloney's setting us up. Real bright moon, and we get down there, we're so excited we're practically throwing up, and there's guys in there ahead of us, cleaning out the goddamned semi we're after. And it's that fuckin' Maloney that's doing it, for Christ sake, give us the job in the first place."

"That cocksucker," the Digger said, "was I glad when he got it. Best thing that happened in along time was they had the war down there onna Avenue and it ends up, Terry's bleedin' to death onna sidewalk."

"At least he didn't know who shoots him," Jay said. "I give him that, anyway. I always thought he hadda lotta dog in him, but didn't none of it show that night."

"Bullshit," the Digger said. "He didn't know he was bleedin' to death, you know. He was just being careful."

"Jeez, Dig." Magro said, "I dunno as you oughta talk like that,"

"Whaddaya mean?" the Digger said.

"Well," Magro said, "I heard it was probably you give him what he wasn't talking about that night."

"I heard it onna fuckin' radio," the Digger said. "I was nowhere near the place that night. I was up the place, I was working The Bright Red. Cut tht shit."

"Yeah," Jay said, "I heard that, too. I heard something like that, Miley-Mike. And another thing I remember, about twenny minutes after Maloney died, the Digger's got all the stuff Maloney's supposed to've had. Of course, he doesn't share it with anybody, but he had it.'

"Now, look," the Digger said.

"You did, Dig," Jay said, "you had all them shoes. Remember, you're trying to sell me shoes about two weeks after, I said to you: 'Where'd you get all the shoes, Dig? I didn't hear no shoes around except what Terry had.' And you, you never give me a straight answer, you remember that? There's only two guys in town that're really better off when Terry's hit. There's you, because it turns out you got all them shoes, and there's the Greek.'

"The Greek had shoes?" "Terry owed the Greek money. I seen teh Greek after Terry's gone, and I said: 'Hey, Greek, see your customer there, you're always bitching about, got himself shot up a little. Hope you had the policy on him.' And he wouldn't talk to me, either. Greek ever get his money, Dig?"

"The Greek didn't get his money," the Digger said, "I wouldn't be going to Newton tonight, I can tell you that."

"And then there was that other thing," Magro said, "you remember that, Marty? There was an awful lot of bullets down the Avenue that night. The door Teery come out of, it's practically shot off the hinges. Now, keep in mind, the Digger's got a machine gun."

'Ah, come on," Jay said, "you know better'n believe tha. That old fuckin' story. That's just a story guys like to tell, isn't that right, Digger?"

"Sure," the Digger said. "The fuck I'd be doing with a machine gun?"

"Well," Magro said, "you could've shot Terry Maloney with it. Them're all forty-fives in him. They could've come out a grease gun."

"Could've come out a forty-five, too," the Digger said. "I used to know a guy had one of them, too, keptit under the front seat of his car, last I heard, pointed it at a guy once or twice."

Magro and Jay spoke together. Jay said: "Ah, Dig, that was just in case of trouble or something, and besides, I didn't have anything against Terry. Except he tried to set me up." Magro said: "It wasn't my car and it wasn't my gun, Dig. Just a couple things I used to borrow now and them, when I needed something." The Digger, Magro and Jay laughed.

Harrington said: "You guys're making me nervous, you know."

The Digger patted Harrington on the right shoulder. "Nothing to be worried about, Harrington," he said, "nobody's got anything tonight."

"Digger," Jay said, "you haven't really got a machine gun, have you?"

"Well," the Digger said, twisting around slightly to get his left elbow and forearm farther onto the back of the front seat, "I, well, I'll tell ya the truth, Marty, yeah. I got ten machine guns, actually. You know how it is, you're inna booze business, you got three kinds of coups coming around all the time, you buy your license, you serving kids, you running the whorehouse, you keeping maybe some stuff in the cellar, nobody, somebody forgot to pay texes, that kind of thing. They're always coming in and looking up my ass. I tell you guys something, I dunno why none of them eight or nine hundred guys ever finds my ten machine guns. Got them right out in plain sight in the cellar there. Big wooden box, got a sign painted on it: 'Don't anybody look in this box. Doherty's Ten Machine Guns.' Beats me how come they don't find it."

"Couldn't've been the Digger," Jay said to Magro. "Digger says he don't even have a machine gun.'

"Yeah, right," Magro said, "must've been that other guy I keep hearing about, got a forty-five auto with a fifty-shot clip, carries this telephone pole around wtih him, just nails her right up to the pole and lets off the whole thing with a wire. Must've been him. Or a whole lot of guys, all got forty-fives.'

Harrington's car traveled through Kenmore Square. He took the left and drove up the hill past Fenway Park.

"Maloney was a funny guy," Jay said. "I never heard of him. Then all of a sudden it seems like there's nobody else around it seems like there's nobody else around but Terry Maloney. Guys were saying you couldn't even start to think of something, five minutes later Terry's already doing it."

"Yeah," the Digger said, "adn fucking it up. Every time the son of a bitch went out. Somebody got shot. More cops down around the Avenue'n they got in the whole FBI. I bet I know six or seven guys, got in the shit doing something nice and quiet and the cops're so busy looking around for Maloney they see these guys, you know?"

"Well," Jay said, "there was Greggie Halb, there, Got grabbed down the track."

"Sure," the Digger said. "Terry set him up, though. The cops had Terry figured for what Greggie's doing, and they go and talk to Greggie, and Greggie lets them go right on thinking it's Terry. So Terry finds out and dumps Greggie. I didn't blame Terry for that one. That's about the only thing, though. Terry, he was a kid, he grew up out to Saint Agatha's, there, he didn't understand anything, you know? That was his problem. His family had some dough. His brother, Billy, the one tht sells the cars, big asshole buddies with my brother, that's what Terry should've been. He didn't know how to do them other things."

"Billy Maloney knows how to do a few things," Jay said. "I know a guy, retired from the post office, wanted to be some kind of court officer."

"Oh, sure," the Digger said. "That kind of thing, him and my holy brother're down to five dinners a week, shaking hands and their pictures in the paper. But Billy, actually, I think Billy's kind of a class guy. He give Terry the regular funeral there, just like he dies in his mother'a arms, what is it, that cemetery off of Brush Hill, there, just like Terry's the greatest thing inna world.

"That was a funny thing," the Digger said, "none of the guys go, of course, because we all figure, what the hell, Terry's been tryin' to fuck everybody al the time he was alive; he's dead, fuck him. But my holy brother goes, and then he comes down the place after and he gives me this big speech, all the grief Terry handed his family, Paul sure don't want me doing nothing like that to him. My great fuckin' brother. So I say: 'Look, I'm glad you told me. I was just going out tonight, see if I could get somebody to shoot me or something, looks like such a great thing and all. But seeing things, your point of view, I'm not gonna do it. I changed my mind.' So he got all pissed off and all. He always does that. I ever told him how Terry tried to set me up, he would've shit."

It was 10:45 when Harrrington turned the Galaxie off Route Nine inbound and entered the parking lot at Valle's. Jay edged forward in the back seat. "Supposed to be down in the back, there," he said. "Tan Merc."

"Key're in it?" the Digger said.

"In it, and it's wiped down," Jay said. "That's a pretty good kid, you know? He's smart and he's dependable. You get him to do soemthing, there's no complaints or anything and he does it fuckin' right. I'm gonna have to get him something bigger."

Harrington stopped the Galaxie behind the Mercury sedan. "All right," the Digger said, turning again toward the back seat, "you got the gloves, Mikey-Mike?"

Magro had torn the paper off his parcel. He opened the box and removed three wads of beige cotton. They stank of oil. He gave one to Jay and one to the Digger. He unrolled the remaining wad and spred out two thin cotton gloves.

"Jusus, Dig," Jay said, putting gloves on, "you must be getting old."

"I don't like it," the Digger said, stretching the gloves over his hands. The cuffs stopped an inch short of his wrists, leaving the heels of his palms uncovered. He wiggled his fingers. "I just figure, this's big enough, somebody's probable gonna be interested enough, look for prints. Might as well not take any chances."

Magro reached into the box and pulled out a heavy-duty boltcutter.

"That's wiped?" the Digger said.

"Three-In-One Oil," Magro said.

"OK," the Digger said. "Now, it's almost ten to eleven. Harrington, one-thirty, you be waiting in the Howard Johnson's on One-Twenty-Eight next to the Turnpike."

"Gonna be closed," Harrington said. "What if the state cops come around, ask me, did my girlfriend forget to show up or something?"

"Open tonight," the Digger said. "Coffee for drivers. Go in and sit down where you can see the lot. Soon's you se us get in the car, out you come and we go home."

"OKm," Harrington said.

"Now, another thing," the Digger said. "You're gonna have some time on your hands. Take this paper and the box and get rid of it."

"Where the Christ I do that?" Harington said.

"Well," the Digger said, "you look around some is what you do. You asked me, I'd say, find a motel or something, shopping center, got one of them Dumpsters, and throw it in."

"Somebody'll see me," Harrington said.

"Oh, for Christ sake," Magro said, "doesn't matter if they do. Nobody pays any attention to people throwing junk away."

"You didn't mention," Harrington said to the Digger, "I hadda throw anything away.'

"Harrington," the Digger said, "I also didn't mention you could have a couple cups of coffee while you're waiting for us. It's OK, believe me, you can still do it. And you're taking the garbage out, too, just like I say. So quit arguing with me and just fuckin' do it, all right? Just do it and be at the Johnson's, like I said, will you do that?"

"I'll be there'" harrington said.

•••

Magro drove west on Beacon Street.

"It's a green Vega," Jay said, "right up here in front of the barbershop, 'cross from the Mobil."

"Where's the fuckin' U-Haul?" the Digger said.

"In the station with all the oter U-Hauls," Jay said. "in the morning they had nine or ten of them, now they got ten or eleven of them, they staryed closed all day and in the middle of the afternoon, they're all home watching the ball game, the kid pulls up, backs her in unhooks and drives away. Calls me up: 'Went like a charm,' he said. 'Waited over in Cambridge, this dude comes along in a Vette with Michigan plates, I let him unload the trailer, he goes in the apartment the last time, I hooked it.' Then he tells me, he's laughing like hell: 'Tonight I'm going back and hook the Vette. I got a guy down in New Youk I call, gimme a full bill for it. Thanks for the job, Marty.' The Vega, I ask him, you get the car all right? He says: 'Grabbed her right off the lot in Brockton this morning. No sweat. Took her over through Randolph and took the plates off an Olds at the Holiday. Wait'll that guy gets up.'"

Magro stopped the Mercury next to the green Vega Kammback. Jay got out of the mercury. "Need help with the trailer?" Magro said.

"Nope," Jay said, "just go ahead. Three minutes."

Magro parked the Mercury in the post-office lot, finding a space between a chocolate-colored Porsche 911T adn a Ford Country Squire. The Digger and Magro got out. Magro took the boltcutter out of the rear seat. He held it against his body with his left arm; the rubber grips were tucked into his armpit and he cupped the short, blunt blades in his fingers.

"Nice of the Government," the Digger said, "make a parking lot for the movies."

The Digger and Magro stepped through the border of the parking lot, between the low shrubs. At the sidewalk they turned left and walked down past the supermarket. In the middle of the block, they waited for a blue Cadillac convertible, top down and driven by a man with a bald head, to pass. It left a short verse of rock music behind. They crossed the street and went into the alley in back of the Steinman block.

The Steinman block is a four-story brick building facing Beacon Street on the south. The northern side backs onto the alley; it has receiving areas for teh retail stores that occupy the first floor. The building is 230 feet long, 60 feet deep at its widest point.

The Digger and Magro walked up the alley to the third receiving area. It is surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence equipped with a double gate. The gates were closed and padlocked.

"That Marty is a smart bastar," the gates were closed and padlocked.

"That marty is a smart bastard," the Digger said. "That fuckin' fence, see? Originally, the guy that owns this is gonna give Marty a key or else he's gona leave the locks open onna gates. 'Uh-uh,' Marty says, 'that'll tell 'em just like we lift a note.' So he turns it down. Then I come around, he starts thinking about it, comes around, he starts thinking about it, comes out here and looks. Them posts're too far apart. There's about twelve feet between them posts. Thing like this, shouldn't be more'n four, six at the most."

"Beautiful," Magro said. "How come?"

"There's a fuckin' water main under there," the Digger said, "gas main or something. Some kind of shit. It's right near the top. They hadda spread out the posts to miss the pipes."

The Digger adn Magro walked walked past the gates and stepped in behind the western fence. Cars passed on Cabot Street. The Digger and Magro stepped into the shadows. When their eyes adjusted, tehy could see Playboy in blue script on a small sign over the loading dock. The Digger knelt near the post closest to the building wall. He took the chain-link fabric in his hands.

Magro opened the boltcutter and started snapping the links nearest the post. As he progressed, he and the Digger stood up. About five feet from the ground, he stoped cutting.

"The other side," the Digger whispered, "come on, willya?"

Magro wiped his forehead on the back of his left glove. "Just the same as always," he whispered, "I do the fuckin' work and you bitch about it."

"I'll cut, you want," the Digger said.

Magro handed the boltcutter to the Digger. Magro held the chain-link fabraic taut againt the next post. The Digger opened the jaws of the boltcutter the rubber grips together. He worked rapidly, the sweat breaking out on his forehead as the links popped.

"Hurry up," Magro said.

"Shut the fuck up," the Digger said. "I'm going as fast as I can."

The green Vega and the U-Haul turned into the alley in front of the supermarket as the Digger reached the five-foot mark. The Digger and Magro pushed the fabric inward adn ducked under it into the receiving area. Then they turned and pushed the fabric upward, bending it upward so that it hooked onto the X ends at the top of the fence.

Jay stopped the Vega and the trailer just beyound the receiving area. The Digger and Magro saw the backup lights come on. Jay swung the trailer into the receiving area next to Pavilion. He shut the lights down to parking. The Vega and the trailer moved forward. When they were straight, the backup light came on again. Jay's head showed at the driver's side window. He backed the trailer into the Pavilion area through the hole in the fence. He cramped the wheels of the Vega and the trailer backed up to the loading dock.

Magro stepped forward and unlatched the door of the trailer. Jay got out of the car. He straddled the trailer hitch to open the rear door of the car. The Digger went to the fence. He pushed the cut section forward until the links rode off the X enda. He lowered the cut portion slowly to the ground.

At the loading dock, the Digger said: "You guys watch your ass, get near the fence. Ends're sharper's knives."

Magro had vaulted onto the loading platform. "Cut yourself?" Jay said. "You wanna look out, you're liable to get lockjaw from that.'

"Nah," the Digger said. "Scratched mayself."

"You guys having a meeting or something?" Magro said. "I try this thing or not?"

"Yeah," Jay said.

Magro stooped and grasped the handle of the overhead loading door. As he pulled, the latch snapped. The aluminum door rose silently. "Jackpot," he whispered.

The Digger and Jay clambered onto the platform. Each of them cursed. "When's the fuckin' movie get out, now?" the Digger said, breathing heavily.

Jay looked at his watch. It had a luminous dial. "forty minutes," he said.

"We better haul ass," the Digger said.

Magro pushed the door all the way up. The only sound was the rollers on the track. "Kosher," Magro said. "No alarm switch. He didn't shit us."

They went inside. They waited until their eyes had adjusted to the deeper darkness. "OK," the Digger said when the racks of furs were visibe, "let's fuckin' go, somebody comes out of the movie early."

"Nobody leaves early," Jay said, "it's a skin flick. They got everything in it but that great Dane you used to see all the time. They're all sitting there thinking about how they're gonna do it the same way, they get home."

The Digger and Jay each wheeled a rack to the edge of the loading platform, Magro guilding them from the front. Magro jumped to the ground. The Digger and Jay peeled the furs off the hangers and dropped them to Magro, Magro put them in the trailer.

"Take it easy," the Digger said, "throw the damned stuff around like that, Mikey-Mike. That's expensive stuff."

"Animals didn't take it easy." Magro said. "Shut your big fuckin' mouth and keep workin'." He put furs in the car.

The Digger and Jay pulled the stripped racks back into the building the wooden handles clacking. They brought out full racks, and the wheels squeaked in the darkness. They emptied and returned all of the racks in the receiving area.

"Fine," Jay said, checking his watch. "Nineteen racks, thirty-four minutes." He jumped off the loading platform.

The Digger looked back inside once. Then he jumped heavily from the platform. Jay got into the Vega. The Digger walked toward the fence. Magro jumped lightly to the ground. He trotted to the fence behind the Digger. They rolled the fence fabrci up again but did not hook it.

Jay started the Vega. It moved forward, canted back on its rear springs. At the fence, Jay said: "You got four minutes. Set off the alarm and run like a bastard."

"No running," the Digger said. "Alarm goes soon's the movie lets out. See you in Worcester."

The Vega and the trailer went through the hole in the fence. The Digger and Magro bent the wire fabric inward at waist level. When they released it, it stood slightly away from the posts. Magro picked up the boltcutter.

The Vega and the trailer headed up the alley. The Digger and Magro saw it reach Cabot Street, hesitate and swing right.

Magro went back to the platform. He climbed up. He could see the Digger holding the corner of the wire. He could see the front of the theater on Cabot Street. He waited.

A man wearing a bright-green shirt opened the doors of the theater fully and stopped them against snubs on the sidewalk. One car went by on Cabot Street. Three women and a man emerged from the theater. The man paused and lit a cigarette. Several more people came out and lit cigarettes. A large number of people came out and the people on the sidewalk moved away. Magro could hear engines starting. He could see the Digger motionless at the fence.

Magro turned the right side of his body away from the door. He allowed the boltcutter to slip down through his left hand until he held it by one of the rubber grips. Turning his body slightly, he used a bowling motion to scale the boltcutter noisily along the floor toward the interior door. He heard it strike, hard, and he heard the door snap open.

Magro jumped off the platform. He trotted across the pavement. The Digger went through the hole in the fence. He held it open for Magro. Together they bent the fabric back against the previous bend and tangled some of the cut ends together.

They straightened up quickly and put their hands in their pockets. At the Cabot Street end of the alley, five moviegoers turned in. The Digger and Magro turned their backs to the moviegoers, and were about 90 yards ahead of them, when they reached the post-office lot. Several people had reached the lot by different routes. The Digger and Magro got into the Mercury and Magro swung it out of the lot and into the movie traffic on Cabot Street.

Twelve minutes after the Vega had pulled out of the alley, Magro turned left on Commonwealth Avenue and proceeded at the legal limit toward the Massachusetts Turnpike. At the same time, the Newton police, hampered by the movie traffic and using no sirens, parked four prowl cars near Pavilion, two in front and two in back.

"Keep in mind, now," Sergeant Duggan said, "that's a silent alarm. There could be guys in there with guns, and they don't know we're coming. You don't get paid for getting shot."

• • •

The Greek surveyed the turquoise shag rug in Schabb's private office. Schabb sat behind a kidney-shaped birch desk; the kneehole was screened in woven cane. Torrey sat to the left in a brown Naugahyde chair set on a chromium pedestal. There was a Panasonic pop-up television set on the desk; the telephone was in a walnut box. Two prints of Degas paintings were on the wall.

"All right," the Greek said. "I see it all."

"Just what do you think, Greek?" Schabb said.

"I tell you," the Greek said, "originally. I come in here, I open the door and there's this crotch at the desk there, I was gonna say: 'Excuse me, must've got off the wrong floor.' So I take a quick look at the door, it says: 'Regent,' I gotta be inna right place, there's nothing wrong with the brain or anything. It's just, the last time I'm here, there's no tits in a see-through blouse staring me inna face when I come in."

"She's got a bra on, Greek," Torrey said.

"I know she's got a bra on," the Greek said. "I could see the fuckin' bra, don't forget. I figure we're gonna spend all this time on it, I would've read the fuckin' label. She's also got a mole on her left one, where the bra goes down, there.

"So I think to myself, Richie's gone and done it. Then I see the rug, and the cabinets, and I, I don't see you guys. So I say to Miss Tits, where are you? And she says: 'Who?' Well, them two guys, the one that eats you and the one pays you money so the first one can eat you. Them guys. Your fuckin' employers."

Torrey got up and shut the door. "Greek," he said, "you really got a mouth on you like a fuckin' sewer, you know that?"

"The worst thing I ever put in my mouth was a cigar," the Greek said. "I know some guys can't say that. Now, this is my money, too. I gotta right to know what's going on. All of a sudden this part I own part of gets turned into a fuckin' first-line whorehouse and nobody ever sent me no letter or nothing. How much does Miss Tits cost? That's for openers. Then we get to the rest of this shit you guys've got all of a sudden."

"That kid is Joanie Halb," Torrey said. "I know her brother, took himself a bad one down the track about four years ago, swapping spit boxes. She's a nice kid and I'm helping a guy out. Eighty-five a week and she can answer the phone and do typing. That's all she is and that's all she does."

"He's gonna eat her," the Greek said to Schabb. "By ten-fifteen today she'll blow him. And private offices, too, huh? How much this cost?"

"Two-eighty on paper," Schabb said. "Two-sixty, actually. It was two-eighty for this, they knocked the wall out. But for the two of them, five-twenty."

"What about all this shit you got in here?" the Greek said. "Them hairy rugs, this museum shit. How much am I out on this?"

"Total?" Schabb said, hesitating and looking at Torrey.

"Total," the Greek said, "and never mind waiting for him to give you the word. I think I gotta right, know how mucha my money you assholes're throwing out the window 'thout asking me."

"Around three hundred a month," Schabb said. "I'm not sure on the rugs yet. We rent the rest of the stuff."

"That's a hundred of mine," the Greek said. He looked at Torrey. "I figure, about one-eighty a month of my money this little thing of yours, you didn't even ask me. I gotta loan around a thousand and make four calls to make that. That's a nice goddamned thing to find out. You fuckin' cocksucker, I could fuckin' kill you for this."

"I didn't ask you," Torrey said, "because Miller suggested it and I thought it'd be a good idea and I really didn't give a shit whether you liked it or not."

The Greek sat down fast. He did not say anything. He kept his face clear of expression.

"You want a cup of coffee, Greek?" Schabb said.

"If I do," the Greek said, looking at Torrey, "I suppose I got to go out for it. I'm the nigger now, is that it?"

"Hell, no," Schabb said. "We've got the pot right up here."

"I don't want no fuckin' coffee," the Greek said.

"He drinks it black, Mill," Torrey said. "Have Joanie bring him in a cup. You'll be all right, Greek. Nothing like a nice hot cup of coffee, shape a man up. OK for your diet, too, right? See how we're thinking about you?"

"I said," the Greek said, "I said I don't want no fuckin' coffee."

"Mill," Torrey said, "have her bring him in the coffee."

Schabb said into the intercom: "Joanie, please bring Mr. Almas a black coffee, no sugar."

The girl brought the coffee. She walked primly across the rug and set the cup on the desk. She walked primly back and looked inquiringly at Torrey. He shook his head. She went out and shut the door quietly.

"Why'n't you spill it on the rug, Greek?" Torrey said. "Maybe that'd make you feel better."

"You cunt lapper," the Greek said.

"Greek," Torrey said, "have your coffee. Think about what you're doing the yourself. You got a chance here, move into the big leagues to stay. You're fucking it up. You're fucking us up. I hate to see a man, don't know what his own best interests are."

The Greek hunched forward in the chair. "You listen to me," he said. "I been around longer'n you have and I know what I'm talking about. You're the one that's gonna fuck up. I seen guys like you before, didn't know which end's their ass and which end's their fuckin' tool. You're gonna attract attention to this thing. You're gonna fuck it up, and you're gonna try to drag him and me down with you. Not me, Richie, not me. This here's partly mine. You can go out inna street and wave your dick at the cabs, you want, it don't matter to me. But my money, my money matters. Every time you spend a fuckin' buck, thirty-four cents of it's mine. Don't tell me, my best interests. I get to come in once a week and a free cup of coffee, don't gimme none of that shit. I'm the guy makes this thing go, and I'm not taking no more shit like this from you."

"Have some coffee, Greek," Torrey said.

"I don't want no fuckin' coffee," the Greek said. "You're fucking with me, Richie, and I know a couple guys, fucked with me, they got in trouble."

"You're right, Greek," Torrey said. "I know both of them guys and you're right. I apologize. One of them steals suits down to Robert Hall's and he can't understand it, nobody wants to buy them. I forget what the other guy's doing. I think he's stealing hubcaps offa Studebakers. Them the two guys you mean?"

The Greek turned to look at Schabb. "You with him, Mill? Is that it? You and him against me?"

"Look," Schabb said, "I'm a nice guy. I came in with a guy that knows junkets and a guy that knows how to collect. I thought this was just about what I was looking for. I thought it was just business. Turns out, it isn't. I'd like somebody to tell me what kind of game we're playing. Then I'll pick sides, if I have to."

"I can kick the shit out of you, you know, Mr. Schabb," the Greek said. "It won't cost me no more, kick the shit outa you along with him. You keeping that in mind?"

"Greek," Schabb said, leaning back in the chair, "I calculate that there's about four million people who can kick the shit out of me. So far, nobody has. You know why?"

Thr Greek did not answer.

Schabb clasped his hands behind his head. "Nobody kicked the shit out of me," he said, "because I always look around very carefully before I do anything. And when I see a fellow, looks as though he might kick the shit out of me, I avoid him. I don't think I'd like what he might have in mind."

"Well," the Greek said, "how's your vision now?"

"Pretty good," Schabb said. "I shaved this morning and I didn't cut myself."

"Good," the Greek said. "Now, me and Richie, we've sort of got you where one of us is probably gonna kick the shit out of you. So which way you gonna flop?"

"Out," Schabb said.

"Out?" the Greek said, looking at Torrey. "Out where? Ain't no out. There's me and there's Richie. That is the line-up. There ain't no out."

"There is for me," Schabb said.

"Lemme hear about it," the Greek said. "I'm generally pretty good at seeing outs. Where is it?"

"Well," Schabb said, "you guys seem to be running a pissing contest here, right?" Neither the Greek nor Torrey answered. "Right," Schabb said. "that's what I thought. And it's over the business. Now, what's the business?"

"Junkets and sharking," the Greek said.

"Nope," Schabb said. "That's what the business was before we started all these things. Richie had the junkets, you had the, well, lending business. That's not his business. This business is the rugs and the prints and the girl and the files and the brochure. It's the investment in the Holy Name tour. This business is me, fronting for you guys."

"I'm still listening," the Greek said.

"You better listen pretty close," Torrey said. "That's Mill's polite way of telling you he's the business. He can do without us, mostly."

"Miller's getting a little fat for my taste," the Greek said. "Maybe I'm fighting the wrong guy." To Schabb he said: "You're saying you're gonna run it, that it?"

"Nope," Schabb said. "I'm telling you, I know how to run something that's different'n anything either one of you guys knows about. I can run it for you guys, because I need you guys, or I can run it for somebody else. Doesn't matter to me. But I can tell you one thing, Greek: I'm not fighting anybody for it. Because all I have to do is leave, and I take this business with me, and you and Richie can beat each other shitless. It won't matter a bit to me. I'm going to make this thing a genuine business. Those file cabinets, when I get them working, will give me a reliable list of guys who play hard and lose respectable amounts of money and pay up afterward. Everything."

"I keep that in my head," the Greek said.

"I keep shit in my ass," Torrey said. "Listen to the man for a change, willya? You really want to be chickenshit all your life? He knows something we don't."

"I could take you apart right here, you know," the Greek said to Richie.

"You could get shot right here, too," Richie said.

"You got a lot of cheap talk," the Greek said.

"Depends on who's getting the bill," Torrey said. "I know a couple guys, too, you know."

"Now, that's what I mean," Schabb said. I've got better things to do'n listen to you guys fight over bones. I think you're a couple of assholes. You're worse'n guys that sell stock. They spend all their time getting laid and drunk, no time for business. You guys fight all the time, no time for business. Two weeks from now, Greek, I can get by without either one of you. Six months from now, unless something happens that I sure can't see, I can run it better all by myself. Those're facts, Greek. So, you ask me who I'm with, I'm against both of you. You're just an annoyance to me. Especially you. Richie's at least creative enough to see what I can do."

"And inna meantime," the Greek said, "inna meantime, I go a third of Richie's private office cunt. And your fuckin' rugs and stuff. I'm the one that's gotta go down to Dorchester there, nobody ever asks me what I think, you fuck up my regular business, and six months from now I'm just supposed to pack out."

"No," Schabb said. "Six months from now you've got a third of a very going concern. All you got to do in the meantime is let somebody do things you're not used to seeing done. Take a few risks, Greek. You could end up a respectable businessman."

"You got any idea how you piss me off?" the Greek said.

"He doesn't give a shit, Greek," Torrey said.

The Greek looked at Schabb.

"I don't give a shit, either," Torrey said. "I told him that. He's not with me, Greek. I'm with him."

The Greek stared at each of them. "Lemme tell you something, Mr. Schabb," he said. "One of them great guys of yours, lives out to Dover, went to Vegas? Lost himself seven. I got around and see him, he said he wasn't gonna pay. 'Gambling debts're uncollectible in Massachusetts,' he says. I said: 'Whaddaya mean? What is this shit?' He says: 'Go ahead and sue me. I talked to my lawyer. See how far you get.'

"I look at him," the Greek said. "I said: 'Mister, I guess you probably don't know much. I'm not suing you. I don't sue nobody. Fuck suing. I been collecting money twenty years now. I never sued anybody in my life. That's not the way it works.'

"So he says: 'Well, I'm not paying, otherwise.' I said: 'Yes you are. You just don't know it yet. You're gonna pay. You're gonna pay every fuckin' dime.'

"He gets this little smile on his puss," the Greek said. "See, I'm in his office, just like I'm in yours now, I'm used to that, I see that little kind of grin there, I know what's going on. He's got the Dictaphone on. Tryin' to suck me in. 'Are you threatening me, sir?' he says, the asshole, thinks he can blow one by me like that. I say: 'Look, sir, my advice to you, you go right down the FBI and you tell them everything I said. Only, I advice you, don't tell them nothing I didn't say, because I got a thing on me that puts everything I said to you on a tape I got down in the trunk of my car, and you tell them I said something I didn't say, I'm gonna play that tape back and they can prosecute you for that.' He don't smile so much then. I say: 'Them fellas the experts. You ask them, am I threatening you or not. Get it all off your chest. Then get the goddamned money up, all right?'"

"So?" Torrey said.

"This morning," the Greek said, "I got a nice little check from that guy in Dover. Made out to cash, just like it's supposed to be. And it's good. I can tell by feeling it. And the next week, and the week after. I don't think I'm gonna have to sue him after all."

"Uh-huh," Schabb said.

"You oughta think about that, Mr. Schabb," the Greek said, "about just what you got here, with Richie to help you. Richie's just like the FBI. He's good now, but inna middle of the night, you can't always get to him fast when you need him. I knew a guy, more'n one, goes bellyaching to the cops when somebody comes around to collect what he owes, they give him all kinds of stuff, they'll protect him, he don't have nothing to worry about. Then they go home and have dinner, and they go on vacation and all, and the next thing you know, somebody comes around when the don't expect it and kind of runs him up against a wall a few times, breaks his nose and some teeth and stuff, and he turns up with kidney trouble. I advise you, Mr. Schabb, you think about just where you are, and then you call me. I'll give you a little time. I don't want to be unreasonable with a partner, you know?"

The Greek stood up, stared at Schabb and hitched up his pants.

"I'll give it some thought," Schabb said.

The Greek nodded. He stepped to the door and opened it. He turned to look at Torrey. "I'm not finished with you yet, either, Richie," he said. "I gotta think what I'm gonna do with you. I don't like trouble. Trouble makes heat, and heat's bad for business, and I don't like that. But I think probably, you and me got something we're probably gonna have to settle out, one way, the other."

"Your convenience," Torrey said.

The Greek left the room. He did not close the door. He walked past Joanie Halb without saying anything. He opened the outer door and went out and closed the door behind him.

Torrey leaned back when the outer door closed. "Now lemme ask you," he said, "you still think there's a way, get along with that guy?"

"No way in the world," Schabb said.

"So that leaves what I been thinking about," Torrey said. "Maybe you can gues what it is. You gonna help?"

"Yeah," Schabb said.

"It's gonna be early inna morning," Torrey said.

"Look," Schabb said, "I'd rather it was him early in the morning, me late at night."

• • •

In the afternoon, Harrington inquired about the possibility of another job.

"Jesus," the Digger said, "you're like one of them cheerleaders in high school, got a taste of the dog and now you can't leave it alone."

"I was looking at boats," Harrington said. "The two'll buy a nice one. But no dock and all, I'm gonna have to tow it. For that I need a new car. I'll rip the transmission right out of the Ford, I pull a boat with it. I was just wondering."

"My friend," the Digger said, "you get a gaff job like that once in a lifetime. Another one comes along, though, I'll tell you. Hell, I'll give this place back to Evvic Malloy and she can give it back to O'Dell, all I care. I could get one of them a month, I'd sleep till noon every day."

"Sure," Harrington said, "well, I was just wondering. See, I was reading the Record today and all."

"That's what I kind of thought," the Digger said. "I figured that was it."

"I didn't mean nothing, Dig." Harrington said. "I was just saying."

"You seen the reward ad," the Digger said.

"It was kind of hard not to," Harrington said. "Twenty-five thousand and all, that insurance company."

"You should've tried harder, my friend," the Digger said.

"Well," Harrington said, "thing made it hard was, I see where that stuff's worth about two hundred thousand."

"That's about double, as usual," the Digger said.

"OK," Harrington said, "but still, I got two for what I did."

"That's what you agreed to," the Digger said. "You're a fuckin' beauty about it, too, the thing was going on. You're scared shitless."

"I was," Harrington said. "Now, now I think I done what I did too cheap. You and Marty and Mikey-Mike must've got about thirty-five apiece."

The Digger leaned on the bar. "Lemme tell you something, Harrington," he said, "you take the rough with the fuckin' smooth in this life. I went out to Vegas there and I said: 'Fuck me, fuck me.' And they fucked me. Then I get that gaff job. I got unfucked. Mikey-Mike made some dough. Marty made some dough. I made some dough. You even made some dough, and it come right out of the sky for you, my friend. I'm OK with the wife again, everything's all right."

The Digger straightened up again. "Now, one thing I like," he said, "I like everything all right. I don't like the wife pissed off. I like going home, she's all happy because we're going San Juan. I like it, I got the Greek paid off. I feel good. Feels good to feel good. I missed it. I wouldn't like it, somebody was to get me fucked up again."

"Well," Harrington said, "I know. But I don't like it, I got taken advantage of." He drank his beer.

"Ah," the Digger said, "I took advantage. I paid you two for driving. I get a cabby any night I want, take me into deepest darkest Roxbury for that, my friend. Now, you take some advice: You go buy your boat. And you forget about the car. And you keep your fuckin' mouth shut, understand? You could wind up dead, you know."

Harrington finished his beer. He did not meet the Digger's eyes. Without looking up, he said: "I'm going home now." He slid off the stool.

• • •

"I should've had breakfast." Schabb said. He held the Impala with the brake at the intersection of Madison Street and the Southern Artery in Quincy. The car surged periodically. The traffic light remained red. It was 6:10 in the morning. The gas stations and the automobile dealerships were quiet in the morning light.

"You oughta get this thing looked at," Torrey said. "Fuckin' thing's lunging. Idle's too high."

"I hadda guy look at it," Schabb said. "Every time I cramp the wheels, the power steering stalls it out. When I start it, cold, she stalls. So he fixed it. Now it creeps. I dunno."

"You had an asshole look at it," Torrey said. The light changed. The Impala moved forward. "He looked at it and he didn't know what was wrong with it. So he set the idle up. You're wearing out the brakes and the fuckin' rear end. What you needed was a fuckin' tune-up, somebody knew how to do a fuckin' tune-up."

"He said something about the pollution thing," Schabb said. The car moved south on the Southern Artery.

"They're all doing that now," Torrey said. "That's the big excuse for guys, don't know what they're doing. They oughta build that guy Nader a fuckin' monument, what he did for dumb mechanics."

The clam stands and the liquor stores were dark along the Artery. "I could still use breakfast," Schabb said. "I haven't been up this early since I took the kid fishing. All I had was coffee, and only about half a cup of that."

"Look," Torrey said, "there's a Dunkin' Donuts up here at the intersection, way I remember it."

"OK," Schabb said. They passed a fuel-oil depot on the left and a Volkswagen dealership on the right.

"But you're not stopping there," Torrey said. "You're turning right there. Then we're gonna do what we came to do, and then you're going back and drop me off, and then you can go home and have a fuckin' jelly doughnut, if you want. Nobody writes down no numbers today."

"I am fuckin' starved," Schabb said.

"You are fuckin' scared," Torrey said. "I don't blame you. This's your first run. Everybody's scared on the firt run. Everybody wants to stop and eat. Anything to put it off. Take a shit, anything. Just so you don't have to do it."

"Richie," Schabb said, "I'm not kidding. I really am hungry."

"I know that," Torrey said. "I didn't say you're making it up. My firt time, I was convinced, I hadda take a shit. I told them. I was nineteen fuckin' years old, you should've heard all the shit I took, I said I hadda take a shit. They wouldn't let me. So I whack a guy out, practically in Scollay Square, the guy that was supposed to do it was sick and I hadda do it, I took him out nice and clean. And I shit myself.

"They started calling me 'Shitpants,'" Torrey said. "But then, I was twenty-two, I got a contract on one of the guys made a lot of fun of me. I see him coming out of the place and he sees me and I'm getting out of the car with the piece and he says: 'No, no, Richie, look, I'll straighten it out.' And I ust look at him and I keep coming at him and he's got his hands up. He says, his hands're up like he's trying to give me something, he says: 'No, Richie, look, gimme a little time.' I say: 'What're you calling me Richie for? How come you're not calling me Shitpants?' Then I gutshoot him. Then I gutshot him again. He puts the hands down. Ever kick a man inna balls?"

"No," Schabb said. "I hit a guy in the teeth once, but he was grabbing my wife's ass at a party and I more or less had to."

"No." Torrey said. "Well, you gutshoot a guy and it hits him, he grabs just like a guy that's grabbing for the balls, that you kicked inna balls. Like he's worried, he's gonna lose them.

"Guy does the same thing," Torrey said, "you shoot him inna belly with a thirty-eight. It's just slow enough so he can still stand up. Forty-five'd knock him over. He gets them hands right over the holes and he holds on.

"This guy looked down," Torrey said, "sees the blood on his nice gray suit, running out his fingers. Looks up again. 'Lemme alone, Richie,' he says, 'lemme alone. I can straighten it out.'

"'Call me Shitpants,' I say, and by now I'm right on top of him, and he actually kneels down. I got the piece pointing right practically in his eye. 'Lemme alone, Richie,' he says, he's still got his hands on his belly, his head's way back on his neck.

"'Still calling me Richie,' I say. 'How come you're not calling me Shitpants, huh?' Then I say: 'Here comes the rest.' He was hurting. His mouth's going, nothing comes out. I shot him in the face."

"Jesus," Schabb said.

"You shoot a man inna face," Torrey said, "close range, it kind of comes apart, you know? All flies to pieces, bone chips and stuff."

"Cut it out," Schabb said. The car slowed at the linoleum store and stopped at the light.

"He shit himself," Torrey said. "Man dies, everything lets go. You could smell it. About two seconds after I shoot him in the face, I shoot him again, and he goes right over backward and you could hear everything letting go. Smell it, too, like I say."

"OK, Richie," Schabb said. "you did it. I'm not hungry anymore."

"Hell," Torrey said, "that wasn't why I told you. Makes me sick, too. That's the last hit I had. Guy called me in, next one come up. Them things don't pay bad, you know? Says: 'Maybe you wonder why we didn't use you.' I said: 'No.' He says: 'Well, the last time, we heard you liked it too much. That's why.' Get that? I was actually very scared. It's natural to be scared. I'm scared now. It was just, there was something personal in that one, I didn't tell them guys about. This one, there's nothing personal, so I don't have nothing else. I can feel scared, I can think about it. But, being scared, it's natural. Just like the first time you get laid. Always decide, I want a turkey dinner, soup and salad and dessert and nuts. It's just a way, putting it off, you don't have to face it so soon.

"The thing you got to understand," Torrey said, "is that you have gotta face it. Me, I'd much rather stop and have a couple doughnuts and we let the Greek get down the gym and then there's too many people around and we go home, do it tomorrow. But then you just gotta be scared all over again tomorrow. Don't do any good. Turn right."

The car took the right and proceeded 100 yards past a Dunkin' Donuts stand. There were two trailer trucks parked at the street. Inside, at the counter, slope-shouldered men bent over magenta cups filled with coffee.

"Turen right again," Torrey said. Schabb turned off Route Three-A onto Weymouth Street.

Weymouth Street was crowded with double-deckers painted brown and ivory, white and green and gray and white. Each house had a first-floor front porch and a second-floor fron porch. The second-floor porches were crowded with charcoal grills and tricycles and aluminium lawn chairs with plastic webbing. The first-floor porches were empty. There were no lights on.

"Go up about six houses and pull over," Torrey said. He turned the radio on. Schabb parked under the overhanging branches of a maple tree. "Shut off the fuckin' engine," Torrey said. The Impala whispered down. It was 20 minutes past six.

"All right," Torrey said, as the radio gave the extended weather forecast, "see the green-and-white up on the left, maroon Bird with the vinyl roof inna yard?"

"Yeah," Schabb said.

"His," Torrey said. "Y's about ten, twelve minutes from here. Opens at seven, right?"

"That's what he says," Schabb said.

"Right," Torrey said. "But the Greek's careful. He'll give himself twenny minutes. He's a slow driver, too. Maybe twenny-five minutes. He'd rather get there and sit in the car and wait than be late. So I figure, next fifteen minutes, he comes out. Soon's I see him, you start up, we roll up and let him have it and that'll be the end of that. OK?"

"OK," Schabb said.

Torrey reached under his jacket with his right hand. From the area near his left kidney, he withdrew a large revolver form his belt.

"What's that?" Schabb said.

"Ruger Blackhawk," Torrey said. "I was counting onna guy to get me a shotgun, he comes up with this. Probably better, anyway. Greek won't see this so fast."

"Jesus," Schabb said, "minute he sees us roll up, he's gonna know. He's gotta gun himself, hasn't he?"

"Thirty-eight," Torrey said. He opened the cylinder lock, examined the cylinder and found all chambers loaded. He closed the cylinder with a snap.

"You should've got the shotgun," Schabb said.

"Look," Torrey said, "you do the best you can. Keep in mind, I'm gonna have this out. He's gonna have that thirty-eight in his pants. Thirty-eight's a two-incher. This's a four. I still got all the edge I need.

"Start the fuckin' car," Torrey said. "Door's opening. That's his foot. See it?"

Schabb started the car and put it in gear.

"Let her creep," Torrey said.

Schabb saw the left side of a man's body emerge from the aluminum storm-and-screen door on the first-floor porch of the green-and-white house. He saw the tail of the Greek's sport coat. He saw the rest of the Greek, from the back. He saw the Greek start down the steps.

"Give her some gas," Torrey said. He had the revolver in his right hand. "Keep her onna curb, take her along."

The Impala moved down the street. It passed a brown-and-ivory double-decker, a green-and-white double-decker and a white-and-gray double-decker. The Greek was at the bottom of the stairs. He took a springy step onto the walk. He passed swiftly around the right rear of the Thunderbird sedan. The driveway was two strips of concrete in grass.

"Up a little," Torrey said, "fast."

Schabb nudged the accelerator. The Impala reached the place where the Greek's driveway met the street.

"Stop," Torrey said.

Schabb stood on the brake and the front end of the Impala dove. Schabb heard the passenger door open. He saw Torrey's left leg leaving the car. He heard Torrey say: "Greek."

Schabb turned his head around. He saw Torrey sprinting up the driveway from the street. Torrey was in a semicrouch. His right arm was stiff in the upper arm. Schabb could not see the forearm.

Schabb saw the Greek crouch. He saw the Greek's right hand flash back toward his belt, then forward again with a revolver. He saw Torrey's right arm stiffen. Torrey's body was at a different angle, turned slightly away from the right. Schabb saw the Greek's hand kick up, then down.

Schabb saw Torrey reel slightly. Schabb saw the Blackhawk briefly as it pointed toward the sky. Schabb saw the Greek crouch at the left rear fender of the Bird. He saw the Greek's hand kick up with the revolver, then kick down again. He heard shots. He saw Torrey stagger back. He saw the Blackhawk pointing toward the sky. He saw the Greek's right hand kick upward again. He saw Torrey's body lurch in its stride. he saw the Greek straighten up. He heard the shot. He saw the Greek point the black revolver at Torrey, as Torrey's body recovered its balance again. The Blackhawk flew out of Torrey's hand. Schabb saw the Greek's right hand kick up, then down. Schabb saw a white piece fly away from Torrey's head, in the back. Schabb heard the shot. Schabb saw Torrey reel back again. Schabb jammed the accelerator to the floor. The motor roared wildly. He jerked the transmission out of Park. The Impala leaped forward as Torrey came down on the grass. Schabb rolled the wheel over to miss a white Plymouth Fury at the curb, one door down from the Greek's. The Impala slewed. Schabb hauled the wheel over hard. The Impala slewed to the right. He got it straightened out.

At the corner of the block. Schabb turned the Impala hard right. He looked back as the car turned. The Greek stood 200 yards back. His hands were at his side.

• • •

Sally Barca was sitting at Schabb's desk when Schabb came into The Regent Sportsmen's Club.

"Who're you?" Schabb said. "How'd you get in here?"

"My name's Barca," Sally said. "Come in through the front door, just like any other white man, two days ago. Where've you been?"

"I been out of town," Schabb said. "I had business out of town. Where's Richie?"

"Aw, come on," Barca said. "Richie's still down the Southern Mortuary, probably. I dunno where Richie is. I know how Richie is, though, and so do you. Where the fuck've you been?"

"Who wants to know?" Schabb said.

"You look awful white," Barca said. "You sick? I'm a friend of Richie's. I'm one of the guys said it was all right for him to whack out the Greek. Didn't turn out too good for Richie, huh?"

Schabb sat down. "Richie's dead?" he said.

"You get shot four or five times, close range," Barca said, "it's inclined to make you dead. Where the fuck've you been? The Greek's been practically crazy."

"Looking for me?" Schabb said.

"Looking for you to stay away from you," Barca said. "The Greek called me, same morning. Claims you put Richie up to it."

"I did like hell," Schabb said.

"I know that," Barca said. "I told Richie, he oughta have a contract. He was too fuckin' cheap. Tough shit for him. Where the fuck've you been?"

"I was with Richie," Schabb said.

"No shit," Barca said. "The Greek told me that. 'I could've killed him right then and there,' he said, 'and I should've.' I know where you were. Where the hell've you been?"

"I drove in town," Schabb said. "I put the car in the Under Common garage. I got a cab over to Cambridge Street. I stopped at a packy and I bought three quarts of Beefeaters. Then I got a room at the Holiday. I been there ever since."

"Drunk," Barca said.

"No," Schabb said. "Scared. I was only drunk when I was awake. I was scared all the time. I figured the Greek was gonna kill me."

"You and the Greek oughta start a club," Barca said. "The Greek thinks you're gonna kill him."

"I would've if I knew how," Schabb said.

"Since you don't know how," Barca said, "you want a new partner?"

"You gonna kill the Greek?" Schabb said. "He's hard to kill, I can tell you that much."

"Nah," Barca said, "no more need for that. The Greek says he just wants his old business back. Nobody else ever wanted it, so it's his. Me? I'm looking for a new gaff. I done this and that, just like all the other assholes, spend all their time onna phone, playing music for the FBI. Except I'm not old yet, and I'm not broken down. I got the machines and stuff, and it's allright, but shit, I want something permanent. Bobby, Bobby keeps telling me, the old man fades out, Bobby's gonna be total boss and it's the pot of gold. Bobby's just old enough, swallows all that crap. And he's a nice guy. But Bobby ain't me. So I was thinking, what's the matter, you and me run this? I know what you can do, and you know, there's certain aspects, you need a guy knows his way around. Maybe sooner or later, we get Bloom, huh?"

"And then what?" Schabb said. "What happens after that?"

"Nothing," Barca said. "We get rich is all. After a while, Bobby and them forget it's temporary, long's they get their cut. They'll leave us alone. And the Greek, he'll leave us alone. Whaddaya say?"

"Look," Schabb said, "when I came in here, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance of being dead. I'll take anything."

Barca came out of the chair. "OK," he said, "that's out of the way. Now lemme go see the old man and hold his hand. Oh, by the way, you wouldn't send Richie no flowers, now?"

"Mr. Barca," Schabb said, "the whole idea of Regent is you look at it hard and you can't see Richie. No way."

• • •

Just before he left the Edison plant on Friday afternoon, Harrington went to the pay phone and called 742-5533. The switchboard operator said: "FBI." Harrington said he had seen an ad in the paper about a reward. The switchboard operator connected him to a man who identified hismelf as Sepcial Agent Falk.

"I seen the ad in the paper," Harrington said.

"What ad, sir?" the man said.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars," Harrington said, "for them fur robbers."

"The insurance company offers that, sir," the man said.

"If I tell you," Harrington said, "I get the reward?"

"The insurance company would decide that," the agent said.

"OK," Harrington said, "lemme tell you something, you talk to the insurance and I'll call you Monday. I got the box, all right? And the paper. How's that?"

"I don't understand," the man said.

"The guys that took the furs," Harrington said.

"Yeah," the agent said.

"They cut the fence, I read inna paper," Harrington said. "A boltcutter?"

"Yeah," the man said.

"The boltcutter come inna box," Harrington said.

"Um," the man said.

"There ain't no fingerprints on the boltcutter," Harrington said.

"Well," the man said.

"Look," Harrington said, "they was wearing gloves. They wasn't wearing gloves, they had the paper and the box. The gloves're inna box."

"Ah," the man said.

"I got the paper and the box," Harrington said.

"Uh-huh," the man said.

"You call the company," Harrington said. "I gotta think this all over. I'm gonna need some protection and all, I give you that box."

"Where can I reach you?" the man said.

"I'll call you Monday," Harrington said. he hung up.

• • •

The Digger got home at 2:35 in the beginning of a late September frost. His wife met him at the door. She was wearing a lavender-satin mandarin gown; it was slit above the knee on each side and it was tight across her breasts. The Digger had removed it two years before from a crate of goods stored tempeorarily in the cellar of The Bright Red.

"Paul's here," she whispered.

"Oh," the Digger said, "I didn't know that. I see the big car inna street and I figured probably the governor stopped by for a taste."

"He's been here since midnight," she said.

"They changed the closing hours," the Digger said. "I kept meaning to tell him."

"Jerry," she said.

"Jerry nothing," the Digger said. "I bet he enjoyed himself, looking at you in that."

"I thought you liked this," she said.

"You know goddamned right well I like that," the Digger said. "I like what you're wearing it over, too. I can see your goddamned nipples right through that stuff, for Christ sake. That's why the hell I bought it for you in the first place. Doesn't mean I want you wearing it to the fights with me, for Christ sake."

"I was wearing it for you," she said. "I was watching television and waiting for you to come home. I didn't know he was coming over."

"You could've changed when you found out who it was," the Digger said.

"Jerry," she said. "I would've been embarrassed. He would've known right off, it'd be like telling him. Besides, he's a priest."

"He's my brother, too," the Digger said. "They don't cut off your goddamned equipment when you put the collar on, you know. You give him a drink, I assume?"

"Yes," she said.

"You maybe even had a couple of pops yourself," the Digger said.

"One or two," she said.

"Good," he said, "I'll give him about, say, twenny minutes, and then I'll be up and we'll do it a few times, how'll that be?"

"Best offer I had tonight," she said.

The Digger slapped his wife on the buttocks as she started up the stairs.

Paul sat in the living room. He was wearing the Roman collar and the dickey. he had removed his coat.

"An unexpected pleasure, Big Brother," the Digger said. "I get home at two in the morning, ordinarily I don't expect I'm gonna find a priest on the couch. You guys started making house calls?"

"Jerry," Paul said, "I've got one or two things on my mind, and I'm rather concerned about them. I thought maybe you could help me out."

"Well, I tell you what," the Digger said, "you just let me get myself about three ounces of something and I'll see what I can do."

The Digger returned with a glass of Jack Daniel's and ice. He sat down. "What is it, my son?" he said.

"I'll come right to the point," Paul said. "This afternoon I called up to see why it was taking so long to get my passport renewed, and after a lot of hemming and hawing, I reached somebody who told me that it had been renewed but then it wasn't sent. So, naturally, I inquired why it wasn't sent and when they intended to send it, and I explained about the Fahey trip, and they just wouldn't tell me. So at long last, they told me to call the FBI."

"Good gracious," the Digger said, "you been burning draft cards or something, Paul, baby?"

"I called the FBI," Paul said, "and I talked to a number of very polite people, and they very courteoulsy told me almost nothing. I began to get a little upset. I mentioned calling the bishop and I may have even said something about the Pope. I just couldn't understand why my passport was being held up. They finally told me to call somebody in the office of the United States Attorney.

"I did that," Paul said. "I asked the man quite bluntly if the Government had some reason for not wanting me to leave the country, and he was as puzzled as I was. But he said he'd look into it.

"Just before supper," Paul said, "he called me back. It seems there'd been a mistake, and he said it'd all been straightened out. I asked him, of course, what the mistake was, and he wouldn't tell me."

"But you're gonna get the passport," the Digger said.

"I expect it in the mail this week," Paul said.

"So there you are," the Digger said. "You're all set."

"Not exactly," Paul said. "I've been puzzled about that mistake all evening. Then I remembered that the old passport was issued to me at the house, because I was still moving around when I got that and I wasn't sure I'd be at Holy Sepulchre permanently. And that started me thinking. I wondered if perhaps that accounted for the mistake. Maybe there was somebody else named Doherty who used to live at 58 Pershing Street who interested the Government."

"Not Maureen," the Digger said, "she been hanging around with them Berrigans?"

"I doubt it," Paul said, "and probably not Kathy, either. Ma and Pa're both dead. That leaves you and me."

"Seems to," the Digger said.

"This evening I called some people I know," Paul said. "I didn't make an awful lot of progress. But I did find out that when the FBI or someone has an important investigation going on, they alert the State Department. Apparently they have some sort of a liaison office or something. Did you know that?"

"No," the Digger said, "it, I never really thought about it."

"No," paul said. "well, tell me this: Is there an investigation going on?"

"I suppose so," the Digger said, "them guys're generally out scouting around for something to do."

"Yes," Paul said. "Well, that was what I came over here to talk to you about. And when I got here, Aggie told me about your trip."

"Well," the Digger said, "yeah, but you don't need, we're going San Juan and all, I got the tickets today. El San Juan. But I didn't apply for no passport. You don't need any passport to go to San Juan, Puerto Rico."

"There's something you do need, though," Paul said. "You need money."

"Right," the Digger said.

"Now, it wasn't so long ago," Paul said, "you came out to see me, and you were in very much the same kind of bewilderment then that I'm in tonight. You needed money, quite a lot of money, and you didn't know where you were going to get that money if I didn't give it to you."

"I remember that," the Digger said.

"I believed you." Paul said, "I believed you and I gave you some money."

"Three K," the Digger said. "Don't think I didn't appreciate it."

"And you gave something to me in exchange," Paul said, "you gave me your word that you wouldn't commit any crimes. Didn't you?"

"Yup," the Digger said.

"Now, the way I look at things," Paul said, "either you lied to me or you've broken your word. Either you didn't need money, and you said you did just to cheat me, or else you did need money and you got money by committing a crime, which means you've broken your word."

"I could've mortgaged the house and stuff, like you said," the Digger said.

"You could have," Paul said. "Keeping in mind that I can call Gerry Fitz at the Registry of Deeds aqnd find out, did you?"

"No," the Digger said.

"No," Paul said. "Now, I'm not going to ask you what you did since you talked to me, that you swore to me you wouldn't do, that's got the FBI or somebody in a mood of keep all Dohertys in the country for a while. Mostly because I'm afraid you'd tell me. You didn't kill anybody, did you?"

"No," the Digger said.

"Of course, we now have a new problem," Paul said. "I don't think you lied to me when you came for the money, but I'm pretty sure you broke your word after you gave it to me, and that means you're probably willing to lie to me now, to cover what you did. So perhaps you did kill a man."

"No," the Digger said, "I didn't kill anybody."

Paul stood up. "I hope that, at least, is the truth," he said. He put on his coat. He extended his hand as the Digger got up. They shook hands. "Sit back down and finish your drink," Paul said, "I know where the door is and I can find my own way out. I just want you to know, this is the last time I'll have to do it. And you stay away from me, is that clear? You've got a good wife and a good family, and you don't know what to make of it, but there's nothing more I can do for you and there hasn't been for some time, but now I know it. And I do know it, too, is that clear?"

"Clear," the Digger said. "Good night, Paul."

Paul released his hand. "Yeah," he said, "and good night to the Digger, too."

In the bedroom, Agatha Doherty was reading, her back against the headboard of the bed, her legs bent to form a rest for the magazine. When the Digger came up, she put donw the magazine and got up and went into the bathroom. He could hear her brushing her teeth. When she emerged, he looked at her and said: "You took your nightgown off."

"I did?" she said.

"I can see the nipples better now," he said, "and the hair, too. You be sure and bring that kimono to Puerto Rico."

"I'm looking forward to that," she said. She was removing the gown.

"So'm I," he said. "I got the tickets today. A-number-one, first cabin all the way. It's all set with the Magros, incidentally. He said what they'd do, they'd come over here and stay with the kids, 'stead of them going over there."

"I thought you were going to ask Harrington," she said.

"I was," the Digger said, "but the Harringtons've got kids of their own, and that'd mean we'd have to take theirs. Besides, I'm never too sure what Harrington's doing." He got into bed.

"What'd Paul want?" she said, moving toward him.

"Well," the Digger said, "it's kind of a long story. Basically, I borrowed some dough off him a long time ago, and now he finds out we're finally getting a vacation and he's pissed off."

"Can't you pay him?" she said. "Or doesn't he want that?"

"Look," the Digger said, "let's kind of forget what Paul wants for a while, all right? There's something I want."

"If it's all right with you," she said, "it's all right with me."

This is the third and concluding installment of "The Digger's Game."