n the car Kenan said, "I figure the Shore Parkway and the Gowanus. That sound okay to you?" I told him he knew more about it than I did. He said, "This kid we're picking up. How's he fit into the picture?"

"He's a kid from the ghetto who hangs out in Times Square. God knows where he lives. He goes by his initials, assuming they're his initials and he didn't find them in a bowl of alphabet soup. He's been a big help, believe it or not. He put me on to the computer wizards, and he saw Callander tonight and got the license number."

"You think he's gonna do anything for us at the cemetery?"

"I hope he doesn't try," I said. "We're picking him up because I don't want him wandering around Sunset Park being resourceful when Callander and his friends are on their way home. I'd like to keep him out of harm's way."

"You say he's a kid?"

I nodded. "Fifteen, sixteen."

"What's he want to be when he grows up? A detective like you?"

"That's what he wants to be now. He doesn't want to wait until he grows up. I can't say I blame him. So many of them don't."

"Don't what?"

"Grow up. A black teenager living on the streets? They've got the average life expectancy of a fruit fly. TJ's a good kid. I hope he makes it."

"And you really don't know his last name."

"No."

"You know what's funny? Between AA and the streets, you know a hell of a lot of people without last names."

A little later he said, "You get any sense of Dani? He a relative of Yuri's or what?"

"No idea. Why?"

"I was just thinking, the two of them riding around in that Lincoln with a million dollars in the backseat. We know Dani's got a gun. Say he pops Yuri and takes off. We wouldn't even know who to look for, just a Russian guy with a jacket that don't fit him too good. He's another guy with no last name. Must be a friend of yours, huh?"

"I think Yuri trusts him."

"He's probably family. Who else you gonna trust like that?"

"Anyway, it's not a million."

"Eight hundred thousand. You gonna make me a liar for a lousy two hundred thousand?"

"And almost a third of it's counterfeit."

"You're right, it's hardly worth stealing. We're lucky if these two jokers we're meeting are willing to haul it away. If not it goes in the basement, save it for the next Boy Scout paper drive. You want to do me a favor? When you're up there with a suitcase in each hand, you want to ask our friends a question?"

"What?"

"Ask 'em how the hell they picked me, will you? Because it's still driving me nuts."

"Oh," I said. "I think I know."

"Seriously?"

"Uh-huh. My first thought was that he was in the dope business on some level or other."

"Makes sense, but—"

"But he's not, I'm almost certain, because I had somebody run a check and he hasn't got a criminal record."

"Neither have I."

"You're an exception."

"That's true. How about Yuri?"

"Several arrests in the Soviet Union, no serious jail time. One bust here for receiving stolen goods but the charges were dropped."

"But nothing involving narcotics."

"No."

"All right, Callander's got a clean slate. So he's not in the dope business, so—"

"The DEA was trying to make a case against you a while ago."

"Yeah, but it didn't get anywheres."

"I was talking to Yuri before. He said he backed out of a deal last year because he sensed that some agency was trying to trap him with a sting. He had the sense it was federal."

He turned to look at me, then forced his eyes front and swung out to pass a car. "Jesus Christ," he said. "This a new national law-enforcement policy? They can't make a case against us so they kill our wives and daughters?"

"I think Callander worked for the DEA," I said. "Probably not for very long, and almost certainly not as an accredited agent. Maybe they used him once or twice as a confidential informant, maybe he was strictly office help. He wouldn't have gone very far and he wouldn't have lasted very long."

"Why not?"

"Because he's crazy. He probably got into it because of a low-grade obsession about dope dealers. That's an asset in that line of work but not when it's out of proportion. Look, I'm just going on a hunch. There was something he said on the phone when I told him I was Yuri's partner. It was as if he was starting to say that explained why they hadn't been able to rope Yuri in."

"Jesus."

"It's something I can find out tomorrow or the next day, if I can get a hook into the DEA and see if his name rings a bell with them. Or take an unauthorized dip into their files, if my computer geniuses can swing it."

Kenan looked thoughtful. "He didn't sound like a cop."

"No, he didn't."

"But the guy you described wouldn't really be a cop, would he?"

"More like a buff. But a buff with the Feds, and fixated on the subject of narcotics."

"He knew the wholesale price of a kilo of cocaine," Kenan said, "but I don't know what that proves. Your friend TJ probably knows the wholesale price of a key."

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"Lucia's classmates at this girls' school, they probably know it, too. Kind of world we live in."

"You should have been a doctor."

"Like my old man wanted. No, I don't think so. But maybe I should have been a counterfeiter. You meet a nicer class of people. At least I wouldn't have the fucking DEA on my back."

"Counterfeiting? You'd have the Secret Service."

"Jesus," he said. "If it's not one goddamn thing it's another."

"THAT the laundromat? There on the right?" I said it was, and Kenan pulled up in front but kept the motor running. He said, "How are we on time?" then glanced at his watch and the dashboard clock and answered his own question. "We're fine. Running a little early."

I was watching the laundromat, but TJ emerged instead from a doorway on the other side of the avenue and crossed over, getting in the back. I introduced them, and each claimed to be pleased to meet the other. TJ shrank back against the seat and Kenan put the car in gear.

He said, "They get there at ten-thirty, right? And we're due ten minutes later, and then we work our way up to where they're waiting. Is that about right?"

I said it was.

"So we'll be face-to-face across no-man's-land about ten minutes of eleven, is that about how you figure it?"

"Something like that."

"And how long to make the trade and get out? Half an hour?"

"Probably a lot less than that, if nothing goes wrong. If the shit hits the fan, well, it's another story."

"Yeah, so let's hope it doesn't. I was just wondering about getting back out again, but I guess they don't lock the gates until midnight."

"Lock the gates?"

"Yeah, I woulda guessed it'd be earlier, but I guess not or you would have picked someplace else."

"Jesus," I said.

"What's the matter?"

"I never even thought of that," I said. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"Then what would you do, call him back?"

"No, I guess not. It never occurred to me that they might lock the gates. Don't cemeteries stay open all night? Why would you have to lock them up?"

"To keep people out."

"Because everybody's dying to get in? Jesus, I must have heard that one in the fourth grade. 'Why do they have a fence around the cemetery?' "

"I guess they get vandals," Kenan said. "Kids who tip over the gravestones, take a shit in the floral urns."

"You think the kids can't climb fences?"

"Hey, man," he said. "I'm not setting the policy here. It's up to me, all the graveyards in town'll be open admission. How's that?"

"I just hope I didn't screw up. If they get there and the gates are locked—"

"Yeah? What are they gonna do, sell her to white slave traders in Argentina? They'll climb the fence, same as we'll do. Matter of fact, they probably don't lock it before midnight. People might want to go after work, pay a late call on the dear departed."

"At eleven o'clock?"

He shrugged. "People work late. They got office jobs in Manhattan, stop for a couple of drinks after work, they have dinner, then they go to wait half an hour for the subway because they're like some people I know, they're too cheap to take a cab—"

"Jesus," I said.

"— and it's late by the time they get back to Brooklyn and they say, 'Hey, I think I'll go over to Green-Wood, see if I can find where Uncle Vic is planted, I never liked him, I think I'll go piss on his grave.' "

"You nervous, Kenan?"

"Yeah, I'm nervous. What do you fucking think? You're the one's gotta walk up to a couple of stone killers armed with nothing but money. You must be starting to sweat."

"Maybe a little bit. Slow down, that's the entrance coming up. I think it's open."

"Yeah, it looks like it. You know, even if they're supposed to lock up, they probably don't get around to it."

"Maybe not. Let's drive once around the entire cemetery, all right? And then we'll find a place to park near our entrance."

We circled the cemetery in silence. There was no traffic to speak of, and there was a stillness to the night, as if the deep silence within the cemetery fence could reach out and suppress all sound in the vicinity.

When we were just about back where we'd started TJ said, "We goin' in a cemetery?"

Kenan turned aside to hide a grin. I said, "You can stay in the car if you'd rather."

"What for?"

"If you'd be more comfortable."

"Man," he said, "I ain't scared of no dead people. That what you think? That I scared?"

"My mistake."

"Your mistake is right, Dwight. Dead folks don't bother me."

DEAD people didn't bother me much, either. It was some of the live ones that worried me.

We met at the Thirty-fifth Street gate and slipped inside right away, not wanting to draw attention on the street. For now, Yuri and Pavel were carrying the money. We had two flashlights among the seven of us. Kenan took one of them. I had the other, and I led the way.

I didn't use the light much, just flicked it quickly on and off when I needed to see where I was going. This wasn't necessary most of the time. There was a waxing moon overhead, and a certain amount of light from the streetlamps on the avenue. The tombstones were mostly of white marble and they showed up well once your eyes were accustomed to the dimness. I threaded my way among them and wondered whose bones I was walking over. One of the papers had run a story within the past year or so on where the bodies were buried, an inventory of gravesites of the rich and famous throughout the five boroughs. I hadn't paid too much attention to it, but I seemed to recall that a fair number of prominent New Yorkers were interred at Green-Wood.

Some enthusiasts, I'd read, make a hobby of visiting graves. Some take photographs, others make rubbings of tombstone inscriptions. I couldn't imagine what they got out of it, but it doesn't sound that much nuttier than some of the things I do. Their pursuit only brought them out in the daytime. They weren't stumbling around in the dark, trying to keep from tripping over a chunk of granite.

I soldiered on. I stayed close enough to the fence to see the street signs, and I slowed down when I got to Twenty-seventh Street. The others drew closer, and I gestured for them to fan out a ways without advancing any farther north. Then I turned toward where Raymond Callander was supposed to be and pointed my flashlight out in front of me, triggering the trio of flashes we'd agreed on.

For a long moment the only answer was darkness and silence. Then three flashes of light blinked back at me, coming from a little right of dead ahead. They were, I calculated, something like a hundred yards from us, maybe more. It didn't seem that far when someone was running with a football under his arm. Now, though, it looked much too distant.

"Stay where you are," I called out. "We're going to approach a little closer."

"Not too close!"

"About fifty yards," I said. "The way we arranged."

Flanked by Kenan and one of Yuri's men, with the rest of our party not far behind, I covered about half the distance separating us. "That's far enough," Callander called out at one point, but it wasn't far enough and I ignored him and kept on walking. We had to be close enough so that someone could cover the transfer. We had one rifle, and Peter had been entrusted with it, having proved a good marksman during a six-month hitch a while back in the National Guard. Of course that was before a lengthy apprenticeship as a drunk and a dope addict, but he still figured to be the best shot in the group. He had a decent rifle with a scope sight, but the scope wasn't infrared so he'd be aiming by moonlight. I wanted to keep the distance down so that he could make his shots count if he had to.

Although I wondered what difference it made to me. The only reason he'd start shooting would be if the players on the other side tried a cross, and if they did they'd take me out in the first minute of the opening round. If Peter started firing back at them, I wouldn't be around to know where the bullets went.

Cheering thoughts.

When we'd cut the distance in half I signaled to Peter, and he moved off to the side and selected a shooting stand for himself, propping the rifle barrel on a low marble grave marker. I looked for Ray and his partner and could only see shapes. They had drawn back into the darkness.

I said, "Come out where we can see you. And show the girl."

They moved into view. Two forms, and then as the light got better you could see that one form was made up of two persons, that one of the men had the girl in front of him. I heard Yuri's intake of breath and just hoped he'd keep his cool.

"I've got a knife to her throat," Callander called. "If my hand slips—"

"It better not."

"Then you'd better bring the money. And not try anything cute."

I turned, hefted the suitcases, checked our troops. I didn't see TJ and asked Kenan what had happened to him. He said he thought he might have gone back to the car. " 'Feet, do yo' stuff,' " he said. "I don't think he's crazy about graveyards at night."

"Neither am I."

"Listen," he said, "whyntcha tell them we're changing the rules, the money's too heavy for one person to carry, and I'll walk up there with you."

"No."

"Gotta be the hero, huh?"

I can't say I felt terribly heroic. The weight of the suitcases kept me from being particularly jaunty. It looked as though one of the men had a gun, not the one holding the girl, and it looked as though the gun was pointed at me, but I didn't feel in danger of being shot, not unless someone on our side panicked and got off a round and everybody just let fly. If they were going to kill me, they'd at least wait until I'd brought them the money. They might be crazy but they weren't stupid.

"Don't try a thing," Ray said. "I don't know if you can see it, but the knife's right at her throat."

"I can see."

"That's close enough. Put the bags down."

It was Ray holding the girl, holding the knife. I knew his voice but I would have made him from TJ's description, which was right on the money. His jacket was zipped so I couldn't see the lame sport shirt, but I was willing to take TJ's word for it.

The other man was taller, with unkempt dark hair and eyes that looked in the half-light like a pair of holes burned in a bedsheet. He wore no jacket, just a flannel shirt and jeans. I couldn't see his eyes but I could feel the anger in his stare and I wondered what the hell he thought I'd done to provoke it. I was bringing him a million dollars and he was itching to kill me.

"Open the bags."

"First let the girl go."

"No, first show the money."

The pistol Kenan had insisted on giving me was in the small of my back, its barrel wedged under my belt, its bulk concealed by my sport jacket. There is no terribly adroit way to draw it quickly from that position, but I had my hands free now and could go for it.

Instead I knelt and unfastened the snaps on one of the cases, lifting the lid to show the money. I straightened up. The man with the gun started forward and I held up a hand.

"Now let her go," I said. "Then you can examine it. Don't try to change the ground rules now, Ray."

"Ah, sweet Lucy," he said. "I hate to see you go, child."

He let go of her. I'd barely had a chance to look at her, half-shadowed by his body. Even in the darkness she looked pale and drawn. Her hands were clutched together at her waist, her arms tight against her sides, her shoulders hunched. She looked as though she was trying to present the smallest possible target to the world.

I said, "Come here, Lucia." She didn't move. I said, "Your father's over there, darling. Go to your father. Go ahead."

She took a step, then stopped. She looked very unsteady on her feet, and she was gripping one hand tightly with the other.

"Go on," Callander told her. "Run!"

She looked at him, then at me. It was hard to tell what she was seeing because her gaze was unfocused, vacant. I wanted to pick her up, toss her over my shoulder, run back to where her father was waiting.

Or tug my jacket aside with one hand, draw the gun with the other, and drop both of the bastards where they stood. But the dark man's gun was pointing at me, and Callander also had a gun in his hand now, a companion piece for the long knife he was still holding.

I called out to Yuri, told him to call her. "Luschka!" he cried. "Luschka, it's Papa. Come to Papa!"

She recognized the voice. Her brow contracted in concentration, as if she was struggling to make sense out of the syllables.

I said, "In Russian, Yuri!"

He replied with something that I certainly couldn't understand, but it evidently got through to Lucia. Her hands unclasped and she took a step, then another.

I said, "What's the matter with her hand?"

"Nothing."

As she drew alongside me I reached for her hand. She snatched it away from me.

There were two fingers missing.

I stared at Callander. He looked almost apologetic. "Before we set the terms," he said, by way of explanation.

There was another burst of Russian from Yuri, and now she was moving faster, but hardly running. She couldn't seem to manage more than an awkward shuffle, and I wasn't sure how long she could sustain even that much.

But she stayed on her feet and kept going, and I stayed on mine and looked into the barrels of two handguns. The dark man stared silently at me, still a study in rage, while Callander watched the girl. He kept the gun pointed at me but he couldn't keep his eyes from turning to her, and I could feel how much he wanted to swing the gun, too, in her direction.

"I liked her," he said. "She was nice."

oOo

THE rest of it was easy. I opened the second suitcase and stepped back a few paces. Ray came forward to inspect the contents of both cases while his partner kept me covered. The bills got only a cursory examination. He flipped through half a dozen packs, but he didn't count any of them, or make a rough count of the number of packets. Nor did he spot the counterfeits, but I don't think anybody on earth would have.

He closed the cases and fastened their clasps, then drew his gun again and stood aside while the dark-haired man came to pick up both of them, grunting with the effort. It was the first sound he had made in my presence.

"Take one at a time," Callander said.

"They ain't heavy."

"Take one at a time."

"Don't tell me what to do, Ray," he said, but he put down one of the suitcases and went off with the other.

He wasn't gone long, and neither Ray nor I spoke in his absence. When he got back he hefted the second case and pronounced it lighter than its fellow, as if this meant we'd cheated him on the count.

"Then it should be easier to carry," Callander said patiently. "Go ahead now."

"We oughta plug this cocksucker, Ray."

"Another time."

"Fucking dope-dealing cop. Oughta blow his head off."

When he had gone Callander said, "You promised us a week. Will you keep your word on that?"

"Longer if I can."

"I'm sorry about the finger."

"Fingers."

"As you prefer. He's difficult to control."

I thought, But you were the one who used the wire on Pam.

"I appreciate the week's lead time," he went on. "I think it's time to try a change of climate. I don't think Albert will want to come with me."

"You'll leave him here in New York?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"How did you find him?"

He smiled faintly at the question. "Oh," he said, "we found each other. People with specialized tastes often find each other like that."

It was an odd moment. I had the sense that I was talking to the person behind the mask, that our circumstances had provided a rare window of opportunity. I said, "May I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Why the women?"

"Oh, my. Take a psychiatrist to answer that, wouldn't it? Something buried in my childhood, I suppose. Isn't that what it always turns out to be? Weaned too early or too late?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh?"

"I don't care how you got that way. I just want to know why you do it."

"You think I have a choice?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"Hmmm. That's not so easy to answer. Excitement, power, just sheer intensity— words fail me. Do you know what I mean?"

"No."

"Have you ever been on a roller coaster? Now I hate roller coasters, I haven't been on one in years, I get sick to my stomach. But if I didn't hate roller coasters, if I loved them, then that's what it would be like." He shrugged. "I told you. Words fail me."

"You don't sound like a monster."

"Why should I?"

"What you do is monstrous. But you sound like a human being. How can you—"

"Yes?"

"How can you do it?"

"Oh," he said. "They're not real."

"What?"

"They're not real," he said. "The women. They aren't real. They're toys, that's all. When you have a hamburger are you eating a cow? Of course not. You're eating a hamburger." A slight smile. "Walking down the street she's a woman. But once she gets in the truck that's over. She's just body parts."

A chill ran the length of my spine. When that happened my late aunt Peg used to say a goose must have just walked over my grave. A funny expression, that. I wonder where it came from.

"But do I have a choice? I think I do. It's not as though I'm driven to act out every time the moon is full. I always have a choice, and I can choose not to do anything, and I do choose not to, and then one day I choose the other way.

"So what kind of choice is it, really? I can postpone it, but then the time comes when I don't want to postpone it any longer. And postponing just makes it sweeter, anyway. Maybe that's why I do it. I read that maturity consists of the ability to defer gratification, but I don't know if this is what they had in mind."

He looked to be on the point of further revelation, and then something shifted within him and the window of opportunity slammed shut. Whatever real self I'd been talking to ducked back behind its protective body armor. "Why aren't you afraid?" he asked, petulant. "I've got a gun on you and you act like it's a water pistol."

"There's a high-powered rifle trained on you. You wouldn't get a step."

"No, but what good would it do you? You'd think you would be scared. Are you a brave man?"

"No."

"Well, I'm not going to shoot. And let Albert keep everything? No, I don't think so. But I think it's time for me to melt into the shadows. Turn around, start walking back toward your friends."

"All right."

"There's no third man with a rifle. Did you think there was?"

"I wasn't sure."

"You knew there wasn't. That's all right. You got the girl and we got the money. It all worked out."

"Yes."

"Don't try to follow me."

"I won't."

"No, I know you won't."

He didn't say anything more, and I thought he had slipped away. I kept walking, and when I'd gone a dozen steps he called after me.

"I'm sorry about the fingers," he said. "It was an accident."