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Vincent's friend. When the cops interviewed them, all they remembered was the pain.
    "I don't know what you're talking about."
    "I have to make some phone calls," he said.

10
    T HE MEET WAS for ten o'clock. The pay phone in the parking lot off the West Side Highway rang at 9:50. Vincent's voice. "He just went in. Alone."
    A smog–colored Mercedes sedan pulled up. Vincent's life–partner was in the front seat. "Please don't smoke in the car," he said. Didn't say another word to me, looking straight through the windshield. Dropped me off in front of the bar.
    The freak was in a back booth. Short curly brown hair dropped into ringlets over his forehead. Dressed preppie, older than he was. I pegged him for maybe nineteen. Greenish drink in a slim glass in front of him.
    "I'm Burke," I said, sliding into the booth across from him.
    "You have the money?"
    "Sure."
    He dry–washed his hands. Noticed what he was doing. Fired a cigarette with a lighter that looked like a silver pencil. "How can we do this?"
    "You give me the kid, I give you the money."
    "How do I know…?"
    "You called
me
, pal."
    "If I tell you where he is…how do I know I'll get the money?"
    I shrugged. "You want to come along when I pick him up?"
    "I
can't.
That's not the deal."
    "Is there a pay phone in this joint?"
    "I guess so…I'm not sure." He waved his hand. Heavy gold chain on his wrist. Slave bracelet. A waiter came over. Didn't look at me.
    "What will you have?"
    "A ginger ale. Lots of ice, okay?"
    "And for you?" he asked the freak.
    "I'm okay. Do you have a pay phone here?"
    "In the back. Just past the rest rooms."
    "Thanks."
    I lit a smoke, waiting. The waiter came back with my drink. A black cherry floated in the ice. All clear. I leaned forward. "We'll go to the pay phone. I'll call a friend of mine. He takes a look. While we wait, okay? He tells me he's spotted the kid…where you say he is, I give you the cash."
    "Right here?"
    "Right here."
    "You've got it with you?"
    "Sure."
    "Show me."
    "Not here. Out back. Okay?"
    He got up. I followed him. The corridor was shadowy with indirect lighting. Past the rest rooms. No sounds seeped from under the doors—it wasn't that kind of gay bar. The pay phone stood against the wall. I reached in my inside pocket. Took out an envelope. "Count it," I told him. He took it in his hands, opened the flap. He was halfway through the bills before he noticed the pistol in my hand. Blood blanketed his face. Vanished, leaving it chalk–white.
    "What is this?"
    "Just relax. All I want is…"
    Max loomed behind him, one seamed–leather hand locked on the back of the freak's neck. Pain took over his eyes, his mouth shot open in a thin squeak. I holstered the pistol, took the envelope from his limp hand. Max pushed the freak ahead of him. I slipped out the back door first, checked the alley where my Plymouth was parked. Empty.
    We stepped outside. I heard bolts being slammed home behind us. I popped the trunk on the Plymouth. Wrapped the duct tape around the freak's mouth a few times, lifting the hair off the back of his head so it wouldn't catch. Max slapped the heel of his hand lightly into the freak's stomach. The freak doubled over. I put my lips right against his ear. "We're going for a ride. Nothing's going to happen to you. We wanted you dead, we'd leave you right in this alley. You're riding in the trunk. You make any noise, kick around back there, anything at all, we stop the car and we hurt you. Real, real bad. Now nod your head, tell me you understand."
    The freak's head bobbed up and down. The trunk was lined with army blankets next to the fuel cell. Plenty of room. He climbed in without a word. Max and I got into the front seat and took off.

11
    I USED THE Exact Change lane on the Triboro, grabbed the first exit, and ran parallel to Bruckner Boulevard through the South Bronx to Hunts Point. Turned off at Tiffany, motored past the mini–Attica they call a juvenile detention facility at the corner of