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expendable. If anyone got caught and considered singing, one of Alberto’s
     lethal emissaries paid a visit to his house. Arnold was a jerk, but he wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t sung; he’d turned on Joe Shork
     instead. Two practiced liars, but one of them had to be telling the truth.
    Before going up to Harlem, I decided to stop off at Victory Wrecking, just for laughs.

CHAPTER
5
    S hork was in his office, a dark blue clapboard shack that sat like a bruise at the entrance to the wrecking yard. He was ogling
     a girlie magazine as I walked in. When he saw me, he turned it around for show-and-tell.
    “Some babe, huh, pal?” he said, as if we’d been chummy for an hour. The babe was in her mid-forties, overweight and melon-breasted,
     her lower torso contorted to display her sagging back porch at the same time.
    “Not your type?” Shork asked when I didn’t react.
    “I prefer ’em live and with a little more class.”
    Shork put the magazine down, marking the page. “So, what can I do for ya?” I didn’t answer because I was studying his face.
     It was on the pale, pasty side and small-featured. He had the standard number-two-pencil mustache that was all the rage with
     petty grifters, and his skin was pitted with acne craters. That, or somebody had peppered his face with buckshot. Considering
     his line of work, the buckshot seemed just as likely.“Ya need parts? Ya wanna sell a wreck?” he prompted.
    “Came to talk about Arnold.”
    Shork exploded out of the chair and spat a litany of expletives that made my heart glow. I took a seat next to the desk, smiled
     engagingly, and enjoyed the moment. When he’d finished, he muscled himself back into the chair, his face red as a new turnip.
     “Fuckin’ little prick!” he said in closing.
    His expression changed suddenly, as if a stray second thought had intruded. “Yer not a cop, are ya?”
    “Nothin’ like that.” I explained about Mr. Pulaski. “Believe me, Joe, I’m just doin’ this by the numbers.”
    Shork put on an outraged face. “Can ya
believe
the little bastard? He steals the goddamn D.A.’s car and says
I
put him up to it! Can ya believe that shit?! Fuckin’ little wiseass prick! Shoulda never took him on. Hey, ya want a drink
     or somethin’?” He was already rummaging in one of the desk drawers.
    “Sure. Whatever you’ve got.”
    Shork brought out a bottle and two shot glasses and poured us each a double. “It ain’t Johnnie Walker, but it burns good goin’
     down.”
    The door swung open as he finished pouring. The two goons who entered looked strangely familiar. They were big and broad-shouldered
     and wore heavy coats. Their fedoras kept their eyes in shadow. Shork’s own eyes grew wide and fearful as he tried, poorly,
     to hide that fear. He gestured, as if to summon them, but they didn’t move. I kept trying to place them. The Barracuda Brothers,
     possibly, but until I saw two mouths full of pointy teeth I couldn’t be sure.
    One of the goons shut the door and blocked it as his partnerapproached Shork. The partner gave me a passing glance, then leaned over and whispered in Shork’s ear. It was a lengthy message.
     Shork did a lot of nodding, streams of sweat rolling down his pale, cratered face.
    When the big goon was through whispering, he saw Shork’s fear and grinned. The goon at the door matched him. Not the Barracuda
     Brothers, I realized. More like Superman and Calamari Breath, the faceless phantoms from my nightmare.
    When they sauntered out, Shork and I both breathed a little easier. We made small talk and drank for a while. A minion or
     two knocked on the door to present an invoice or paper for Shork to sign. As if to prove he was still in charge, Shork snapped
     at each of them. Finally, a little pie-eyed, he gave me another suspicious look.
    “What’d ya say yer name was?”
    “I didn’t, but it’s Lombardi.”
    “And yer helpin’ this little jerk?”
    “Uh uh. Just goin’ through the motions for