phone, talked to him, but she never did when he was away. Never. Sheila or anybody else wanted to get hold of her, they had to call one of the neighbors or come over in person. She didn't want anything to do with him when he was away, didn't want to know what he was doing or even when he'd be back. "Suppose I picked up the phone and it wasn't you?" she'd said. "Suppose it was somebody telling me you were dead? I couldn't stand that." That part of it didn't make sense to him. If he were dead, somebody'd come by and tell it to her face; dead was dead, and what difference did it make how she got the news? But he didn't argue with her. He didn't like to argue with her, and it didn't cost him anything to do it her way.
He slotted the quarter again and called the Shooter's number. Four rings, five, and D'Allesandro's voice said, "Yeah?"
"Mr. Carson?"
"Who?"
"Isn't this Paul Carson?"
"No. You got the wrong number."
"Oh, sorry," Deighan said, and rang off.
Another quarter in the slot. This time the number he punched out was the Nevornia's business line. A woman's voice answered, crisp and professional. He said, "Mr. Mannlicher. Tell him it's urgent."
"Whom shall I say is calling?"
"Never mind that. Just tell him it's about what happened last night."
"Sir, I'm afraid I can't—"
"Tell him last night's poker game, damn it. He'll talk to me."
There was a click and some canned music began to play in his ear. He lit a cigarette. He was on his fourth drag when the canned music quit and the fat man's voice said, "Frank Mannlicher. Who's this?"
"No names. Is it all right to talk on this line?"
"Go ahead, talk."
"I'm the guy who hit your game last night."
Silence for four or five seconds. Then Mannlicher said, "Is that so?" in a flat, wary voice.
"Ski mask, Smith & Wesson .38, grenade in my jacket pocket. The take was better than two hundred thousand. I got your ring—platinum with a circle of diamonds."
Another pause, shorter this time. "So why call me today?"
"How'd you like to get it all back—the money and the ring?"
" How? "
"Go pick it up. I'll tell you where."
"Yeah? Why should you do me a favor?"
"I didn't know who you were last night. I wasn't told. If I had been, I wouldn't of gone through with it. I don't mess with people like you, people with your connections."
"Somebody hired you, that it?"
"That's it."
"Who?"
"D'Allesandro."
" What? "
" The Shooter. D'Allesandro."
". . . Bullshit."
"You don't have to believe me. But I'm telling you—he's the one. He didn't tell me who'd be at the game, and now he's trying to screw me on the money. He says there was less than a hundred and fifty thousand in the sack; I know better."
"So now you want to screw him."
"That's right. Besides, I don't like the idea of you pushing to find out who I am, maybe sending some body to pay me a visit someday. I figure if I give you the Shooter, you'll lose interest in me."
More silence. "Why'd he do it?" Mannlicher said in a different voice—harder, with the edge of violence it had held last night. "Hit the game like that?"
"He needs some big money, fast. He's into some kind of scam back east; he wouldn't say what it is."
"Where's the money and the rest of the stuff?"
"At his cabin. We had a drop arranged in the woods; I put the sack there last night, he picked it up this morning when nobody was around. The money's in his desk—the big rolltop. Your ring, too. That's where it was an hour ago, anyhow, when I walked out."
Mannlicher said, "In his desk," as if he were biting the words off something bitter.
"Go out there, see for yourself."
"If you're telling this straight, you got nothing to worry about from, me. Maybe I'll fix you up with a reward or something. Where can I get in touch?"
"You can't," Deighan said. "I'm long gone as soon as I hang up this phone."
"I'll make it five thousand. Just tell me where you—"
Deighan broke the connection.
His cigarette had burned down to the filter; he dropped it on the