Rollie said, "So the man likes kink with black chicks. Mob dagos been going for the dark meat since the speakeasy days in the twenties. Sal ain't gonna give a shit about that."

"It's more than just a taste for the dark, Mr. George." The smile, the cigarette glowing hotly. "I'm told that his passion is short-lived, but that he pays very well. I would think that if anyone would know something, a person in that position might."

"You got a name?"

"There was a woman named Angelette Silver, though she's no longer in the trade. I believe she works in a florist shop on 122nd Street, in Harlem." The smile. "But she may not be likely to help."

"Why not?"

"Charlie uses them up rather quickly, you see. He can be quite a violent man." Walter's eyes twinkled when he said it, as if somehow the knowledge of it was delicious. Then he shook his head sadly. "Their parting wasn't on the best of terms."

"But he pays very well."

The smile. "Yes. For every buyer there is a seller, for every seller, a buyer."

Rollie said, "Shit."

I said, "Walter, you in here ratting on the mob, aren't you scared they'll nail you?"

The smile, the Lark. "I've always been willing to sell what no one else would sell, Mr. Cole. I find it quite" – the smile grew broader and the Lark glowed hotly – "gratifying. Do be careful with Mr. DeLuca. He's quite mad, you know."

"That's what they tell me, Walter. Thanks."

"I hope this has helped you."

"Sure, Walter. Maybe it has."

Volpe opened the door and tapped his watch. "The guys from the Bureau are here."

Roland nodded, and then we went out into the hall, leaving Walter Lee Balcom sitting quietly at the table, smoking and smiling a gentle smile to himself.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Out in the hall Rollie said, "What's this business about Charlie being up to something?"

I told him what I had.

When I finished, he said, "You figure Charlie's got his own private little nest egg growing down in Barbados."

"That's what I need to find out. If he does, then I can use it to make him turn loose my client."

Rollie nodded. "What kind of money we talking here?"

"Forty, sixty grand at a crack during the last five months. Smaller money before."

Roland whistled. "That's serious crime. Sal wouldn't mind the nickel-and-dime stuff, postal scams, unregulated hijacking, that kind of thing, all the capos got something going, but fifty grand." He shook his head.

"Could Charlie's crew be turning that kind of cash with nobody knowing about it?"

"No way. When these guys talk about family, they really mean it. Guys in Charlie's crew got brothers, cousins, uncles in all the other DeLuca crews. These guys get drunk together, they have barbecues. It'd be easier to keep a secret in a newsroom."

"So if Charlie's got something going, he's keeping it from his own crew."

"That's a pretty good bet." Rollie looked thoughtful, then watched as a trim Chinese woman came out of the elevator and walked down the hall to a door with frosted glass. She had nice calves. When the door was closed, he looked back at me. "Course, Sal might be the only other guy in the family who knows. Sal might be skimming a little off the top for Charlie 'cause it's his kid."

"I thought about that."

"And if Sal's in on it, you're screwed."

I spread my hands. "It's a position I'm accustomed to. Do me another favor?"

"Name it."

"Can you check the JD files for anyone named 'Richie' in the DeLuca family?"

"Sure." Then he said, "Elvis?"

"Uh-huh."

"What he said in there about Charlie being nuts, you remember that."

I gave him a smile. Dawn Patrol. Errol Flynn courageous in the face of certain doom.

I left Rollie downstairs and took the elevator up to the lobby where I used a pay phone to get the number for the New York City Florists Association. The Florists Association told me that there were four flower shops on 122nd Street, two in Morningside Heights, one in Harlem, and one in East Harlem. They had no listing for an Angelette Silver as a licensed florist, and they couldn't tell me in which shop she might work. I copied down the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the four shops, thanked them, and hung up.

I got change at the little cigar stand they have there in the lobby, then went back to the phones and called Victor's Floral Gifts and asked to speak to Angelette Silver. A businesslike woman who sounded to be in her forties said that she was sorry, but no one by that name worked there. I thanked her, hung up, and called the Gilded Lily. A man with a heavy, masculine voice told me that he didn't know anyone named Angelette, but that he was certain he could meet my every need without her help. I thanked him and hung up and called Rudy's Florist. Rudy didn't know anyone named Angelette, either, though he did know a guy named Angel. Would that do? I said that I thought not. The fourth shop was a place called Your Secret Garden. An older woman with a soft southern accent answered.

I said, "May I speak with Angelette Silver, please?"

There was an uncertain pause. "You mean Sarah?"

There were voices in the background, then something covered the mouthpiece, then a heavy male voice came on. "You got the wrong number. Nobody by that name works here." He hung up. Hard.

Hmm.

I picked up the Taurus from the parking garage, then took Canal over to the West Side Highway, then went north past the Village and the Lincoln Tunnel on my way up to 122nd. Maybe I was on to something. Walter Lee Balcom had put me on to Angelette Silver, who very likely was living under the name Sarah, and maybe Angelette Silver could connect me either to someone named Richie or someone who knew what Charlie DeLuca was up to. If I could just keep Charlie DeLuca from killing either Karen Lloyd or me until I knew who or what that was, all of this might work out. Stranger things have been known to happen.

On the Henry Hudson Parkway at 86th Street, halfway up the island and along the Hudson River, I spotted a metallic-brown Chevrolet following me four cars back and one lane over.

I swung south on Broadway, then east on 86th, then south again on Columbus, but he stayed with me, always four cars back, once gunning it through a red light to keep his position. Pretty good. I wondered if it was Ric.

An eight-wheel flower truck was parked on Columbus in the right-turn lane at the corner of 76th Street. Traffic was backed up and horns were blowing and people who wanted to turn right had to work their way slowly around the truck. I turned right with them and slowed it down even more, staying hidden behind the flower truck until the traffic had cleared ahead of me. I goosed the Taurus half a block down, then threw it into park in the middle of 76th Street and was out of the car and walking back up the sidewalk when the metallic-brown Chevrolet came around the corner. It wasn't Ric.

The guy behind the wheel played it well. Traffic was backing up again and more horns were blowing and the other cars were putting on their blinkers and trying to get around the Taurus, so he put on his blinker and got into line to get around the Taurus, too.

I walked out into the street behind him and went up around his car and put the Dan Wesson in through the driver's side window. "Surprise."

He was a medium-sized guy in his early forties with a precise manner and a nice tan and thick hair. He kept both hands on the steering wheel, left in the ten o'clock position and right in the two o'clock position, just like they teach in driving school. He was staring at the gun. "Jesus Christ, put that away. Where the hell do you think we are, Beirut?"

Around us, drivers were blowing their horns and a fat guy with a three-day stubble called us assholes and told us to get out of the street and nobody seemed to mind too much that I was holding the Dan Wesson. Just another story in the naked city.