Not that Buster was afraid. Hell, he'd never been afraid. He could still drop three guys in a bar-fight. Any time. Hadn't he done so last night in his neighborhood tavern on the way home from work? Damned right. Nonetheless his impulsive footwork and jabbing, combined with the smoke from the cigar stub in his mouth, made him wheeze. He felt like that one time he'd taken a vacation to Colorado and had never been able to catch his breath in the mountains.

Maybe I ought to give up these cigars. After all, that's what the doctor said.

Shit, no. Life's too short. Hey, what does that frigging doctor know? Was he a contender? Sure, it's easy enough for him to give advice. He looks like a kid, for Christ's sake. And that Rolex he wears. He must have been born with a silver spoon in his asshole. He doesn't understand.

Too bad – too damned bad – about those last three bouts. Buster had always regretted being forced to take a dive – no, three dives – because Don Vincenzo had a cousin who was a fighter and who'd been chosen to be the contender that Buster was supposed to be.

Well, that cousin's glass jaw had put the kabash on his career, Buster thought with bitter delight. But my career had gone in the toilet, and…

Never mind. Waving smoke from his face, puffing on the final remnant of his Cuban cigar – at least, Don Vincenzo remembered the guys he owed favors – Buster told himself he had work to do. Or else Don Vincenzo would be pissed.

Buster savored the final puff from Castro's tobacco and crunched the last of the butt in an overflowing ashtray. Got to get this frigging place cleaned up some time, he thought.

But there was work to do, and as Buster scowled at the scratch mark that his match had left on his battered wooden desk, straight across a circular stain made by a beer can, he told himself that a working man needed rewards now and then. Not just cigars, but…

Yeah.

Buster groped beneath his desk and grabbed the last can of beer in a hollow-sounding twelve-pack. He popped the tab and took several deep swallows.

Vitamins.

Yeah.

He licked his lips, then reminded himself. Work to do. Any minute, Big Joe and his brother were due to arrive at this warehouse with the truck. The three of them would unload the red plastic containers that, except for their color and what they were made of, resembled the canister of natural gas attached to Buster's outdoor barbecue grill.

Not that Buster liked to barbecue. Although his nagging wife did. What a pain in the ass.

When he, Big Joe, and Big Joe's brother emptied the containers into several large metal bins, they'd close the hatches on the bins to conceal their contents and use a forklift truck to place the bins in a sling, which would hoist them onto a barge. Tonight, the three of them would take a cruise down the Hudson River and across to the tip of Long Island.

And dump the shit they were carrying.

Because their cargo – Buster sipped more beer and shivered -was medical waste.

Used needles.

Contaminated bandages.

Infected blood.

Rotting human tissue.

Well, Buster thought and guzzled more beer, it's a dirty job -

–  he forced himself to chortle -

–  but some poor bastard has to do it. Especially for Don Vincenzo.

Despite the beer that cleared his head from this morning's hangover, Buster sobered.

Yeah, especially for Don Vincenzo. Because if you refuse the Don, you make him unhappy, and when the Don's unhappy, you get your knees broken. And that's only for starters. Fuck the Cuban cigars. When the Don's unhappy, he doesn't just have your knees broken. He butchers you.

And anyway, what's the harm in dumping the needles and the bandages into the ocean? Buster asked himself, wishing he'd thought to buy more beer. There's a land-fill crisis. That's what I read in the frigging papers. Too much garbage. Not enough space to get rid of all that shit. Too many frigging condominiums. Not enough holes in the ground. And nobody wants – what do they call them? – incinerators to get rid of medical waste. The damned yuppies think they'll get a disease if they breathe the smoke. But Don Vincenzo's got the biggest garbage-disposal outfit in eastern New Jersey. So where's he supposed to put all the junk, especially the crap from the hospitals?

The answer was simple.

There's plenty of ocean.

You bet. More than half the world, maybe three-quarters, is frigging water, isn't it? Plenty. I mean plenty of room for a few barges of needles and bandages.

Okay, all right, the tide sometimes works against us, Buster thought. Sometimes the shit drifts back toward land. Sometimes the needles and bandages float up on the beaches.

Give me a break. Is that my fault? I do my job. I dump the stuff. If the ocean works against me, I'm not to blame.

Yeah, he thought.

Sure.

So a few yuppies don't get to swim in the ocean for a couple of days while the junk's cleaned up.

So what?

Let the cleanup squad do its job while I do mine.

A buzzer sounded. Buster set down his beer and straightened. The buzzer was the signal that Big Joe and his brother had backed the truck toward the warehouse and were waiting for Buster to raise the door.

About time. Buster pressed a button. A rumble shook the rickety warehouse as its door rose. Big Joe's truck backed into the warehouse toward the barge containers. Its engine burping, the truck stopped.

Buster jabbed the button that lowered the rumbling door and stalked from his office. 'You're late,' he growled as the driver's door swung open.

But Big Joe didn't step down.

In his place, a man whom Buster had never met jumped lithely onto the concrete floor.

'Hi.' The man, in his thirties, in great shape, grinned.

'Who the hell are you?'

'I hate to say it, but Big Joe had an accident. Tragic. Terrible.'

'Accident? What kind of…?'

'Horrible. A fire. His trailer. Died in his sleep.'

'My God.' Buster wheezed. 'But Big Joe's brother…! Where is he? Does he know?'

'In a way.'

That doesn't make sense! Either he does, or he doesn't!'

'Well, he did, that's for sure,' the handsome, robust stranger said. 'But he doesn't anymore. See, he's dead. Another fire. Awful. His house burned down last night.'

'What are you telling me?'

'You're next.'

With a bang, the truck's passenger door jolted open, two men leaping down.

Buster rubbed his eyes. The other men resembled the first man.

Trim.

Lithe.

Handsome.

Tawny skin.

Early thirties.

As they neared him, Buster realized that they resembled each other in a further way. It had to be a trick of the light. They all seemed to have gray eyes.

'So, Buster, we've got a problem,' the first man said.

'Oh, yeah?' Buster stepped backward and raised his famous right fist. 'What problem?'

'The needles. The bandages. The contaminated blood. You're poisoning the ocean.'

'Hey, all I'm doing is what Don Vincenzo tells me.'

'Sure. Well, you don't need to take his orders anymore. Don Vincenzo's dead.'

'What?

'Would you believe it? Amazing. Really. No kidding. Yet another fire.'

Buster stumbled farther backward. 'What the fuck? Hey, don't come any closer! I'm warning you!'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah.' With unbelievable agility, the first man ducked under Buster's jabbing fists, avoided the former contender's famous right hook, and slammed his nose so hard that Buster fell to the floor, seeing double, spewing blood.

'Listen carefully,' the man said. 'We're not going to burn you.'

Sickened by his pain and his doubled vision, Buster wheezed in relief. He had to admit that any of these three men were in better condition than any opponent he'd faced. If they were willing to bargain, maybe he had a chance.