“How many floors?”

“Nine.”

“Shit.”

“Shut up, and let’s get moving.” They stopped twice to rest and finally stepped into the ninth-floor hallway. They tiptoed to the door, and Tommy let them in and switched on a light.

“Not bad,” Charlie said.

“There’s only one bed; one of us will have to sleep on the sofa.”

“Toss you for it.”

“Fuck you. And keep the noise down; we don’t want to attract attention from the neighbors.” They busied themselves with getting settled, and Tommy plugged in his laptop computer, connecting it to the laser printer already on a desk in the apartment.

“I’m whipped,” Charlie said, flopping down on the sofa.

“Let’s get some sleep, then. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

The following morning Stone walked stiffly out of the hospital and rode home in a cab with Arrington.

“You need some help with the steps?” she asked.

“I’ll manage,” he said. but the climbing made his ribs hurt. While Arrington went to consult Helene about lunch, he took the elevator upstairs and went to the safe in his dressing room. He took out a German.765 caliber automatic pistol, a small but damaging weapon, then he dressed in pajamas and a robe and put the pistol into a robe pocket. Finally, and with some difficulty, he knelt next to his bed, retrieved the shotgun from its hiding place under the bed. and set it where he could easily reach it. Only then did he prop himself up in bed. When he next met the Messrs. Bruce, he intended to be ready.

Enrico Bianchi got out of his car on a narrow street in Little Italy and walked into the La Boheme Coffee House. He nodded to several people at tables, then went straight through to a rear room, where a nattily dressed young man awaited him.

“Good morning, padrone,” the young man said.

Bianchi tapped his ear with a finger and made a circular motion in the air.

“It was swept ten minutes ago,” the young man said. “We’re all right.”

“What happened yesterday?” Bianchi asked, taking a chair.

“A waiter who runs numbers spotted them on West Forty-fourth Street. He got excited and took their photograph, and they ran. He tried to follow them, but they were gone. We checked the block and found out they had checked in at the Mansfield Hotel less than half an hour before. They returned there, got their bags, and left in a hurry.”

“And now?”

“They’ve gone to ground. As soon as they hit the streets, we’ll have them.”

“Let me see the photograph,” Bianchi said.

The young man handed him a snapshot.

“Yes, that’s our boys.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find them.”

“We have a new problem. I had a call this morning; the police are now looking for them, and they’ve got photographs, too, although we managed to slow the prints down a little.”

“That’s not good.”

“It means that we will just have to find them first, and if we do, we won’t have as much time as I’d hoped to fake a crime. The important thing, though, is that they are dead.”

“I understand.”

“I want a dozen men on the streets on the Upper East Side, ready to do the work at a moment’s notice. Give them stolen cellular telephones, and tell them to be brief when they use them.”

“No problem.”

“Be sure each man has a silenced weapon, too, and tell them to use knives if at all possible. This will have to be done quickly and with little fuss.”

“What about bystanders?”

“Leave no one alive who could identify our people. I don’t want this to come back to us.”

“Yes, padrone.”

“Get to me the minute you have news.” Bianchi left the coffeehouse and went back to his car.

Dino stood in the squad room handing out photographs. “Sorry these took so long, but we had problems with the photo lab. We’re looking for these two for aggravated battery, but the thing is, we think one or both of them may have capped Arnie Millman, so this is an all-out push. Those of you on a beat, I want every doorman in a hotel or apartment building to see these pictures. If you glom onto these guys, don’t try to take them; call for backup. I don’t want no dead heroes. Got that?”

There was a murmur of assent from the gathering.

“Okay, get on it,” Dino said, then went back to his office and called Stone. “How you feeling, pal?”

“A lot better, thanks.”

“The pictures of the Bruces are on the street; we’re doing a full-court press.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Stone, I hope you won’t go looking for these guys.”

“You can always hope.”

“It’s better to let us find them. You can be the star witness at the trial. Stay home and get well.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You got a piece?”

“I have.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“I never fail to take your advice twice, Dino.”

Stone hung up the phone, got undressed, shaved, and showered. Arrington rewound the Ace bandage around his sore ribs.

“How’s that?” she asked.

“It’s okay; I’m really feeling a lot better.”

“I’m going out for a while; will you be okay?”

“Sure. Where you going?”

“I’ve got to see somebody at The New Yorker, and then I want to run by my place for a minute. In my rush to get to you I forgot half my makeup.”

“You wear makeup?”

“You’re sweet.”

Chapter 55

Richard Hickock had just finished a sandwich at his desk when he heard the fax machine ring in the outer office. His secretary was at lunch, so he got up and walked through the large double doors that separated him from his four office workers and checked the machine. As he watched, a single sheet of paper was fed into the bin. He picked it up.

DIRT

Greetings, earthlings! Time for the BIG story!

Those of you who have followed the riches-to-riches career of Richard Hickock, and who may have admired the taste and style of his many publications, might like to know about the underside of Dickie’s paper empire.

Our Dickie owns a corporation you never heard of, one called WINDOW SEAT. Remember that name, because you’re going to be reading a lot about it, though maybe not in Dickie’s papers. WINDOW SEAT, which is operated on a day-to-day basis by Dickie’s brother-in-law, Martin Wynne, is a holding company based in Zurich that holds interests in publications as diverse as The Infiltrator and two equally lascivious European tabloids, one in London, one in Dusseldorf. So while spouting off about journalistic integrity, Dickie is licking the cream off a pie that also contains three gay porn magazines, and an Internet business that sends out photos of charmingly posed, quite beautiful children in the arms of less charming grownups.

These “organs” are pumping cash, at the current rate of $70,000,000 a year, straight into bank accounts in the Caymans and in Zurich. (We have the account numbers, for those who are really interested.) What we know will shock you to the core is that our own dear Internal Revenue Service has never seen so much as a sawbuck in taxes on these swill-gotten gains! (Admit it, aren’t you shocked?)

Just in case there are any doubters among you, we’ve prepared a dozen packets containing chapter and verse and addressed them to some of our nation’s leading newspapers and television networks, not to mention the boys and girls at the IRS. Once these are sent, we predict that less than twenty-four hours will pass before Dickie is in either a federal lockup or Brazil! Stay tuned for more!