A half-eaten BLT and a hundred-dollar bill sat between them on the Formica tabletop, the latter weighted down by a salt shaker. Teddy's head was steady now as he sat and sipped and kept glancing at the Ben.

    "For sure," Jack said. "What I don't know is his real name and where to find him."

    Bobble seemed to think on this, then took a big bite of his sandwich and spoke around it. "The Man ain't involved, right?"

    Bits of bacon and mayo sprayed the tabletop and the c-note. Eating with this guy was like sitting front-row center at a Gallagher concert.

    "Not at all."

    "Because I already feel like a snitch as it is. Things've been kinda tight lately, y'know? But if fingering him is gonna bring real heat down on this guy…"

    Jack wanted to shake him but knew he had to let Bobble run through his guilt trip.

    "I understand. Reason my guy came to me is because he doesn't want the police involved. And there's a good chance 'Eddie' might make something on the deal."

    "What if he doesn't want to deal?"

    Jack shrugged. "That's his choice. I've been hired to get something he stole back into the hands of the previous owner. There's an easy way, and there's a hard way. I prefer the easy way, and so should your friend, 'Eddie.' Especially since my guy might be willing to pay a ransom. A little cooperation and it can be a win-win-win-win situation."

    Bobble frowned. "Huh?"

    "You get money, 'Eddie' gets money, I get my fee, and the guy gets his property back. We all walk away happy."

    Bobblehead nodded. He seemed to like that spin.

    "And if he's not who you're looking for?"

    Jack tapped the bill, right on Ben Franklin's forehead. "Like I said: If I think your info's in good faith, you get this to keep. If it's the right guy, you get another."

    He sighed and stuffed the end of the BLT into his mouth before speaking. "All right. Here's how it goes: When I heard you was looking for a second-story man going under Eddie Cordero, Hugh Gerrish popped into my head right away. He's a major possibility."

    "Possibility? So this is a guess? You don't know this guy uses that AK?"

    Jack wasn't looking for guesses. Guesses could send him chasing ghosts.

    "No. Don't know for sure, but dig: Gerrish is a second-story man who loves the ponies, especially the thoroughbreds. Take two of the greatest jockeys in history, mash their names together, and you come up with Eddie Cordero."

    Jack leaned back, as much to avoid the Sledge-o-Matic effect from Bobblehead as to think. That was why the name had rung a bell. Jack had worked a racetrack scam in his younger days. Didn't care for the sport, but anyone who knew anything about the ponies knew the names Eddie Arcaro and Angel Cordero.

    "Did he disappear for a while and come back with a tan?"

    "No tan, but he disappears for a couple weeks and then he pops up again, and he's buying rounds, saying what a sweet job he pulled."

    "No details?"

    "He's smarter'n that."

    Jack mulled this a bit. Definite possibilities here.

    "Okay, he sounds worth a shot. Where's he live?"

    He shrugged, setting his head to bobbling. "Don't know him well enough for that. We both just tend to end up at the Fifth Quarter down on St. Mark's. But you can find out easily enough."

    "Yeah?"

    "He's out at Belmont most every day during the season—'cept Mondays and Tuesdays when it's dark. And since this is the season, all you gotta do is find him and follow him home."

    "Great. But I don't know what he looks like."

    "He's forty-something, real skinny, brown hair—dollars to donuts he dyes the gray—and…"

    His voice trailed off as he saw Jack's face. Must have reflected the disappointment and frustration he felt. Wasted time.

    "You know how many guys at the track look like that? Next you'll tell me he wears a Yankees cap—"

    "Naw-naw, he's a Mets fan."

    "I need a Capone scar, I need an Aaron Neville mole. And if he hasn't got anything like that, I need a photo."

    Jack slipped the Ben from beneath the salt shaker and began to slide it toward his side of the table.

    "Hey, wait."

    "Good story, Teddy. But no address? No picture? No deal."

    Bobble grabbed his wrist. "Wait! Wait! I ran into him last Saturday during the Fifth Quarter's Preakness party, just a couple days after he showed up from his 'sweet job.' Bastard won big too."

    "So?"

    "So Suzy the bartender was taking pictures with her phone when we were celebrating. I think she got one of me with Gerrish and some other guy. If we're lucky, maybe she hasn't erased them."

    Jack rose and shoved the hundred into his pocket.

    "Looks like we're heading for the East Village."

    It hadn't taken Hideo long to single out Kenji as the smartest of the yakuza assigned to him. And although he seemed the oldest of the three, he could not be much past twenty-seven or twenty-eight.

    He was the only one to exhibit any signs of intellectual curiosity. His two fellow hoodlums, Goro and Ryo, seemed to have no interests beyond smoking, drinking, watching TV, and playing cards.

    Hideo didn't understand the need for Kaze Group's alliance with various yakuza groups. More powerful than all of them combined, it could crush them in a matter of days if it so wished. Yet it maintained ties. Why? Because it required a buffer between it and certain activities?

    He had noticed that once out of sight of his fellows, Kenji dropped his swagger and confrontational demeanor and became a sponge for any knowledge or information to be had.

    "What do we do now, Takita-san?" he said in English.

    Good for you, Hideo thought.

    Of the three, Kenji spoke the best English, and was obviously trying to hone whatever fluency he had.

    The taxi trail had led to a dead end. Hideo had gone to the cab company and paid off the dispatcher to let him check the fare records of the vehicle in question. Yes, it had picked up a passenger at Kennedy at shortly after four P.M. that day, but had dropped him off at Belmont raceway. Hideo doubted the mystery man lived at the racetrack, so he'd have to find another way.

    Sitting at his workstation, he called up one of the close-ups he'd culled from the surveillance tapes.

    "I'm going to run this through our latest facial recognition program, map the landmarks of his features, and create a mathematical faceprint."

    As he started the programs, a series of dots of varying colors began to appear on the face, connected by multicolored lines. Then numbers popped up as calculations were completed.

    Kenji pointed to the screen. "You can no longer see his face."

    But Hideo's gaze was drawn from the screen to Kenji's hand. The tip of his left little finger was missing, cut off at the first joint. Hideo knew what this meant: yubitsume. Kenji must have made a mistake somewhere along the line and, by way of apology for his wrongdoing, cut off the tip and sent it to his kumicho, begging forgiveness.

    Apparently he was forgiven, or he wouldn't be here. Hideo hadn't noticed it during the trip because he'd worn a fake fingertip to divert suspicion. Traveling yakuza often became targets of increased scrutiny.

    Kenji's cuff had slipped back, revealing the lower end of an intricately patterned sleeve tattoo. Hideo had never seen these yakuza unclothed, but he would bet Kenji and Goro and Ryo were covered with them, head to toe. Yakuza tradition demanded it.

    "Takita-san?"

    Hideo snapped his attention back to the screen. What had Kenji said? Oh, about not seeing the face.