Pellams voice was patient and tired. "I can't help you."

Peterson came back to earth. He opened another file folder and, preoccupied, dug inside.

Pellam asked, "What about protecting Nina?"

"I think she'd be safer if she left town. There isn't much we can do."

"I know some reporters," Pellam said ominously. "They might be interested in this story. You refusing to protect people unless they testify for you."

Peterson slipped an utterly good-natured smile into position on his egg-shaped face. "Oh, I don't think that'd be a very good story."

"You never know."

Peterson lifted several pieces of paper out of the file. "The problem with reporters," he said, flipping through the sheets, "is that they like the lowest denominators of any situation. This witness story of yours isn't really a grabber."

Pellam waved an arm in frustration and started toward the door.

"This story," the U.S. Attorney said with a smile, "would be much better."

The bulletin left Peterson's hand and floated down to the desk. The California bear seal was in the upper left-hand corner and in the center of the white, wrinkled sheet were two photos and several brief paragraphs.

The photos weren't of Peter Crimmins or of live gangsters or dead bystanders but were of John Pellam himself.

He looked exhausted, puffy-eyed, unshaven. They showed him from two angles-straight on and in profile. Beneath them were words in slightly uneven lines, suggesting that they were typed by a cheap typewriter. Among these words were Pellam's name, vital statistics, the date the photo was taken and the names of several Los Angeles County Sheriffs Department deputies. At the bottom of the bulletin was this information: Charged with: murder, manslaughter, sale/possession of controlled substances.

FIFTEEN

"Does your boss know you did time?"

Pellam lowered his hand from the doorknob. He returned to Peterson's desk and sat down. He stared at the picture.

Turn your head… We want a profile. Turn your head… Him? Yeah, he's the one killed that actor. Yep, sure is."

Peterson said cheerfully, "You know, I seem to remember something of surety law. Wouldn't your film company's bond get lifted if an ex-felon was on the payroll? Especially with a drug charge?"

"I was acquitted on the drug and murder charges."

"Don't quibble, Mr. Pellam. The victim died because you delivered two ounces of cocaine to him, didn't you? This Tommy Bernstein, the young man in question."

The best friend in question.

Pellam reached forward and touched the photo of himself.

"Put this here jumpsuit on, then we cuff you and take you downstairs. You hassle us, we hassle you and we got batons and you don't, you know what I'm saying? Now, move."

The reason that he had not been able to attend Tommy's memorial service was that he was in a Los Angeles County Sheriffs Department holding cell, pending arraignment.

Pellam, staring at his own gaunt image, was long past feeling the need to explain, to shake his head with a grim, tight mouth and tell how Tommy had begged him for the stuff, crying. Please, just this once, John, help me, help me, help me. I can't work without it. I see the cameras, man, and I freeze. I mean, I fucking freeze. You gotta help me… Tommy Bernstein, lovable madman and brilliant actor, leaning on Pellam's shoulder, tears in thick streaks shooting down his doughy face, pathetic and looking just like the child that, in the core of his soul, he was and would always be-the child that Pellam should have recognized.

No, he wouldn't explain this to the sour, cold man he now sat in front of. He said only, "It was a long time ago."

Peterson regarded him coolly. "An ex-felon is an ex-felon. You can't ever take that away."

"No, you can't."

Peterson repeated. "Does your boss know?"

"No."

"It's purely a civil matter. I don't have any legal duty to tell him. But I do feel a certain sense of moral obligation. He would fire you in an instant, I imagine."

"I imagine he would. And if I say that I saw Crimmins in the car you'll forget to mention it."

"You've had some conversations with a Marty Weller in the past week."

"Marty? How do you know about Marty?"

"Some conversations about a movie project you're putting together?" Pellam was silent, and Peterson continued, "Following those conversations, you started looking for some money. Your bank in Sherman Oaks, some car dealer who wasn't interested in an apparently less-than-perfect Porsche you happen to own…"

"You tapped my phone illegally."

"Not at all. We talk to people. That's all. We introduce ourselves and we ask questions. Most people usually cooperate."

"What's your point?'

"You apparently need some money, some big money. And you need it rather desperately."

"And you think Crimmins is paying me not to testify."

"Yes. That's exactly what I think."

Anger sputtered into Pellam's face. He stood up and leaned forward, his eyes wild and uncontrolled, his right fist balled.

Papers and toys cascaded to the floor.

They remained locked in a gaze for a long moment, while Peterson mastered his fear, and Pellam, his anger. Pellam was close to hitting the man.

Peterson whispered, Please. I say this for your sake. I don't think you want to add to your list of woes at the moment, do you really?"

Pellam finally stood upright and walked not to the door but to the window. For a long moment, as if he were debating something furiously, he looked out over an expanse of green. St. Louis was a very verdant place, even in October. The important aspects of his life in jeopardy, Pellam noticed small details. Like the colors of foliage and the shape of trees. He nodded suddenly, but whatever decision he came to, he kept to himself,and walked out of Peterson's office without saying a word.

The ribbed ball rolled along the small grass rectangle.

"You lose," the old man told Peter Crimmins, who smiled and nodded to the other players and then stepped over the black-painted railing. He stood in a small park in a suburb of St. Louis, squinting toward a huge complex of redbrick apartments. He wondered how much money it cost to build the place. He had never been in real estate. He considered it too Jewish. But he had lately been thinking about building something. He wanted some legacy and he thought he would like to sink some of his vast funds into something that might be named after him.

Joshua stood nearby, leaning against a lamp pole with the tough serenity of middle-aged bouncers and Secret Service agents.

A broad-featured woman in a blue denim cowboy suit talked into a public phone and gestured wildly. Her fat fingers mauled a cigarette.

Crimmins, wearing dark slacks and sandals and a white dress shirt had been playing boccie for an hour. At one time the largely Italian park would probably have been crowded on a pleasant afternoon h'ke this, though even Crimmins, who had lived all his life near here, could not recall when. Perhaps the year of the St. Louis Exposition. An era when the town still retained some of its Confederateness. Why, there were even homeless people camped out near swing sets! Crimmins did not approve of homelessness. He thought such people should pick themselves up and get a job as those in earlier eras would have done.

"Bootstraps" was a word Peter Crimmins used often.

He surveyed the park now. Lots of Negroes, prowling slowly on their bicycles or walking in that fast lope of theirs. Puerto Ricans. White teenagers in leather and greasy denim, with their Frisbees and skateboards and guitars. A few professional people. Women jogging while they pushed babies in strollers that had three huge, cushioned wheels.