And then there were the Chinese.

While Crimmins disliked Jews and feared Negroes and Puerto Ricans, he loathed the Chinese.

Crimmins was now looking at four or five Asian families as they picnicked. Crimmins was aware of the tide. Real estate and electronics. Shipping soon.

And money laundering not long after that.

A boy on a skateboard snapped past him in a surfer s crouch. As if drawn by the youngster's wake, a dark-complected man suddenly stepped up to Crimmins. "Hold up there."

Just as suddenly, Joshua was between them, appearing from nowhere, hand inside his jacket.

"Police, big fellow," the man said. "Unless you're feeling yourself up, get your fucking hand out where I can see it."

Shields and ID cards appeared.

"I'm Gianno, Maddox Police. That's Detective Hagedorn over there."

"Maddox," Crimmins spat out.

Hagedorn stood nearby. His jacket was unbuttoned. Gianno said, "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Crimmins nodded to Joshua, who retreated. He stopped fifteen feet away and stood watching the three men.

"A woman was attacked not long ago."

"Someone I know?" Crimmins was concerned.

"Well, not a friend of yours, that's for sure. She was apparendy reluctant to file a report. We got a notice of. the assault from the FBI."

Why would an assault be a federal issue? thought Crimmins, reciter of indictments and an expert in federal law. Then he understood. "I see," he said wearily. "And you think I was behind this attack."

"She gave us a statement that the attacker said he worked for you."

Crimmins blinked. "Me?"

Gianno gave him a description of a young man with the birthmark.

"I don't know anyone who looks like that. Besides, I wouldn't threaten anyone."

"No." Gianno laughed. "Of course not."

"Where have you been today?" Hagedorn piped up.

"Home, then I came here."

"Had to make some phone calls that nobody could hear, did you?" Gianno nodded toward the public phone.

Crimmins rubbed his finger and thumb together in irritation; the thumbnail turned white under the pressure.

"Are you arresting me?"

Hagedorn said, "Will you give us a list of all your employees?'

"I don't think I have to do that."

"We hoped you'd be cooperative," Gianno said.

"It would look better," his partner offered.

"I don't really care what anything looks like. I-"

Gianno said to Hagedorn, "Let's get out of here. This guy's no help. We'll follow up with Pellam-"

The blond detective wagged a subtle finger and his partner stopped speaking as if he had caught himself at a social blunder. They looked for a moment at Crimmins, who kept his face blank. The two policemen then walked away.

When the detectives had turned the corner, Crimmins walked along the street, away from the phone booth, motioning Joshua after him. When the bodyguard caught up with him, there was a crown of sweat on Crimmins's forehead and his face was white. These were not the symptoms of physical exertion.

"Find me Stettle," Crimmins growled in a furious whisper. "I don't care where he is, what he's doing. I want him now."

The river was muddy today.

The water seemed no more turbulent than on any other day-the wind was brisk but it still hadn't broken the surface into whitecaps. But some disturbance was churning up clayish mud and staining the wide water from shore to shore.

John Pellam stretched out in the driver's seat of the camper and tried Nina's number once more. Her machine answered and he hung up without leaving a message. They had had a brief conversation earlier during which she assured him she was fine.

She simply wanted rest. Could he call the head of Makeup and explain?… Of course he would. Was there anything else he could do? Did she want company? No, she'd visited her mother at the hospital and asked the woman's doctor for a couple of Valium for herself. Pellam could hear the slurred words and he hung up to let her get some sleep.

He had just now replaced the phone when a very distraught Tony Sloan called and said the final shoot was about to go down. Pellam knew this and had planned on attending. What was ominous was that Sloan had summoned him so adamantly. He couldn't possibly be thinking of new locations, could he? The key grip had let slip the information that Sloan had fifteen straight days of film-that was twenty-four-hour days of celluloid-to boil down into a 125-minute movie. Pellam, thanking the Lord he was not Sloan"s film editor, promised he would be there before the last blank gun shot was fired. He stood up and adjusted his Abel Gance Napoleon poster, the only decoration in the camper. He slipped the Colt into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket and was about to leave when his phone buzzed again.

"Nina?" he asked.

"Are you sitting down?" The voice was a man's.

"Hello?"

"Sitting down?"

"I can hardly hear you, Marty. Where are you?"

"I'm in Berlin."

Pellam pressed the cellular phone hard into his ear, as if that might improve the connection from the state of Missouri, in which -Winston Churchill coined the term Iron Curtain to the place that had once been behind it.

"I tried to get you in London and Paris," Pellam shouted. "Look, I'm sorry about the other night."

"You don't have to shout. You break up when you shout. I can hear you fine. What?"

"I'm sorry I missed you. I had an accident."

"Well, it was a damn expensive accident. Telorian was interested but he got pissed because you blew him off a second time. What's the trouble, John, some Freudian thing against Iranians? Excuse me, Persians. You should've called. Are you sitting down?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've got some Hungarian money lined up."

"What?"

"I know. It's weird. Paramount balked at the last minute on the terrorist script. It's totally cratered. So it's a green light for Central Standard Time. This guy in London put me in touch with these investors in Budapest. They're a real East Village duo. Young guys. I pitched you sort of as a Jarmusch."

Hungarians financing a cult film noir flick set in Wisconsin. So this was the New World Order.

"Well, I'm happy about that, Marty. What do we do now?"

"You can get a hundred fifty?"

"If I hustle."

"Well, hustle, boy."

'They understand I'm directing?"

They're all for it. They know all about you, John… It's not a problem." His voice filled with transatlantic sincerity.

"You know what I'm saying?"

The death of Tommy Bernstein was what he was saying.

"They like your work. They like you. Or who they think you are. Don't disappoint them."

"Who are these guys?"

"Their names, you mean? Unpronounceable. Funny marks over the letters. Who cares? Get your money. I'm having my shyster in New York put together the partnership agreement. Let's try to sign it up by the first of the month. Is it doable?"

"It's doable. It's very doable… Listen, Marty… thanks. You know what this means to me."

The broken connection mercifully cut short the gratitude and Pellam found the conversation was over.

Outside he kicked a piece of dried mud off his Nokonas and walked to the Yamaha.