"The man in the Lincoln. Who?"

"I don't know what you're-"

"What did you come down to the Federal Building for?" Ralph Bales lifted his hands as far as he could. The tiny chains clinked. "I wanted to talk to you is all."

"What did you want to say to me?"

"Okay, I was going to pay you to keep quiet about what you saw."

"But you had a gun in your pocket, and only-" He squinted, trying to remember. "-forty bucks on you."

"I was going to pay you a lot of money-more than I'd want to carry around-"

"Who was in the Lincoln?" the beer man recited persistently.

"I don't know, I really don't. Sorry."

"I wish you'd be more cooperative," the beer man said with disappointment, and shot Ralph Bales squarely in the center of his stomach.

John Pellam walked through the cloud of sulfury smoke and looked down. "Not bleeding badly," he announced.

Ralph Bales stared in terror at the wound. His mouth was open. "Why…?" he whispered. "You shot me… God, that hurts."

"Who was in the car?"

"Why'd you do that for, why'd you do that?"

"Who," Pellam asked evenly, "was in the Lincoln?"

"My God," Ralph Bales whispered, gazing with shocked bewilderment at Pellam. "I'm going to die."

"If you don't tell me I'm going to shoot you again."

"I don't-"

Pellam shot him again.

A huge explosion. The bullet hit a few inches to the left of the first wound.

"No, no, man… Stop! I'll tell you." Ralph Bales jerked his head to flick sweat out of his eyes. "Okay! Philip Lombro! Now call a doctor!"

"Who's he?"

Ralph Bales did not hear. "Please! I'm going to bleed to death. Please…"

"Philip?"

"Lombro! Lombro!"

"Who's he?"

"Oh, man, I'm going to faint."

Pellam cocked the gun. "Who is he?"

"No, no, don't, man, not again! He's some real estate guy. Don't do it again."

"Spell it."

"Spell what? Oh, man…"

"His name."

"L-O-M-B-R-O."

"Why did he want Gaudia dead?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask. I'm going to faint. Oh, shit. Some personal thing. I swear to God. He hired me to do it. I'm bleeding to death."

"Where does he live?"

"I don't know. Man, believe me. I don't know. In Maddox somewhere. His office is on Main, that's all I know. He's in the phone book. What do you want from me? For Christsake, call a doctor." With tearful sincerity he said, "I'm a good Catholic."

Pellam did not move for a minute. He smiled.

"No, man, no. Don't do it. You're just going to leave me, aren't you? Don't let me die! I told you what you wanted. Call the cops. Turn me in. But for God's sake, get me to a doctor!"

"Would you testify against this Lombro?"

"Absolutely. Oh, man, you want it, you got it."

Pellam repeated the word softly. "Absolutely." He rubbed the gun with his left hand. Ralph Bales was crying. This seemed to irritate Pellam. He said, "They're wax bullets."

Ralph Bales kept sobbing.

Pellam said again petulantly, "Would you stop crying? They're not real bullets."

"What?'

"I wish you'd stop that," Pellam said, referring to the crying.

Ralph Bales slowly caught his breath. He frowned. He looked down at his gut-at the two large splats of bright red blood. As far as the handcuffs allowed, he pulled his shirt apart. There were huge reddish welts where the bullets had struck him but the skin was not broken. Fragments of white wax were bonded to the cloth which was stained with dark blood.

Ralph Bales began to cry again, but they were tears from hysterical laughter. "You son of a bitch, you goddamn…"

That was when a shadow appeared on the floor beside the men.

The heads of both the men snapped sideways. They saw sensible pumps, a woman's pants, a denim jacket. Nina Sassower's pale, pretty face.

And the gun in her hand.

"Nina!" Pellam called.

Ralph Bales began to relax.

Pellam said, "What are you doing here?"

Her voice was distant, as if she were speaking through layers of silk or gauze. "I thought you'd come here."

"You should leave. What's that gun for? This's got nothing to do with you."

She stepped closer, looking gaunt and pale. Her skin was matte and her eyes were two dark dots. She looked at them both and her eyes quickly settled on Ralph Bales's wounds.

"Oh, God, Pellam…"

He told her they were fake bullets, then squinted as he noticed her concerned eyes gazing at the man in the chair. "Do you know him?" he asked.

She turned to him. "I'm sorry, Pellam."

"What do you-?" He started toward her.

She quickly lifted the big Colt toward his chest. "No. Stay where you are."

"Nina!"

"Put it on the floor. Your gun, put it down."

Pellam did. Then he laughed bitterly. "It was all planned, wasn't it?"

"It was all planned," she whispered.

"You picked me up at the hospital, you had me get you a job so you'd be close by… Who are you working for? Lombro?

Or Crimmins? Peterson? Who?'

"I'm sorry, Pellam. I'm so sorry."

Ralph Bales said, "Did Phil send you? Oh, man…"

He moaned in relief. "Come on, honey. Get me out of here."

Nina squinted, almost closing her eyes. Pellam knew what this meant. He leapt to the floor as the three jarring explosions from Ninas automatic filled the room. Windows rattled, and dust from the tin ceiling floated down around the three of them like gray snow. The shadows of startled pigeons zipped across the windows.

TWENTY-FOUR

Pellam slowly stood, dizzy from both the fall and the pounding to his ears from the gunshots.

Reluctantly he looked across the room.

Ralph Bales had taken all three rounds in the chest. The chair had not toppled backwards but had turned forty-five degrees sideways under the impact. The man sat motionless, head down, facing the windows as if he were dozing in the weak sunlight.

Nina carefully unchambered the next round and extracted the clip. The empty gun, the slide locked back, went into her purse. She then stooped and began to collect the spent cartridges from the floor with impatient but fastidious care as if she were picking up socks from her bedroom carpet before vacuuming.

Pellam quickly uncuffed Ralph Bales's wrists, pocketed the cuffs, and wiped the chair free from fingerprints. He then hurried Nina outside and into the car. His fear of impending police was unwarranted, however; the gunshots had not been heard or, if so, had perhaps been attributed to the final scenes of Missouri River Blues. They drove to a nearby park on the river bank.

"You know where I got the gun?" Nina whispered. "My father kept it in his upstairs desk drawer of our house." She wiped her tearful eyes.

"Oh, you should have seen that desk," Nina continued. "It was a rolltop. Oak, I guess. Dark, with those thin yellow streaks in it. You unlocked it with a brass key that always needed polishing. There was such a wonderful sound when the lock turned. Then you'd lift up the top and there were dozens of these little compartments, lined with green felt. Some of the compartments had… Some of them had…"

She cried for a moment. Pellam made no gesture of comforting her.

"Some of the pigeonholes had little doors with knobs on them. We would go searching for secret compartments. We looked up under drawers, we tapped the back with hammers, listening for hollow spots. We found the gun when we were children, but we didn't think much of it. It had been years since I thought of the desk. Then last week I remembered it. I remembered the gun and I went over to my mothers and got it. I've been practicing since then. That brought back so many memories. The two of us looking through the desk. As little girls. Looking for toys, for paper clips, for-" The tears were strong now. "My sister and me…"