“You’re sixty-something, sixty-three?”

“How old?”

“What’re you, sixty-two?”

“How old?”

“Okay, how old are you, sixty? Jesus.”

“How old, Ricky?”

“Sixty, you got a be.”

“I’m fifty-eight, you fuck.”

Ricky said, “Well, you’re not gonna get any older, Frank.” He put his hand in the side pocket of his leather jacket.

The Ching had a shrimp on a toothpick close to his mouth. He hesitated, held it there and said, “Ricky, what’re you doing here?”

“What?” Ricky said. “I can’t hear you, Frank. I’m up’n Brigantine, man, I been there all night.”

He brought a .38 Special out of his jacket, the revolver covered in toilet paper from grip to two-inch barrel, a tissue-wrapped present he extended in both hands, pushed his index finger through the flimsy paper covering the trigger guard and aimed at the shrimp on the toothpick. He shot Frank five times, the toilet paper catching fire; he had to tear it from the grip fast, then held the wad of paper up and let the revolver unwrap to fall on the white tablecloth.

DeLeon saw it, saw Frank go down behind the table, saw Ricky turn and come this way bunching scorched toilet paper in his hand. Tidy little dude, looking away from the tables toward the BAR sign where he could still hear sounds in there like people beating each other up, breaking things. The people out here all with their heads sticking up not knowing shit what was going on.

DeLeon stepped back against the coats hanging in the rack, no way to hide in there head and shoulders above it; but he stood not moving a muscle. And here came Ricky, Ricky coming along cool, looking up now and a little surprised. DeLeon stepped out and let him have that forearm with mostly elbow in it, hunched and threw it hard at Ricky’s face but caught him a speck low and heard bone crack. DeLeon took him by the jacket quick and let him follow his buckled knees to the floor. The boy looked awake but in some pain. Little Ricky the Blade. Shit. DeLeon raised a size fourteen boot to bring it down on Ricky’s knee, render him immobile, tell him wait, help was on the way. But paused. Got a crazy idea in that moment-part of an idea anyway-pulled Ricky to his feet, took hold of him under one arm, Ricky moaning, “My shoulder, my shoulder,” walking on tiptoes as DeLeon brought him out the side door and up to the corner of Fairmount Avenue. DeLeon told Ricky to behave himself or he’d throw him in front of a car. Traffic passed, he took Ricky across the street. Now they came up behind the stretch limo. DeLeon opened the trunk, got Ricky inside, and gently closed the lid.

Jackie didn’t know shit behind his smoked glass windows, sitting on the edge of his seat to look over at the restaurant, at people running out of the bar. DeLeon got in. Before Jackie could ask him anything he said, “You want to watch the police arrive or leave right now?”

At dinner Nancy talked and Vincent listened. He smiled once in a while. Last night in the same glittery room he had listened to Linda talk about music, playing lounges, and had smiled a lot because he could feel what she was feeling and had wondered what living with her would be like, or even being married to her, committed. Tonight he smiled to be polite, not feeling a thing, listening to Nancy describe how she’d doze off as this sweet guy Kip, her first husband, sipping martinis, told long drawn-out stories about dogs with human characteristics, a golden retriever that listened to stock market reports at breakfast… Vincent nodding, thinking, The poor fucking dog. Nancy said, “After Kip died, what was I going to do in Bryn Mawr, play tennis the rest of my life? Join The Gardeners? Hell, no. I came here and got a job.” Vincent nodded in admiration. Nodded in sympathy as she told him about Tommy’s drinking, his macho jock attitude, his high blood pressure. Tommy sounded like a fairly regular guy. She said, “Tommy wanted to have dinner with us, but he’s very busy.” Pause. “I think he’s playing video games on his computer. He loves Donkey Kong.” Listening, nodding, it finally occurred to Vincent that he was going to get seriously propositioned before too long. Nancy was giving him her specs. She had money, position, a line to the Main Line; she had poise, style, outstanding looks. What else? She tended to overkiss, but it wasn’t bad. She was getting ready to dump her husband. There was only one thing wrong…

She brought Vincent to the top-floor Penthouse Lounge, reserved for high rollers and their guests, quiet this evening, almost empty, the room dark in low lamplight, enclosed in glass. She brought him to the top of Atlantic City and said over cognac, “I could make you rich.”

He said, “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

She hesitated, giving him a serious look. “I mean it.”

So he said, “Why?” It was more important to him than “how.”

“I think it would be fun.”

“Work for you?”

“Work for Spade’s.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Neither do half the people at the very top in this business. They were something else before, that’s all. You were a police detective.”

“I still am.”

“How did you get hold of twelve thousand dollars wrapped in rubber bands?”

“I was lucky.”

“So am I. That’s why I know you’d be good at this.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “You have no intention of gambling, do you?”

“Listen, I feel like I can’t lose.”

“You’re a crafty guy, Vincent. Easy to misjudge. But I think I know you and my hunches are almost always right.” She sipped her cognac. “I could make you an actor, Vincent, get you a decent part in a film within six months, I guarantee. That’s why I know this would work. I can use you, Vincent.”

That’s what he was afraid of.

“You’ll love it here.”

“Why me?”

“Don’t be coy.”

“I’m serious, I’m a cop.”

“No, you’re one step away from being a senior vice-president in charge of… I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something. Start you at, say, a hundred and fifty thousand. How does that sound?”

“Do I get a car?”

“Of course.”

“I have to wear a regular suit?”

“I’ll help you pick some out.” Giving him her nice smile.

“Where do I live?”

“Wherever you want. Longport’s nice. We’ll find you something.”

“You’re not gonna keep me in an apartment?”

She wasn’t smiling now. “That’s uncalled for.”

“How many times a week do I have to go to bed with you?”

He thought she was going to throw her cognac at him, or try; but she didn’t. She placed the glass on the table and got up, the lights of Atlantic City behind her. As she started to leave he said, “Nancy?”

She stood for a moment turned away, taking her time before coming around enough to look back at him.

“What?”

“Do I still get comped for the suite?”

That wasn’t nice. He could have said it in a different way. A simple no-thank-you wouldn’t have been too bad.

Except that he didn’t feel his remark was any more out of line than her offer. There was no way she was going to make him a casino vice-president based on some gift she had of sniffing out latent ability. On the other hand, how could he assume she was after his body, considering all the slick guys with haircuts and shiny suits hanging around? Unless she wanted to make one of her own out of raw material, use him as a stud kit. He might have made a mistake. Not in his refusal, but in assuming what she wanted.

Vincent went down to his suite to change shirts, get out of the white one he’d worn two nights in a row, put on a blue workshirt-yeah, it ought to look nice with his new sportcoat-and pick up his gun. It was 9:30 and Linda was Now Appearing at Bally’s at 10. He paused to look at the urn resting on the dresser, Iris in stainless steel without diamonds or whatever she had come here for…