The man from the prosecutor's office was younger than Mitchell. He was bald and wore a little mustache. He had dark sleepy-looking eyes and a mild expression. But, Mitchell noticed, the expression didn't change. The man didn't smile. He raised himself barely a few inches from his seat as they shook hands. O'Boyle was drinking a scotch and soda. The man from the prosecutor's office had a cup of coffee at his place. He was already eating his salad, spearing at it, fork in one hand and a slice of French bread, thickly coated with chunks of cold butter, in the other. Mitchell ordered a Bud.

"I've never been here before," Paonessa said. "I don't get out to the high-rent district very often."

"I've never been here either," Mitchell said.

"It's pretty popular for lunch," O'Boyle said. "In fact I think it's busier now than at night."

That was the end of the small talk.

"Most situations like yours," Paonessa said, "never get to us. We don't find out about them because the individual is too ashamed to tell anybody. Usually it's a Murphy game. The individual gets caught with some whore and he pays to keep from getting his balls cut off. Naturally he's not going to go to the police and tell them he was with some whore and take a chance his wife finding out."

"I wasn't with some whore," Mitchell said.

"In your case," Paonessa said, "it's the amount of money involved. It's not a simple Murphy situation. You're loaded and they know it. Pay them or they fuck you. Maybe they can do it, I don't know. At least they can tell your wife you've been seeing this whore and that might be enough to screw up your life to some extent, I don't know that either, or how much you can afford to pay to keep people off your back. Jim says you're a respected businessman, never fooled around before. All right, I'll take his word for that. Though I know a lot of respectable businessmen who do fool around." Finishing the salad, he began to mop the bowl with his bread.

"Naturally you don't want to pay them. Okay, but they're not going to let you off, are they? Assume that. They got some dirt on you. You're caught sticking your thing where it doesn't belong. You want to keep your secret a secret. So let's say they feel pretty sure you're going to come across. In fact, they have to feel that way. They have to believe they've made a deal you'll go through with, or else we never get close enough to them, the police don't, to find out who they are. They tell you meet us such and such a place with the money. Or they say leave the money such and such a place. The police either have to tail you or put a bug on you, get voices or whatever information they can from the bug, or stake out the place and pick the guys up when they come for the money. In other words the only way to apprehend them is if you pay or look like you're paying, offer the bait to bring them out in the open. We going to order or what?" He opened the big red menu that was bound by a red tassel around the fold.

"Or I don't pay them," Mitchell said.

"That's up to you," Paonessa said. His eyes roamed over the inside of the menu.

O'Boyle looked at Mitchell before turning to the man from the prosecutor's office. "Joe, Mitch is asking, if he doesn't pay them, and he's considered it, there isn't much they can do to him, is there? He's already told his wife about the girl."

Paonessa's eyes raised, his mild expression unchanged. "Yeah? You told her? What did she say?"

"I don't think that's got anything to do with the people blackmailing me," Mitchell said. "I've told my wife-all right, but I'd still like to see them caught."

Paonessa's eyes were on the menu again. "Then you have to pay them, or attempt to."

"That's the only way, uh?"

"Unless you can identify them," Paonessa said. "File a complaint, we see what we can do. I don't know, Jim, I think I'm going to have the New York strip sirloin. How's it here, any good?"

Before O'Boyle could answer, Mitchell said, "If they were to contact me again. I mean, let's say they get something else."

Paonessa's eyes held on the menu. O'Boyle said, "What do you mean, Mitch?"

"Like what if they threatened the girl's life unless I paid?"

"That's called extortion," Paonessa said. "Now you're into something else."

O'Boyle continued to stare at Mitchell. "Have you heard from them again?"

"I'm talking about if I did. Then what?"

Paonessa shrugged. "It's the same situation. Extortion, or kidnapping-they set up a meeting or a drop and the police handle it from there."

Mitchell waited, took a sip of beer. "What if the girl's already dead?"

"What if?" Paonessa said. "They still make arrangements with you to get the money. They're not killing the girl for nothing, are they?"

"But what if they could work it so I pay? Somehow they do it. But nobody ever sees them and they get away with it."

Paonessa looked up again with his dead expression. "I'll tell you something. I've got cases, real ones, to prosecute for the next two years, on my desk, in my files, all over the goddamn office. I don't need any what-if ones at the moment. For all I know somebody's pulling a joke on you. And that's a good possibility, with all the fucking nuts there are around these days. So unless you tell me all this is real and you can prove it, and you're willing to cooperate with the police-what are we talking about?"

"But if it is real-" Mitchell began.

"If what's real? Blackmail or extortion? What are we talking about?"

"Either," Mitchell said. "Or both."

It was a free meal, if it ever came, but Joe Paonessa was not getting paid anything more to sit here. He said, "Look, you have to prove evidence. You have to show us, the police, a crime was committed. Otherwise it's just a story, and I know some better ones if you want to hear some real true-life crime stories, okay?"

Mitchell said, "Joe-" He almost said, "Fuck you," but he didn't. He said, "Joe, I'm looking at possibilities, that's all. I want to know, if things come up, what my alternatives are, if I've got any. What I don't need is any bored-sounding bullshit. I appreciate your coming and thank you very much." Mitchell pushed his chair back and stood up.

"Jim, thank you. You get this one and I'll get the next."

They watched him walk through the restaurant toward the front of the place. Paonessa said, "Christ, what's the matter with him?"

O'Boyle didn't answer. After a few moments he said, "Yes, the New York strip sirloin, it's pretty good here."

Barbara was perspiring when she came off the court and it felt good; the soreness in her legs and right arm felt good. She had played singles for an hour with one of the assistant pros-who had not taken his sweater off-and lost two sets, 6-2 and 6-3. She had not gone out expecting to win; but she wished the long-haired good-looking son of a bitch would have taken his sweater off, at least after the first set. Today she would have beaten any girl she knew. She probably would have beaten Mitch. He was an unorthodox player who slapped at the ball instead of stroking it, but God, he hit it hard and he was all over the court. They had a doubles match coming up this weekend-arranged two weeks before-with Ross and a young girl with tight slender thighs they had played before and beaten. She wondered who would cancel the match, if Mitch would remember or if she would have to do it… or if Mitch would ask his girl friend to be his partner. No, the girl wouldn't play tennis. Barbara knew nothing about the girl, except that she was certain the girl did not own a tennis racket and had never played in her life. She said to herself, sitting down in a canvas chair and lighting a cigarette, You're a snob, aren't you? She sat looking down the length of the indoor courts that were five feet below the level of the lobby and saw Ross coming off number 4 with the head pro.