Then you say you change your mind, you ain't bringing these people."

"And you told me," Glenn said, "you know how to break and enter, only your expert here leaves his fucking wallet in the house."

"You learn from doing," Maurice said.

"You learn where the money's at, then you do it. You don't go in a house and toss it looking for valuables, slit open the mattress, that kind of shit.

They young fellas do that call the Head Bangers, go in and beat up on old ladies for money they save in a coffee can. No-the way to do it, you go in where you know they's money from illegal trade and the man ain't gonna tell on you. Like Mr.

Ripley, you say made his from illegal trade. But what he told you, not only was it some time ago, it might've been bullshit.

Understand? The one thing visible this Ripley deal has going for it, I mean we're sure of, is that big fucking house you have to be rich to live in."

"He's got it," Glenn said, "don't worry."

"Man, the only thing I'm worried about is you, if you can step up and do it. Understand?

"Stead of just talking the talk."

"Can I do what?"

"Walk in a house with me I got picked out. Man that lives there, a white guy, I used to sell to when I was in Young Boys, Incorporated."

"Excuse me," Glenn said, "but I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Quit looking out the window and listen, you find out. Young Boys, man, we had the whole west side. This man I'm talking about would drive down to the projects, stop by my corner and I'd fix him up. Okay, now later on when I was doing business for the Chambers brothers-the ones had the crack factory?"

Glenn shook his head.

"Had girls working there cooked the rocks they called the Rockettes."

"I thought you were into credit cards."

"That was like on the side, use 'em to buy clothes, things for my house. See, but when I got ratted on and the feds wanted me for product, I had the credit cards to plead down to. Understand?

They saw it as better than nothing, sent me to Lompoc and I let you talk me into escaping. Only stupid thing I ever done in my life. Okay, now this man I'm talking about… You know the one I mean?"

"The guy who used to buy coke off you."

"Was scag he bought off me. After while kicked it and found his happiness with crack, what I started dealing him when I worked for the Chambers brothers. But, see, the man turned around and got into dealing himself, selling to white people out this way. You with me?"

"This is a long fucking story," Glenn said, looking out the window again at shrubs, stone walls, driveways, trying to be cool, but feeling his control of the situation slipping away as Maurice took over the car and now, it seemed, was taking over the whole fucking deal, the con named Snoopy nowhere in sight.

"Look," Maurice said, "I know you cool, but don't give me no tone of voice, okay? You don't like what I'm saving, you can get out anywhere along here you want."

There it was. Still, Glenn felt he should call him on it. He said, "I think you're forgetting, this is my car. I drove it up here."

Maurice said, "Hey, shit, come on. I say I want this car, man, it's mine. You go get yourself another one. Now you gonna listen to me?"

They weren't having a discussion, Glenn realized for sure now, they were arm wrestling, Maurice showing him who was boss. Glenn, sitting there bundled up in his new wool-lined raincoat, his wool gloves and scarf, acted surprised, for what it was worth, saying, "What's all this fucking hostility about? I thought we had an understanding."

"I said you gonna listen to me or not?"

So much for the understanding.

Glenn took his time, making Maurice wait, before he said, "This guy who used to be your customer is dealing now, selling to white folks. You're thinking of a way to rip him off, knowing he won't call the cops 'cause it's money, as you say, from illegal trade," Glenn getting just a hint of a bored tone in there. He glanced at Maurice in his silk bandanna, sitting there like some fucking African prince.

"What else?"

"You either stupid or you showing me some nerve," Maurice said.

"Okay, we gonna find out how much you actually have."

A young woman named Marcie Nolan, the police beat reporter for the Free Press, spotted Karen Sisco going into 1300 Beaubien, Detroit Police headquarters. Marcie was coming back from lunch at a Greektown restaurant, two blocks away, approaching 1300 when she saw Karen. But by the time Marcie got to the lobby and through the metal detector, Karen was in an elevator on her way up to… Well, she could be seeing one of the brass on the third floor, or someone in the Homicide section on five or Major Crimes on seven. If Karen was picking up a prisoner she'd eventually end up on nine, where the holding cells were located.

Unless her prisoner was across the street, in the Wayne County jail.

Marcie Nolan went up to her office on the second floor, a partitioned room she shared with the News beat reporter, and called an assistant editor at the Free Press.

She said, "Hi, it's Marcie," eager to tell about Karen Sisco, the federal marshal she got to know in Miami when she was at the Herald, but had to answer questions first. No, they still weren't giving out information. All they seemed to have was the witness report of four guys in a blue van. Two of the women were here this morning for show-ups. She said they had to release the suspect they'd brought in.

"But listen, there's a U.S. marshal here from Miami, Karen Sisco… I don't know yet, I have to find her. She's probably picking up some guy they have on a detainer. That's what I'm gonna find out. In the meantime the Herald has a terrific shot of her taken in front of the federal courthouse. No, in Miami It wouldn't matter, it's a really terrific shot. Karen has style, and she's a knockout… You'll see.

It's the land of shot, if what she's doing here isn't a story, you could run it in "Names amp; Faces' instead of whatever Madonna's up to…

It'll have a cut line with it we can revise, add that she's picking up a prisoner, or whatever she's doing here… That's fine with me.

Once you see the picture I know you'll use it."

Karen phoned her dad late Monday afternoon from her room in the Westin.

He asked about her flight, hoping, he said, Northwest wasn't still serving that scrambled egg sandwich with the banana and yogurt, and the bagel if you got the sandwich down and were still hungry. A cold bagel, for Christ sake. He didn't wait to hear what she did have or ask about the weather.

"So what're you doing?"

"Right now?" Karen said, standing at her window.

"I'm looking at Windsor, Ontario. You remember that movie Stranger Than Paradise?"

"No-who was in it?"

"Nobody. It doesn't matter," Karen said.

"I went to see Raymond Cruz."

"The Homicide guy."

"He was. He's crimes against persons and property now, also sex crimes and child abuse."

"Detroit, he must be pretty busy."

"Home invasions are big, sexual assaults… They're after a gang that cruises around in a van raping women, four guys.

They pick up a woman off the street or pull her out of her car, gang-bang her in the van and throw her out. Raymond says they're close to nailing these guys so he's staying on top of it.

But, he knows who Maurice Miller is, the guy Glenn Michaels stayed with when he was here in November? Or said he did.

They even had Maurice's case file out, looking at it-his priors, a lot of credit card stuff. They're checking him out to see if he's into home invasions. They had a wiretap on some guys who were hitting dope houses and heard Maurice's name mentioned as someone, it sounded like, they wanted to bring in."

"The bad guys."

"Yeah, to work with them."

"Has Maurice been picked up?"