She walked to the bed and offered him her hand.

"I'm sorry you've been shot."

"Thank you. So am I," Matt said.

"Are you all right?"

"Just fine."

"We're all sorry you've-this has happened," Farnsworth Stillwell said. "And I must tell you, I feel to some degree responsible."

"Nonsense," Denny Coughlin said. "No one is responsible except the man who pulled the trigger."

"I'm sorry we didn't bring you anything," Helene Stillwell said. "But I didn't know who you were, what you would be like, and at this time of the morning-"

"It was good of you to come," Matt said.

Helene finally took her hand back.

"We wanted you to know that we were concerned," Stillwell said, " concerned and grateful."

"I think we should let Officer Payne get some rest, darling," Helene said.

"There are some members of the press outside who would like to have our picture together," Farnsworth Stillwell said. "Would you feel up to that?"

Matt looked at Denny Coughlin, who shrugged and then nodded his head.

"Sure," Matt said.

A photographer came into the room. He asked if the bed could be cranked up, and when it had, he suggested that Mr. Stillwell get on one side of him, and Mrs. Stillwell on the other. When they had done so, he suggested that they get closer to Matt. "It feels a little awkward, but the picture comes out better."

When they had moved into the desired positions, they had to swap sides, so that Assistant District Attorney Stillwell and Officer Payne could shake hands. Mrs. Stillwell, in order to get closer, put her arm behind Officer Payne's shoulders, a position that pressed her breast against his arm, and for a moment allowed her fingers to caress the back of his neck.

And then the flashbulb went off, Farnsworth Stillwell told Officer Payne that if he needed anything, anything at all, all he had to do was let him know, and they were gone.

"I don't like that sonofabitch," Denny Coughlin said, "but I wouldn't be surprised if he really does get to be governor."

"Really?" Matt asked.

"So how are you, Matty?" Denny Coughlin asked.

"Worried about my car," Matt said, looking at Charley.

"I got it downstairs," Charley said. "Aside from no radio, doors, or seats, it's okay."

"You'd better be kidding."

"I got it downstairs, all in one piece. Inspector Wohl asked me to ask you where you want it."

"In the garage under the apartment, please."

"You got it. You need anything else?"

"Can't think of anything."

"I'll come see you when I get off. But I'd better get going now. Quinn's sitting in the car about to shit a brick."

"Thanks, Charley," Matt said.

Dennis V. Coughlin closed the door after McFadden, and then exhaled audibly. He walked to the bed and sat down on it.

"Jesus, Matty, you gave us a scare. What the hell happened?"

This is more than a godfather, more than my blood father's buddy, doing his duty, Matt suddenly realized. This man loves me.

He remembered that his father, the other father, the only one he had ever known, Brewster C. Payne, had told him that he believed Dennis V. Coughlin had always been in love with his mother.

"Lieutenant Suffern let us out of his car in the alley behind Stevens's house-"

"You and O'Hara?"

"Yeah. We were waiting for the ACT team and the sergeant to bring Stevens down so Mickey could get a picture. Then I heard a noise, a creaking noise, like wood breaking. I think now it was Stevens coming over a fence. Anyway, all of a sudden, there he was shooting at us."

"He shot first?"

"He shot first."

"That makes it justifiable homicide. You're absolutely sure he shot first?"

"Hey, I thought you were here to comfort me on my bed of pain, not interview me?"

"Are you in pain?" Coughlin asked, concern and possibly even a hint of pity-or maybe shame-in his voice.

"No, Uncle Denny, I'm not," Matt said, and touched the older man's shoulder. After a moment, Coughlin's hand came up and covered his.

"It'll probably start to hurt later, Matty," he said. "But they'll give you something for it. I'm sure."

Their eyes met.

Coughlin stood up.

"I got to go. You need anything, you know how to reach me."

FIFTEEN

Amotherly, very large black woman wearing a badge identifying her as a licensed practical nurse delivered a fried egg on limp toast sandwich, a container of milk, and a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

"Lunch is at eleven-thirty," she announced. "Unless you like beans and franks you won't be thrilled."

"Thank you."

"You know how to work the TV clicker?"

She showed him, walked to the door to leave, and then turned.

"I heard what happened," she said. "Good for you. Animals like that bum you shot are taking over the city."

Matt found the controls for the bed, adjusted the back to his satisfaction, and turned on the television. Not surprising him at all, there was nothing on that he would watch if he were not in a hospital bed feeling lousy and with his leg wrapped up like that of an Egyptian mummy.

If it were Saturday morning, he thought, at least I could watch the teenagers flopping their boobs around on that dance show on WCAU-TV.

He settled for a quiz show, quickly deciding that the participants had been chosen not for their potential ability to call forth trivia but rather on their ability to jump up and down, shrieking with joy, when they were awarded a lifetime supply of acne medication.

His calf began to feel prickly, as if it had fallen asleep, and it seemed to him he could feel blood pumping through it.

The door opened and a handsome young man with long blond hair entered, bearing a floral display.

"Where do you want this, buddy?"

"On that dresser, I suppose."

The handsome young man jerked the card free from the display and tossed it onto the bed and left.

The card read, "Best Wishes for a Speedy Recovery. Fraternal Order of Police."

Officer Payne was surprised at how much the gesture touched him.

There was no question about it now, hecould feel the beating of his heart in his calf.

The moron on television, even though he had eagerly pushed the Iknow-the-answer button, erroneously located Casablanca in Tunisia, the you-goofed fog horn sounded, and the moron's face registered as much sorrow as if his mother had just been run over by a truck.

The door opened again, to another florist's delivery man, this one bearing two floral displays. One of the cards read, "Mother, Dad, amp; House Apes." The second, "Charley amp; Margaret."

He was aware that he had audibly let his breath out, and then that it was more than that; he had moaned. Every time his heart made his leg throb, it hurt.

Well, why am I surprised? They told me it would start to hurt.

With some effort, (the device, at the end of an electrical cord, had fallen off the back of the bed when he had raised it) he found the button to summon the nurse.

A minute or so later, the door opened, but it was not an angel of mercy with the wherewithal to deaden his pain, but another delivery person, this one female, fat, and bearing an expensively wrapped package.

"You're the one who got shot, aren't you?" she greeted him. "I seen it in the newspaper."

Whoopee! Ring the you-got-it-right! siren. You have just won a year's supply of Acne Free!

"I guess I am."

The package contained a pound of Barricini assorted chocolates and a copy of Art Buchwald's latest book. The card read, "Ask the nurse to explain the big words to you. Amy."

Jesus Christ, I hurt! Where the hell is that goddamn nurse?

The nurse's head appeared in the partially opened door. A new one. This one was blond, and had intelligent hazel eyes in a very attractive face.