"Matt, say hello to Eleanor Neal," Mickey said.

"How do you do?" Matt said, a reflex response, and then: "I didn't save his life."

"Yeah, you did," Mickey said. "But for a moment, in the alley, I thought you had changed your mind."

Matt had a sudden, very clear mental picture of the fear on Mickey's face and in his eyes, right after it had happened, when he had, startled by the flash from Mickey's camera, turned from the man he had shot and pointed his revolver at Mickey O'Hara.

"What does that mean?"

"Not important," Mickey said. He pulled a bottle of John Jameson Irish whiskey from the brown paper bag. "Down payment on what I owe you, Matt."

"Hey, I didn't save your life, okay? You don't owe me a damned thing."

Mickey ignored him. He bent over and took two paper cups from the bedside table, opened the bottle, poured whiskey in each cup, and then looked at Matt.

"You want it straight, or should I pour some water in it?"

"I'm not sure you should be giving him that," Eleanor said.

"He's an Irishman," Mickey said. "It'll do him more good than whatever else they've been giving him in here."

"Put a little water in it, please, Mickey," Matt said.

Mickey poured water from the insulated water carafe into the paper cup and handed it to Matt.

"Here's to you, Matt," he said, raising his glass.

"Cheers," Matt said, and took a swallow.

Maybe the booze will make me sleepy, or at least take the edge off the pain in the goddamn leg.

And then: Does he really think I saved his life, or is that bullshit? Blarney.

"How do you feel, Matt?" Mickey asked.

"I'm all right," Matt said. "I get out of here tomorrow."

"So soon?" Eleanor asked, surprised.

"Current medical wisdom is that the sooner they get you moving around, the better," Matt said.

"You going home?" Mickey said.

"If by 'home,' you mean my apartment, yes, of course."

"I was thinking of-where do your parents live, Wallingford?"

"My apartment."

"You know getting in to see you is like getting to see the gold at Fort Knox?" Mickey asked. Matt nodded. "So you know what these people have been up to?"

Matt nodded again.

"The Molotov cocktail, the press release, the second one? All of it?"

Matt nodded again.

"What do you think, Mickey?" he asked.

"I know a lot of black guys, and a lot of Muslims," Mickey said. " Ordinarily, I can get what I want to know out of at least a couple of them. So far, all I get is shrugs when I ask about the Islamic Liberation Army. That could mean they really don't know, or it could mean that they think I 'm just one more goddamn honky. I'd watch myself, if I were you."

"I was thinking-with what they have on television, there's been a lot of time for that-about what the hell they're after."

"And?"

"In the thirties, during the Depression, when Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde were running around robbing banks, killing people, there was supposed to be some support for them; people thought they were Robin Hood."

"From what I've heard about Bonnie, she was no Maid Marion," Mickey said.

"What does that mean?" Eleanor asked.

"Not important," Mickey said. "For that matter, Clyde wasn't exactly Errol Flynn, either. What is it you're saying, Matty, that they're after public support?"

Matt nodded.

"A political agenda?"

"Why else the press releases?"

"That's pretty sophisticated thinking for a bunch of stickup guys who have to have somebody read the Exit sign to them."

"Somebody wrote those press releases," Matt argued. "For their purpose-getting themselves in the newspapers and on TV-they were, by definition, effective. At least one of them can write. And plan things, like the gasoline bomb."

"What do you mean, 'plan the gasoline bomb'? Anybody knows how to make one of those.That I would expect from these people."

"When and where to throw it," Matt said. "They had to be watching Goldbatt's. One man, just standing around, would have been suspicious. So they had a half a dozen of them, plus of course the guy on the roof who threw it."

O'Hara grunted.

"Unless, of course, Matty, they have somebody inside the cops, inside Special Operations, who just called them and told them when Washington was going to pick up Monahan.That suggests an operation run by people who know what they're doing."

"You really think that's possible?" Matt asked, genuinely shocked. " That they have somebody inside?"

O'Hara never got the chance to reply. The door opened again and Mr. and Mrs. Brewster C. Payne walked in.

"Hi!" Matt said.

"How are you, honey?" Patricia Payne asked.

"Just fine," Matt said. "Mother, you didn't have to come back. I'm getting out of here tomorrow."

She held up her arm, around which was folded a hang-up bag.

"In your underwear?"

"It's the cocktail hour, I see," Brewster C. Payne said.

"Dad, do you know Mickey O'Hara?"

"Only by reputation. How are you, Mr. O'Hara?"

"Are you allowed to have that?" Patricia Payne asked.

"Probably not, but I can't see where it will do any harm," Brewster Payne said. He smiled at Eleanor. "I'm Brewster Payne, and this is my wife."

"I'm Eleanor Neal."

"How do you do?" Patricia Payne said.

"Can I offer you a little taste, Mr. Payne?" Mickey asked.

"Is there a glass?"

"How do you know they aren't giving you some medicine that will react with that?" Patricia Payne asked.

"All I'm taking is aspirin," Matt replied.

Mickey made drinks for the Paynes.

Patricia Payne nodded her thanks, sipped hers, and said, "I have this terrible premonition that some two-hundred-pound nurse is going to storm in here, find the party in progress, yell for the guards, and I will win the Terrible Mother of the Year award."

"I thought bringing Matt a little taste was the least I could do for what he did, saving my life, for me."

Thank you, Mickey O'Hara.

"It was very kind of you, Mr. O'Hara," Brewster Payne said.

And thank you, Dad, for cutting off the colorful story of my courage in the face of death.

"Call me Mickey, please."

"Mickey."

"Mickey, we should be going," Eleanor said. "We've been here long enough."

"You're right," Mickey said. He tossed his drink down, shook hands all around, and opened the door for Eleanor.

"Interesting man," Brewster Payne said as the door closed after them.

"He's supposed to be the best police reporter on the Eastern Seaboard."

"He has a Pulitzer, I believe," Brewster Payne said, and then changed the subject. "Denny Coughlin tells me you insist on going to your apartment when they turn you loose?"

"Yes, sir."

"How much do you know of what else has happened?"

"I know about the threats, and the firebomb. Is there something else?"

"No. I just didn't know how much you knew. Just before we came here, Dick Detweiler phoned. They wanted to come see you-he called earlier, as soon as he heard what had happened-but I told him you were getting out in the morning."

"Thank you."

"He also volunteered to send out to Wallingford as many of the Nesfoods plant security people as would be necessary for as long as would be necessary. The point of this is that if the reason you don't want to come home is because of your concern for your mother and me, that won't be a problem. Dick would really like to help."

"I'm a cop," Matt said. "I'm not about to let these scumbags run me out of town."

"I told you that's what he would say," Patricia Payne said.

"And I'll have people with me," Matt said.

"That was explained to us in great detail by Denny Coughlin. Having said that, I think Denny would be more comfortable if you were in Wallingford."

"I'm going to the apartment, Dad," Matt said.