"The word is 'athlete,' not 'deviate.' Guilty. What are you up to, Jack?"

Jack Matthews, a tall, muscular, fair-skinned man in his late twenties, was a special agent of the FBI. When Matt had been wounded by a member of the so-called Islamic Liberation Army, Jack had shown up to express the FBI's sympathy, and, Matt was sure, to find out what the Philadelphia Police knew about the Islamic Liberation Army and might not be telling the FBI. In addition, Lari Matsi, a nurse in the hospital who had raised Matt's temperature at least four degrees simply by handing him an aspirin, had suddenly found Matt invisible after a thirty-second look at the pride of the Justice Department.

Despite this, however, Matt liked Jack Matthews. He watched what he said about police activity when they were together, but they shared a sense of humor, and he had become convinced that there was a certain honest affection on Jack's part for him and Charley McFadden, whose fiancee and Lari Matsi were pals.

"I'm sitting at the FOP bar with a morose Irish detective," Jack said. "Who is threatening to sing, 'I'll take you home again, Kathleen.' McFadden wants you to come over here and sing harmony."

"You sound like you've been there for a while."

"Only since it opened," Jack said. "The girls are working."

"Did you call before, Jack?"

"No. Why?"

"No reason. Yeah, give me twenty minutes."

"Bring some of that Las Vegas money with you," Jack said, and hung up.

Matt went into his bedroom and changed into khakis and a sweatshirt. As he was reclaiming his pistol from the mantelpiece, the telephone rang again. He looked at it for a moment, and then went down the stairs.

Jack Matthews and Charley McFadden, a very large, pleasant-faced young man, were sitting at a table near the door of the bar in the basement of the Fraternal Order of Police Building on Spring Garden Street, just off North Broad Street, when Matt walked in.

There was a third man at the table, Jesus Martinez, in a suit Matt thought was predictably flashy, and whom he was surprised to see, although when he thought about it, he wondered why.

Charley McFadden and Jesus Martinez had been partners, working as undercover Narcs. When their anonymity had been destroyed when they ran to earth the junkie who had shot Captain Dutch Moffitt, they had been transferred to Special Operations. Charley and Martinez had been friends and, more important, partners, since before Matt had come on the job.

"How are you, Hay-zus?" Matt said, offering his hand and smiling at Officer Jesus Martinez of the Airport Unit.

"Whaddaya say, Payne?" Jesus replied.

Both our smiles are forced, Matt thought. He doesn't like me, for no good reason that I can think of, and I am not especially fond of him. We are on our good behavior because Charley likes both of us, and we both like Charley.

Matthews and McFadden were dressed much like Matt. Charley was wearing a zippered nylon jacket and blue jeans, and Matthews was wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt with the legend PROPERTY OF THE SING-SING ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT. A loose-fitting upper garment of some sort is required to conceal revolvers.

They both had their feet up on chairs, and were watching the dancers on the floor, at least a half dozen of whom appeared to have their slacks and blouses painted on.

"We have a new rule," Jack said. "People who win a lot of money gambling have to buy the beer."

"Right," McFadden said.

They're both plastered. I think Jack is here because he wants to be, not because the FBI told him to hang around the cops with his eyes and ears open.

"Does that apply to guys who can tell certain females that their boyfriends spent Saturday night ogling the broads in the FOP bar?"

"You have a point, sir," Jack said. "I will buy the beer."

"Sit down," Matt said. "Ortlieb's, right? What are you drinking, Hay-zus?"

Martinez picked up a glass that almost certainly held straight

7UP.

"I'm okay. Thanks."

Matt crossed the room to the bar and picked up three bottles of Ortlieb's beer and a bottle of 7UP and returned to the table.

When he passed the 7UP to Jesus, Martinez snapped, "I told you I was okay."

"I'm the last of the big spenders, all right?" Matt countered, and then his annoyance overwhelmed him. "Drink it. Maybe it'll help you grow."

Martinez was instantly to his feet.

"I'm big enough to whip your ass anytime, hotshot."

"Don't fuck with me, Martinez, I've had a bad day."

"Shut up, Hay-zus," Charley said. "Shut up and sit down."

"Fuck him!" Martinez snarled. "Fucking hotshot!"

"Hey!" an authoritative voice called from somewhere in the large, dark, low-ceilinged room. "Watch the goddamned language. There's ladies in here, for Christ's sake."

Martinez turned on his heel and went quickly out the door. Matt could hear his shoes on the concrete stairs. They made a sort of metallic ringing sound.

"What was that all about?" Matthews asked.

"You shouldn't have made that crack about him growing, Matt," Charley said.

"All he had to do was say 'thank you' for the goddamn 7UP. Or say nothing. He didn't have to bite my ass. I don't have to put up with his shit. Or yours, either."

"Oh, boy," Matthews said. "I'm going to get to see a real barroom brawl."

"He never liked you for openers," Charley said, "and then you passed the exam, and he didn't."

"What am I supposed to do, apologize for passing the exam?"

"Just show a little consideration for his feelings is all," Charley said, almost plaintively.

Matt laughed and sat down.

"What's so funny?"

"Let it go, Charley," Matthews said.

"I want to know what he thinks is so funny!"

"Drink your beer, Charley," Matthews said.

"Jesus," Charley said, and sat down.

"I want to say something to you, Charley," Matt said.

"Yeah?" McFadden asked suspiciously. "What would that be?"

"I don't want you telling Mary, if she comes in here and finds you lying on the floor, that I held you down and poured booze down your throat."

McFadden glowered at him for a moment and then said, "Fuck you, Matt."

There was affection in his voice.

"And so what's new with you, Detective Payne?" Matthews asked. " Aside from you going back to Special Operations, I mean?"

"That upset Hay-zus too," Charley interrupted. "When he heard that you're going back out there. Sort of rubbing it in his face. With him flunking the exam."

"Loyalty, thy name is McFadden," Matt said.

"Something wrong with that?"

"Not a thing, pal. I admire it," Matt said, and then turned to Matthews. "How about the FBI? Arrested anybody interesting lately?"

"No, but I'm hot on the trail of a big-time gambler. Was he pulling my leg, or did you really win six thousand bucks out there?"

"Sixty-seven hundred, he tells you, in the interests of accuracy."

"And what if you had lost?"

"I was going to quit when I lost a hundred," Matt said. "But I didn't lose it."

"You went out there to bring the Detweiler girl home?"

"Right."

"How is she?"

"I don't know," Matt said. "She seems perfectly normal. As normal as she ever was."

The question and his response made him uncomfortable. He stood up.

"I need another beer."

He was surprised when Jack Matthews showed up at his elbow while he was waiting for his turn with the bartender.

"My turn to buy," Jack said.

He wants something. How do I know that?

"I thought you would never say that," Matt replied.

Matthews took money from his pocket.

"I understand Special Operations now runs Dignitary Protection," he said.,