"Hey, I was a Narc when you were Mr. Joe College Payne," Jesus said. "I know what's admissible and what isn't."

"Hay-zus, you don't have a thing on this guy," Matt said.

"He wants to follow him, andget something on him," Charley said.

"You mean, he wantsus to surveil this guy, right?"

"I told you he'd tell us to go fuck ourselves," Martinez said.

"He can't do it himself, this Dago knows him."

"We're wasting our time. Let's get out of here," Martinez said.

"Hay-zus is usually right, when he smells something," McFadden went on.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Martinez repeated.

"What do you expect to find, Martinez, if we start to follow this guy around?" Matt asked.

"Association with known criminals," Martinez said. "That would give me enough to go to Wohl or Internal Affairs."

He keeps bringing up Wohl. Why? He doesn't work for Wohl anymore. But I do. That's what this is all about. He figures I could go to Wohl.

"For the sake of argument, Hay-zus," Matt said. "Let's suppose we follow this guy, and either he spots us before we catch him with some Mob type, or that you're wrong. He'd really be pissed. And we would have some explaining to do."

"In other words, no, right?"

"I didn't say that," Matt said. "I said what if."

"Then I would take my lumps."

"Weall would takeour lumps," Matt said.

"This guy is dirty," Martinez said. "We're cops."

Matt exhaled audibly.

"What have you got in mind?"

"You don't look like a cop," Martinez said. "You drive a Porsche. You could get into this place in the Poconos."

"How would we know when he was going to be there? And if we did, what am I supposed to do, tell Wohl I want the day off to take a ride to the Poconos?"

"I don't think he'd be going up there in the daytime," Martinez said. "Except over the weekend. He's got Friday-Saturday off. With a little bit of luck, he'd go up there then."

"And what if he just came across this book of matches someplace? Picked it up in a bar or something? You don'tknow that he's ever even been in this place." Matt picked up the matchbook. "Oaks and Pines Resort Lodge."

"Then I'll think of something else," Martinez said.

"Okay, Hay-zus," Matt said. "Let me know what you want me to do, and when you want me to do it."

"See, Hay-zus," McFadden said. "I told you."

"But don't let your Latin-American temper get out of joint if I can't jump when you call. I may be doing a lot of overtime."

"Overtime, you?" McFadden asked.

That was an honest question, Matt decided, not a challenge.

"Special Operations has been given Dignitary Protection. The Vice President's coming to Philly. There's a looney tune out there that wants to blow him up."

"No shit?" McFadden asked.

"Yeah, and the Secret Service thinks this guy is for real."

"What's that got to do with you?"

"Malone is in charge. For the time being, I'm working for Malone."

"We'll just have to see what happens," Martinez said. "If you're working, you're working."

When Joe Fierello drove his Mercedes-Benz onto the lot of Fierello Fine Cars at quarter to nine in the morning, he found Vito Lanza waiting for him.

"Don't tell me," Joe said as he got out of his car, "the transmission fell out."

"Not yet," Vito said. "I wanted to take care of my markers."

"Tony tell you I called?" Joe asked, but before Vito could answer, he went on, "Come on in the office. I'm not worth a shit in the morning until I have my coffee."

Fierello's secretary smiled at them as they walked past.

"Darlene, get us some coffee, will you?" Joe said, and as he walked behind his desk, he waved Vito into a chair in front of his desk. "Take a load off. You take anything in your coffee?"

Vito shook his head, no.

"Black both times, darling," Joe called out.

Darlene delivered the coffee and then left, closing the door behind her.

"Nice," Vito said.

"My wife's sister's girl," Joe said. "Anice girl."

"That's what I meant," Vito said.

Joe Fierello smiled at Vito. Vito did not like the smile.

"Like Tony," he said.

"Darlene doesn't go off overnight to the Poconos," Joe said. "You understand?"

"Absolutely."

"Don't misunderstand me, Tony's a nice girl. She's over twenty-one and she can do what she likes.

"I'm sorry there was that confusion about the markers," Joe said.

"They offered me the markers," Vito said. "I didn't ask for them."

"You went up there as my guest; they're holding me responsible for the markers. You're a nice fellow, Vito, but I don't like you six big ones worth. How soon can you make them good?"

"Right now, Joe. That's what I came here for."

He reached in his pocket and took out the envelope from the Flamingo.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

"I'm making good my markers," Vito said, now very confused.

"You don't understand," Joe said. "I'm a businessman. You don't make your markers good with me."

"With who, then?"

"You really don't know, do you?"

"You got me pretty confused, to tell you the truth," Vito confessed.

"Let me make a call," Joe said.

He took a small leather notebook from his jacket pocket, found a number, and dialed it.

"This is Joe Fierello," he said when someone answered. "Could I talk to Mr. Cassandro, please?" He covered the microphone with his hand. "Mr. Cassandro is sort of like the local business agent, you know what I mean?"

Vito nodded.

Business agent, my ass; this Cassandro guy is with the mob.

"Paulo? Joe Fierello. You know those financial documents you were a little concerned about? Well, don't worry. They're good. Mr.Lanza is right here with me now, and he's anxious to take care of them."

He started nodding, and again covered the microphone with his hand. "He says he's sorry, I don't know what the fuck he means."

He removed his hand from the microphone.

"I'm sure Mr. Lanza would be perfectly willing to come wherever you tell him, Paulo," Fierello said, and there was a reply, and then he went on: "Whatever you say, Paulo. He'll be here."

He hung up the telephone and looked at Vito.

"He's coming right over. He said there was some kind of a mix-up, and he wants to make it right. It'll take him five, ten minutes. You got to be someplace else?"

Vito shook his head. "I really don't understand this," he said.

"Neither do I," Joe Fierello said. "So we'll have our cup of coffee, and in five, ten minutes, we'll both know."

Ten minutes later, a silver Jaguar drove up the driveway into Fierello Fine Cars, and stopped beside Joe Fierello's Mercedes-Benz. Paulo Cassandro, wearing a turtleneck sweater and a tweed sports coat with matching cap, got out of the back seat.

He looked toward the window of Joe Fierello's office.

"I think he wants you to come out there," Joe said.

Somewhat uncomfortable, but not quite sure why he was, Vito nodded at Joe Fierello and walked out of the building and down the stairs.

Joe Fierello opened the drawer of his desk, took out a 35-mm camera in a leather case, went to the window, and started snapping pictures.

"Mr. Lanza, I'm Paulo Cassandro," Paulo said. "I'm sorry about this."

"I don't understand," Vito said.

"We thought you were somebody else," Paulo said. "Lanza is a pretty common name. You, Mario the singer, and a lot of other people, right?"

"I guess so."

"I hate to tell you this," Paulo said, draping a friendly arm around Vito's shoulders, "but one of your cousins, maybe a second cousin, is a deadbeat. He owes everybody and his fucking brother. We thought it was you."