"Lanza's in an apartment around the corner," Matt said to O'Dowd.

"Good man," O'Dowd said.

"Until you called me on the radio, O'Dowd, I didn't know you were in on this," one of the two men from the Pontiac said. He pointed at Matt. "Or him. He works for you?"

"Excuse me," O'Dowd said politely. "Sergeant Framm, Detective Pillare, this is Detective Payne."

Both men shook Matt's hand.

"It's a good thing we were, wouldn't you say, Framm?" O'Dowd asked. "You lost Lanza before you got to the Naval Hospital."

There was no doubt in Matt's mind that Sergeant Framm was the man O'Dowd would not trust to follow an elephant down Broad Street.

"I got caught in traffic…" Framm began.

"Nobody, Olsen or Wohl, has to know about this," O'Dowd interrupted. "Payne did not lose Lanza. Everything is fine."

"Yeah, well…Hell, all's well that ends well, right?"

"Show us the apartment, Matt," O'Dowd said, "and then you can get some sleep."

When Matt got back to the apartment, the red light on the answering machine was flashing.

"I knew you wouldn't call me back," Evelyn's recorded voice said. "What have I done wrong, Matt?"

Mssrs. Paulo Cassandro, Joseph Fierello, Francesco Guttermo, Ricco Baltazari, and Gian-Carlo Rosselli were sitting at a table at the end of the bar off the lobby of the Hotel Warwick.

Mr. Rosselli took an appreciative sip of his Ambassador 24 Scotch, set the glass delicately down on the marble tabletop, and consulted his Rolex Oyster wristwatch.

"It's almost one," he announced, and then inquired, "How long does it take to drive from the airport?"

"At this time of night," Frankie the Gut replied, "twenty minutes, thirty tops."

"You're saying you don't think he's coming here?" Mr. Cassandro asked.

"Do you see him?" Mr. Rosselli asked. He turned to Mr. Fierello. " Why don't you call your 'niece' and see if he's there?"

"I don't have the number."

"I got it," Mr. Baltazari said, and took a gold Parker ballpoint pen from his pocket, wrote a number inside a Hotel Warwick matchbook, and handed it to Mr. Fierello.

"That's right," Mr. Rosselli said, "I forgot. You know Joe's niece, don't you, Ricco?"

Mr. Fierello and Mr. Cassandro laughed, but it was evident that Mr. Baltazari did not consider the remark amusing.

Mr. Fierello got up from the table and went to one of the pay telephones in the lobby. He was back at the table in less than two minutes.

"He's there."

Mr. Rosselli nodded. He sat thoughtfully for a moment and then nodded again. He stood up.

"Just in case, Ricco, I think you'd better give me the key to the apartment."

"You don't want me to go?"

"Paulo and I can handle it," Mr. Rosselli said. "And I wouldn't want that your jealousy should get in the way."

Mr. Cassandro and Mr. Guttermo laughed.

"Shit!" Mr. Baltazari said.

He removed a key from a ring and handed it to Mr. Rosselli.

"Take care of the bill, will you, Frankie?" Mr. Rosselli asked.

"My pleasure," Mr. Guttermo said.

Mr. Rosselli and Mr. Cassandro left the bar by the door leading directly to the street. They turned south.

"What do you want to do about the car, Carlo?" Mr. Cassandro asked.

"Leave it in the garage," Mr. Rosselli said, his tone suggesting the answer should have been evident. "Jesus, Paulo, you leave a car like a Jaguar on the street, you come back, it'll either be gone or there'll be nothing left but the windshield."

"Yeah," Mr. Cassandro agreed, his tone suggesting that he regretted raising the question.

They walked to the apartment building in which Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer maintained her residence. There was a fouryear-old Pontiac parked halfway down the block on the other side of the street, but neither gentleman paid it more than cursory attention.

The interior lobby door was locked. Mr. Cassandro took a small, silver pocketknife, which was engraved with his initials, from his pocket, opened it, and slipped the blade into the lock. He then pushed open the door and held it for Mr. Rosselli to pass inside.

They took the elevator to the fifth floor, and walked down the corridor.

"Here it is," Mr. Cassandro said, stopping before the door to Apartment 5-F.

"Ring the bell," Mr. Rosselli ordered.

Sixty seconds later, Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer, wearing a bathrobe, opened the door.

"Hi, ya, Tony," Mr. Rosselli said. "Sorry to disturb you. But we have to talk to Vito. Is he here?"

Mrs. Schermer looked distinctly uncomfortable. She stepped back from the door, and waited for them to come into the apartment, then closed the door after them.

"Yo, Vito! It's Gian-Carlo Rosselli. You there?"

"He's in the bedroom," Tony Schermer said. "Give him a minute."

"Take your time, Vito," Mr. Rosselli called cheerfully. "Put your pants on."

Mr. Cassandro chuckled.

"Can I offer you something?" Tony asked.

"You got a little Scotch and water, I wouldn't say no. Paulo?"

"Yeah, me too."

Tony went into the kitchen.

Corporal Lanza came out of the bedroom, which opened onto the living room, barefoot, wearing a T-shirt and his uniform trousers.

"Hey," he greeted his callers somewhat uncomfortably. "What's up?"

"Well, when you didn't show up at the Warwick, we figured, what the hell, we'll go see him. I hope we didn't interrupt anything?"

"Nah. The reason I didn't come over there-I wanted to-was I didn't have any decent clothes to change into at the airport, and I can't be seen drinking in uniform. They'd have my ass."

"I understand," Mr. Rosselli said. "Anyway, a cop would make the customers nervous."

"Yeah."

Tony came into the room carrying two glasses.

"Can I fix you one, honey?" Tony asked.

"Why not?" Vito replied.

There were several minutes of somewhat awkward silence while Tony went into the kitchen and made Vito a drink.

"Honey, there's no reason for you to lose your beauty sleep," Mr. Rosselli said. "We're just going to sit around and have a couple of shooters. Why don't you go to bed? When we need another, Vito'll make it. Right, Vito?"

"Right," Vito said.

"Okay, then," Tony said. "If you're sure you don't mind, Vito."

"Go to bed," Vito said.

When she had closed the door behind her, Mr. Rosselli said, "I like her. She's a nice girl, Vito."

"Yeah, Tony's all right," Vito agreed.

"Vito, I'm going to tell you something, and I hope you'll believe me," Mr. Rosselli said.

"Why shouldn't I believe you?"

"You should. When I asked you to come by the Warwick for a couple of shooters, a couple of laughs, that was all I had in mind. You believe me?"

"Absolutely. And I wanted to come, and if I had the clothes, I would have. Next time."

"Right. Next time," Mr. Rosselli said. "But between the time I seen you and the plumbers…what's all that going to cost you, by the way?"

"A fucking bundle is what it's going to cost me. Those bastards know they've got you by the short hair."

"Yeah, I figured. Well, what the hell are you going to do? You can bitch all you want, but in the end, you end up paying, right?"

"Right."

"Like I was saying, Vito, between the time I was at your house and tonight, something has come up. We got a little problem that maybe you can help us with."

"What kind of a problem?"

"You ever hear of the guy that broke the bank at Monte Carlo?" He waited until Vito nodded, and then went on: "We had a guy between nine o'clock and nine-fifteen tonight, that goddamned near broke the bank at Oaks and Pines."

"No shit?"

"Sonofabitch was drunk, which probably had a lot to do with it, a sober guy wouldn't have bet the way he did."