"Did a number on your engine," says the tow-truck man, chuckling way too much.

Pedro Luz grabs him by the arm until his fingers lock on bone. He says, "So tell me. What exactly's in the gas tank?"

"Jack Daniels," the guy says. "I know that smell anywhere."

So now Pedro's watching him put the hook to Mr. Kingsbury's Saab and wondering what else could go wrong. Thinking about the monkeys and shithead burglars and what happened to Churrito. Thinking about the black state trooper busting his balls for no reason, and how somebody managed to pour booze in the tank without Pedro even knowing it.

Pedro thinks he'd better shoot some horse juice in his arms as soon as possible, and get tight on Joe Winder's ass.

In one of his pockets he finds the scrap of paper where he wrote the decal number off the car Winder was driving. It's not much, but it's the only thing he's got to show for a long sorry morning.

So Pedro tells the tow-truck guy he's going to ride in the busted Saab on the way to the shop. Use Kingsbury's car phone to make a few calls.

Guy says no way, it's against company policy. Gotta sit up front in the truck.

Which is not what Pedro wants to hear after such a shitty day. So he tackles the guy and yanks his arms out of the sockets one at a time, pop-pop. Leaves him thrashing in the grass by the side of the road.

Jumps in the tow truck and heads for the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills.

The Mothers of Wilderness listened solemnly as Molly McNamara recounted the brutal assault. They were gathered in the Florida room of Molly's old house, where a potluck supper had been arranged on a calico tablecloth. Normally a hungry bunch, the Mothers scarcely touched the food; a huge bacon-cheese ball lay undisturbed on a sterling platter – a sure sign that the group was distracted.

And no wonder: Molly's story was appalling. No one dreamed that the battle against Falcon Trace would ever come to violence. That Molly had been attacked by thugs in her own apartment was horrifying; equally unsettling was her lurid description of the finger-biting episode. In disbelief, several of the older members fiddled frenetically with the controls to their hearing aids.

"Obviously we've struck a nerve with Kingsbury," Molly was saying. "Finally he considers us a serious threat."

One of the Mothers asked why Molly had not called the police.

"Because I couldn't prove he was behind it," she replied. "They'd think I was daffy."

The members seemed unsatisfied by this explanation. They clucked and whispered" among themselves until Molly cut in and asked for order. The lawyer, Spacci, stood up and said it was a mistake not to notify the authorities.

"You're talking about a felony," he said. "Aggravated assault, possibly even attempted murder."

One of the Mothers piped up: "It's not worth dying for, Molly. They're already clearing the land."

Molly's gray eyes flashed angrily. "It is not too late!" She wheeled on Spacci. "Did you file in federal court?"

"These things take time."

"Can you get an injunction?"

"No," said the lawyer. "You mean, to stop construction? No, I can't."

Molly drummed her fingers on the portable podium. Spacci was preparing to sit down when she jolted him back to attention: "Give us a report on the blind trust."

"Yes, well, I talked to a fellow over in Dallas. He tells me the paperwork comes back to a company called Ramex Global, which is really Francis Kingsbury – "

"We know."

" – but the bulk of the money isn't his. It's from some S & L types. Former S & L types, I should say. Apparently they were in a hurry to invest."

"I'll bet," said one of the Mothers in the front row.

"They moved the funds through Nassau," Spacci said. "Not very original, but effective."

Molly folded her arms. "Perfect," she said. "Falcon Trace is being built with stolen savings accounts. And you people are ready to give up!"

"Our options," the lawyer noted, "are extremely limited."

"No, they're not. We're going to kill this project." A worried murmuring swept through the Mothers. "How?" one asked. "How can we stop it now?"

"Sabotage," Molly McNamara answered. "Don't you people have any imagination?"

Immediately Spacci began waving his arms and whining about the ramifications of criminal misconduct. Molly said: "If it makes you feel better, Mr. Spacci, get yourself a plate of the chicken Stroganoff and go out on the patio. And take your precious ethics with you."

Once the lawyer was gone, Molly asked if anyone else was having doubts about the Falcon Trace campaign. One board member, a devout Quaker, fluttered his hand and said yes, he was afraid of more bloodshed. Then he made a motion (quickly seconded) that the Mothers telephone the police to report the two men who had attacked Molly.

"We don't need the police," she said. "In fact, I've already retained the services of two experienced security men." With both hands she motioned to the back of the room, where Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue stood near an open door. Danny Pogue flushed at the introduction and puffed his chest, trying to look like a tough customer. Bud Schwartz focused sullenly on an invisible tarantula, dangling directly over Molly McNamara's hair.

Eventually the Mothers of Wilderness quit staring at the burglars-turned-bodyguards, and Molly resumed her pep talk. Danny Pogue picked up a spoon and sidled over to the cheese ball. Bud Schwartz slipped out the door.

In a butcher shop near Howard Beach, Queens, a man known as The Salamander picked up the telephone and said: "Talk."

"Jimmy gave me the number. Jimmy Noodles."

"I'm listening," said The Salamander, whose real name was Salvatore Delicato.

"I got Jimmy's number from Gino Ricci's brother."

The Salamander said, "Fine. Didn't I already say I was listening? So talk."

"In case you wanna check it out – I'm calling from Florida. I did time with Gino's brother."

"How thrilling for you. Now I'm hangin' up, asshole."

"Wait," said the voice. "You been lookin' for a certain rat. I know where he is. The man who did the Zubonis."

The Salamander slammed down his cleaver. "Gimme a number I can call you back," he said. "Don't say another word, just tell me a number."

The caller from Florida repeated it twice. Sal Delicato used a finger to write the numerals in pig blood on a butcher block. Then he untied his apron, washed his hands, combed his hair, snatched a roll of quarters from the cash register and walked three blocks to a pay phone.

"All right, smart guy," he said when the man answered in Florida. "First off, I don't know any Zuboni brothers."

"I never said they was brothers."

"You didn't?" Shit, thought The Salamander, I gotta pay closer attention. "Look, never mind. Just hurry up and tell me what's so important."

"There's this creep in the Witness Relocation Program, you know who I'm talking about. He testified against the Zuboni brothers, the ones you never heard of. Anyway, they gave this creep a new name, new Social Security, the whole nine yards. He's doing real nice for himself. In fact, he's worth a couple million bucks is what I hear."

Sal Delicato said, "You're a dreamer."

"Well, maybe I got the wrong man. Maybe I got some bad information. I was under the impression you people were looking for Frankie King, am I wrong?"

"I don't know no Frankie King."

"Fine. Nice talkin" with you – "

"Hold on," said The Salamander. "I probably know somebody who might be interested. What'd you say your name was?"

"Schwartz. Buddy Schwartz. I was with Gino's brother at Lake Butler, Florida. You can check it out."

"I will."

"In the meantime, you oughta talk to Mr. Gotti."

"I don't know no Gotti," said The Salamander. "I definitely don't know no fucking Gotti."