"Get on with your business," said the capo supremo named Louis, his voice low and flat and filled with hatred.

"Thank you. ... First, I left an envelope on your. foyer table. It contains payment for Armbruster's tragic confrontation in Georgetown and Teagarten's equally tragic assassination in Brussels."

"According to the yid head doctor," interrupted the mafioso, "you got two more they know about. An ambassador in London and that admiral on the Joint Chiefs. You wanna add another bonus?"

"Possibly later, not now. They both know very little and nothing about the financial operations. Burton thinks that we're essentially an ultraconservative veterans' lobbying effort that grew out of the Vietnam disgrace-legally borderline for him, but then he has strong patriotic feelings. Atkinson's a rich dilettante; he does what he's told, but he doesn't know why or by whom. He'd do anything to hold on to the Court of Saint James's and has; his only connection was with Teagarten. ... Conklin hit pay dirt with Swayne and Armbruster, Teagarten and, of course, DeSole, but the other two are window dressing, quite respectable window dressing. I wonder how it happened."

"When I find out, and I will find out, I'll let you know, gratis."

"Oh?" The attorney raised his eyebrows. "How?"

"We'll get to it. What's your other business?"

"Two items, both vital, and the first I'll give you-gratis. Get rid of your current boyfriend. He goes to places he shouldn't and throws money around like a cheap hoodlum. We're told he boasts about his connections in high places. We don't know what else he talks about or what he knows or what he's pieced together, but he concerns us. I'd think he'd concern you, too."

"Il prostitute!" roared Louis, slamming his clenched fist down on the arm of the couch. "Il pinguino! He's dead."

"I accept your thanks. The other item is far more important, certainly to us. Swayne's house in Manassas. A book was removed, an office diary, which Swayne's lawyer in Manassas-our lawyer in Manassas-could not find. It was on a bookshelf, its binding identical with all the other books in that row, the entire row on the shelf. A person would have to know exactly which one to take."

"So what do you want from me?"

"The gardener was your man. He was put in place to do his job, and he was given the only number we knew was totally secure, namely, DeSole's."

"So?"

"To do his job, to mount the suicide authentically, he had to study Swayne's every move. You yourself explained that to me ad nauseam when you demanded your outrageous fee. It's not hard to picture your man peering through the window at Swayne in his study, the place where Swayne supposedly would take his life. Gradually your man realizes that the general keeps taking a specific book from off his shelf, writes in it, and returns it to the same spot. That has to intrigue him; that particular book has to be valuable. Why wouldn't he take it? I would, you would. So where is it?"

The mafioso got slowly, menacingly to his feet. "Listen to me, avvocato, you gotta lot of fancy words that make for conclusions, but we ain't got no book like that and I'll tell you how I can prove it! If there was anything anywhere written down that could burn your ass, I'd be shoving it in your face right now, capisce?"

"That's not illogical," said the well-dressed attorney, once again uncrossing and crossing his legs as the resentful capo sullenly returned to the couch. "Flannagan," added the Wall Street lawyer. "Naturally ... of course, Flannagan. He and his hairdresser bitch had to have their insurance policy, no doubt with minor extortion in the bargain. Actually, I'm relieved. They could never use it without exposing themselves. Accept my apologies, Louis."

"Your business finished?"

"I believe so."

"Now, the Jew shrink."

"What about him?"

"Like I said, he's a gold mine."

"Without his patients' files, less than twenty-four carat, I think."

"Then you think wrong," countered Louis. "Like I told Armbruster before he became another big impediment for you, we got doctors, too. Specialists in all kinds of medical things, including what they call motor responses and, get this, 'triggered mental recall under states of external control'-I remembered that one especially. It's a whole different kind of gun at your head, only no blood."

"I assume there's a point to this."

"You can bet your country club on it. We're moving the Jew to a place in Pennsylvania, a kind of nursing home where only the richest people go to get dried out or straightened out, if ya know what I mean."

"I believe I do. Advanced medical equipment, superior staff-well-patrolled grounds."

"Yeah, sure you do. A lot of your crowd passes through-"

"Go on," interrupted the attorney, looking at his gold Rolex watch. "I haven't much time."

"Make time for this. According to my specialists-and I purposely used the word 'my,' if you follow me-on a prearranged schedule, say every fourth or fifth day, the new patient is 'shot up to the moon'-that's the phrase they use, it's not mine, Christ knows. Between times he's been treated real good. He's been fed the right neutermints or whatever they are, given the proper exercise, a lot of sleep and all the rest of that shit. ... We should all be so careful of our bodies, right, avvocato?"

"Some of us play squash every other day."

"Well, you'll forgive me, Mr. Park Avenue, Manhattan, but squash to me is zucchini and I eat it."

"Linguistic and cultural differences do crop up, don't they?"

"Yeah, I can't fault you there, Consigliere."

"Hardly. And my title is attorney."

"Give me time. It could be Consigliere."

"There's not enough years in our lifetimes, Louis. Do you go on or do I leave?"

"I go on, Mr. Attorney. ... So each time the Jew shrink is shot up to that moon my specialist talks about, he's in pretty good shape, right?"

"I see the periodic remissions to normalcy, but then I'm not a doctor."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, but then I'm not a doctor, either, so I'll take my specialist's word for it. You see, every time he's shot up, his mind is pretty clear inside, and then he's fed name after name after name. A lot, maybe most, won't mean a thing, but every now and then one will, and then another, and another. With each, they start what they call a probe, finding out bits and pieces of information, just enough to get a sketch of the patient he's talking about-just enough to scare the shit out of that lasagna when he's reached. Remember, these are stressful times and this Hebe doctor treats some of the fattest cats in Washington, in and outside the government. How does that grab you, Mr. Attorney?"

"It's certainly unique," replied the guest slowly, studying the capo supremo. "His files, of course, would be infinitely preferable."

"Yeah, well, like I say, we're working on that, but it'll take time. This is now, immediato. He'll be in Pennsylvania in a couple of hours. You want to deal? You and me?"

"Over what? Something you don't have and may never get?"

"Hey, come on, what do you think I am?"

"I'm sure you don't want to hear that-"

"Cut the crap. Say in a day or so, maybe a week, we meet, and I give you a list of names I think you might be interested in, all of which we got information on-let's say information not readily available. You pick one or two or maybe none, what can you lose? We're talkin' spitballs anyway, 'cause the deal's between you and me only. No one else is involved except my specialist and his assistant who don't know you and you don't know them."

"A side arrangement, as it were?"

"Not as it were, like it is. Depending on the information, I'll figure out the charge. It may only be a thou or two, or it may go to twenty, or it may be gratis, who knows? I'd be fair because I want your business, capisce?"