She shook her head sadly. “I can't do that yet; I'm not ready.” Then, nervously, she added, “Is it the money? Is the government hassling you?”

I shook my head. “No, I can still spend what I want, as long as it's reasonable.”

“Well, what does Greg say?”

I smiled. “Greg who? Greg my lawyer or the otherGreg?”

“Greg your lawyer!”

I smiled again. “He doesn't say much, Nae. He's trying to negotiate the best deal he can, that's about it. But the good news is that he thinks”— thinks!—“we can keep the houses for a while, at least until I get sentenced, and that won't be for another four years or so. So we have some time.”

Not letting go: “Where does that leave me? Will you buy me the house or not? It's only a million dollars, Jordan. It's a lot less than Old Brookville, so I'm sure the government will be happy with that, no?”

I shrugged. “One would think, although I would still have to get it approved.” Just then something odd occurred to me. “You already found a house, Nae?”

She shrugged innocently. “No, well… not really. I mean, I didsee something that would be perfect for the kids and me”—then, as an afterthought—”and maybe perfect for you too one day!” She smiled eagerly. “So what do you think, honey? Will you buy it for me?”

I smiled back, thinking how wonderful it would be to live with the Duchess and with the kidsagain! No more Jewish blow-job queens and Russian Natashas; how wonderful that would be! “I think we should go look at the house right now,” I said, smiling, but what I didn'tsay was: “Before I actually buy it for you, Duchess, I'm gonna make damn sure you're not playing me like a fiddle!”

“She's playing you like a fiddle,” snapped my longtime private investigator, Richard “Bo” Dietl, sitting across from me at a table for two at Caracalla. “I'm certain of it, Bo.”

“Maybe so,” I replied, “but I need to know for sure. You know, I was just starting to get over her when she called, and now she's got me back on the hook again.” I paused, and shook my head angrily. “But this is it, Bo; if she fucks me over thistime, I'm done for good.”

“That's fair enough,” Bo said skeptically, “but I still think it's bad karma, this planatationof yours. And it ain't so legal either.”

I shrugged noncommittally, amazed at how well I understood Bo-speak, which required that you not only disregard Bo's odd habit of calling everyone around him Bo (in spite of his own nickname being Bo) but that you also disregard the ending atation,when he chose to add it onto an unsuspecting noun. So a plancould be a planatation,and lunchwould be lunchatation.Still, Bo was smarter than a whip, and he happened to be the best private investigator in the business.

“I'm not too worried about the bad-karma part,” I replied casually, “because I've done some damngood things lately.” I smiled knowingly, resisting the urge to explain to Bo that the reason I'd chosen Caracalla was because I'd created so much good karma last time I was here (by slipping Dave Beall the note) that I was certain it would offset any bad karma I might create with my latest plan, which was: to bug the Duchess's Codependents Anonymous meeting. “So I'm pretty much bursting at the seams with good karma, Bo.”

“That's fair enough,” he said, “but I still can't bug the roomatationfor you. If we get caught, they'll throw us both in jail for that.”

I shrugged again and then took a moment to regard Bo.

As always, he was dressed impeccably, with his two-hundred-pound, five-foot-ten-inch frame swathed in a $2,000 gray pinstripe suit with a size-fifty chest, a crisp white dress shirt with an eighteen-inch neck, and a solid gray crepe de chine necktie, knotted flawlessly in the Windsor style. On his left hand he wore a diamond pinky ring that looked heavy enough to do wrist curls with, and, along with the rest of him—that gorilla-size neck, those broadly handsome features, his perfectly coiffed grayish beard, that slightly thinning head of hair—it gave off the regal whiff of a classy mobster.

Of course, Bo was not a mobster; he had simply grown up around them, raised in that section of Ozone Park, Queens, where an Irish-Italian kid like Bo had only two possible career paths: to become a cop or a mobster. So Bo became a cop—rising quickly through the ranks of the NYPD and earning his gold shield at a remarkably young age. He then retired young and used his connections, on both sides of the law, to build his company, Bo Dietl and Associates, into America's most well-respected private-security firm.

Over the years, Bo had been a tremendous asset to me—doing everything from protecting my family to investigating the companies I took public to scaring away the occasional low-level mobster who'd made the mistake of trying to muscle his way into Stratton's business. Right now, however, Bo had no idea that I was cooperating; perhaps he suspected it, I thought, but he was too professional to ask. Besides, when it came down to it, Bo was my friend, and, like any friend, he didn't want to put me in a position where I had to lie to him.

“I understand what you're saying,” I said to Bo, “but I'm not asking you to bug the room.”

He shrugged. “So what are you asking me to do, then: hide in the fucking closet?”

I smiled warmly. “No, no, no; I would never ask you to do anything so sneaky and underhanded. What I want you to do is wire up one of your female operatives and have her infiltrate the meeting.” I winked. “As long as the bug is on her, it's legal in this state, right?”

Bo stared at me, astonished. I continued: “Anyway, I'm pretty sure that a recorded conversation with one side consenting is perfectly legal.” I chose not to tell him why I was so sure. “So as long as we keep the bug on her, we're in the clear!” I gave my eyebrows two quick up and downs. “It's a pretty good plan, don't you think, Bo?”

“Jesus,” muttered Bo. “You—are—one—twisted—fuck, my friend!”

I shrugged. “I'll take that as a compliment from a guy like you. Anyway, I can only imagine what these women say in these meetings. I mean, think about it: We'll be like two flies on the wall. If nothing else, it'll be the laugh of the century!”

Bo, the caveman: “What the fuck does this codependent shit mean anyway? It sounds like a boatload of crap to me.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I bet you some of those women could benefit from some time in a mental ward. You know what I'm saying, Bo?”

I nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I know exactly what you're saying, but this is the Duchess's latest trip: She's an aspiring codependent, and there's nothing I can do about it. Anyway, will you do this for me, Bo? Will you ride this out with me to the bitter end?”

“Yeah,” he answered unenthusiastically. “I'll ride it out with you, Bo. But if your wifeatationever finds out about this, she's gonna crucify you!”

I dismissed his concern with a flap of the back of my hand in the air. “Don't even worry about that, Bo. I'mnot gonna tell her and you'renot gonna tell her, so how the hell is she ever gonna find out?”

Just then a tall, thin waiter came over with our drinks. He wore a red waiter's bolero, a black bow tie, and no expression. He handed Bo a snifter of Jack Daniel's, and me a Coke. Bo looked up at the waiter and said, “Bring me another one of these drinkatations,Bo, will ya?”

The waiter stared at Bo, confused. Bo pressed on: “What's wrong, Bo?”

I said to the waiter, “He'd like another one, please.”

The waiter nodded and walked off.

Bo shook his head in disgust. “Fucking guy,” he muttered. “He don't barely speak English and they got him serving us lunchatation.It's a fucking travesty.” With that, Bo lifted his glass. “Any ways, I hope you get the answer you're looking for, Bo, because my experience with these things is that a woman's secret thoughts are never pretty.”