"At that Four Seasons restaurant, the one where Kissinger and Cronkite and those people are always eating. I've always wanted to eat there."

Victor showed up, sleepless and pale. When they were seated, Diatri said, "How come we couldn't get a table closer to the fountain? I'm going to need binoculars to see Kissinger from here."

Victor said, "There's a hundred grand in the briefcase."

Diatri said, "Victor, if you ever offer me money again, I'm going to send that tape to Don Fabio and he's going to cut off more than your retainer. Forty bucks for sole meunierel. No wonder I've never eaten here before."

Diatri had learned over the years that showing up unexpectedly in the middle of one of Victor's dinner parties forced Victor to come to the point more efficiently.

The maid answered the door. "He have guests," she said.

"Tell him Mr. Frank is here, would you, please? From Manhattan Cablevision."

Victor appeared in the foyer clutching his napkin like a security blanket. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "You know who I have in there? John Gotti, Jr."

"No kidding," said Diatri. "The one who punched out that woman? Classy guy. Is that carbonara? I love carbonara."

"Call me tomorrow at the office, Frank."

"Do you know a Ramon Antonio Luis or Emiliano Ramirez?"

"No. Look, he's got his people downstairs in the lobby."

"Is that who they were? I thought they were furniture movers wearing suits. That smells good. It's important to use the Italian parsley. My first wife was always using regular parsley and it's an entirely different taste. You know what I do? I add a little sour cream, but not too much."

"Look, I don't know those people."

"They're scumbags. Naturally I thought of you."

"What do you want me to say, Frank?"

"So what's Junior like? Chip off the old cellblock? Get it?"

"Jesus Christ, Frank."

"They're Alphabet Town scumbags. Ramirez disappeared and someone popped Luis in the back of the head. Twenty-two caliber."

"Shit happens."

"Manuel Uguarte from South Jamaica? You wouldn't know him? Carlos Sandoval, Flushing Meadow? They both disappeared recently. I thought, all these disappearances, maybe they're related."

"People disappear, Frank. I don't know-"

"Okay," said Diatri, pushing past Victor, "but I can only stay for a few minutes. I already ate."

"I don't know about any Ramirez or Luis. I've heard of Uguarte and Sandoval, okay? Uguarte buys from Sandoval, Sandoval takes deliveries from another guy who just disappeared. Antonio Chin."

"Chin. I don't know the gentleman."

"Twenty-Mule Team Tony-he runs the mules for Jesus Barazo out of Miami."

"Barazo? Barazo is in Honduras."

"No, he isn't in Honduras. He's in South fucking Miami."

"I'm shocked, Victor. Shocked. He's got two federal warrants out on him."

"Yeah, and he's making assholes out of you people, okay? I gotta get back inside."

"Tell Junior you're talking to Henry Kissinger. What do you mean these people are missing? How do you mean, missing?"

"Jesus Christ. Missing. Like the kids on the milk cartons."

"What else?"

"What do you mean, what else?"

"Victor."

"Barazo used to handle for Medellin. A lot. Then he cut some arrangement with someone else."

"Who?"

"No one knows. Barazo knows and no one asks Barazo, he's fucking-"

"Is he the guy who-"

"Yeah. So maybe Medellin is settling up. I don't know. That's all I know. On my mother's grave, that's all I know."

"Victor, your mother lives in Delray Beach."

"It's a figure of speech, okay, Frank?"

The next morning Diatri was on his way to the SAC's office when Golina from Intel said, "Hey, Frank, you hear about Barazo?"

Miami was in the middle of one of its periodic renaissances and three blackened corpses on the Rickenbacker Causeway was not the image the Chamber of Commerce was pushing this winter. Diatri had to keep ducking to avoid getting stabbed in the eye by pointing fingers. In addition to the two federal warrants, Florida itself had three state warrants out on Jesus Celaya Barazo, and here he'd been living right under everyone's nose at 7411 Southwest Sixty-fourth Street. The Metro Dade PD was pointing its finger at DEA, DEA was pointing at Metro Dade, and IRS-he was paying taxes, for crying out loud!-IRS was pointing right back at DEA; the Mayor's office was pointing fists at everyone and the C of C was ripping out its hair. Minefields, in downtown Miami? Goat heads in the garbage? Victor was right. Barazo had managed to make everybody look like an asshole. And where was he? His dental records didn't match the uppers or lowers of the blackened goombahs in the car. Victor said he bet Barazo was in Medellin. Revenge is a canapé best served cold, right?

The staff of Neon Leon's had all disappeared-vanished, apparently terrified Barazo's people would assume they were in on the hit. The owner had hung a CLOSED DUE TO DEATH IN FAMILY sign outside like a wreath of wolfbane. The police questioned the owner, who had not been there that night; he didn't know anything. Diatri had been parked in a van across from the man's home for two days when he saw a Gran Marquis pull up and two men get out. They did not look like Jehovah's Witnesses. One went to the front door, the other around back. Diatri got out and went to the back. He listened at the door, unholstered his Sig Sauer and went in. The sound was a woman sobbing, a man being struck in the face with open palms.

Diatri crept along a corridor toward the noise. He saw a swinging door and went in, keeping low, and found himself in the kitchen. At the far end was another kitchen door, which lead to the dining room. The voices were in Spanish. The woman's sobs were in Spanish. The man was saying he didn't know anything. He kept saying his squid was fresh every day.

Diatri searched for the spice cabinet and found what he was looking for, a half gallon of extra-virgin-what else, in a good Latino home?-olive oil. He emptied it onto the floor by the forward swinging door. He found an eighteen-inch cast-iron frying pan, good for paella, he imagined as he held it, cocked, in his hand.

He couldn't remember the Spanish word for fire. It was ridiculous. He spoke fluent Spanish. But the word refused to budge. That particular synapse was a damp wick. Finally he just said, "Fire!" He tried to make himself sound like a frightened female cook.

The man came through the door. He hit the oil and went backward. Diatri brought the frying pan down on his face, probably harder than absolutely necessary. "Que pasa?" said the other. He came through the door gun first. Diatri brought the frying pan side down on his wrist and broke it, then broke his nose on the upswing. The EMS technicians made jokes about the olive oil. The owner was beaten up pretty badly. Diatri went to the hospital with him and stayed with him and when he was released the man insisted on taking him to Neon Leon's and making him a paella. By the time Diatri left, with the address of Ignacio the waiter's cousin down by Homestead Air Force Base, the owner was overcome with gratitude and emotion and told him the dish would forever after be listed on the menu as "Paella Diatri." Diatri was genuinely touched. No family, two divorces, no children; getting into the car, he reflected that "Paella Diatri" was about all he was likely to leave to posterity. By then his stomach was starting to cramp up on him, and he was getting the cold sweat that always preceded these bouts. He stopped at a medical-supply store on the way to Ignacio's cousin's to pick up saline and an IV-rig.

They assigned him a young agent from Intel named Liestraker. Liestraker stood up when Diatri walked in, trying not to reveal the pain, and extended his hand and said how it was an honor. "Thank you," said Diatri. "You got any Rolaids?"