Tony Astorina walked in, doing a friendly little boxer's bob and weave. It looked like all the motion he was capable of. He had that expression of where's the coffee. Jack had coffee right here. They talked a little preliminaries. Tony was about forty but dressed young. His eyes were getting slirty inside the looming flesh. He said there was a place he had to be in forty-five minutes. He made it sound important. Jack did not want to hear this kind of remark. He wanted to believe Tony was involved in this conversation, not just passing by, passing time.

The barking in the back room was feeble and hoarse, like dogs in some Chinese village.

Then Tony said, "Loanshark is not our thing, Jack. There are people I can refer you. But I wouldn't be truthful if I said it could happen. These clubs, I don't know, they're shaky propositions."

"The boys know me in four cities, five cities."

"Your reputation is Jack Ruby is one tough Jew. To put it plain. He goes back to the unions."

"Scrap Iron and Junk Handlers."

"He did a lot of things you can give him credit."

"I brawl too much. It's this temperament where I lash out. I follow the theory you take the play away. You barrel in hard and fast before they even know they're in a dispute. Ten seconds later I'm a baby."

"But I'm making the point. The point isn't temperamental. It's a question of where's the money coming from to pay back."

"From business. From the clubs. Plus some ventures I'm planning in other vicinities. I'm saying you are close to Carmine."

"Carmine. I can't go to Carmine with something like this. Carmine has enormous, don't even get me started-things going on you can't believe. You think he does business all day long? He has an organization to do the business. The man is in conference. He has meets all the time. He's running a country, Jack."

"I'm saying you put a word in his ear. You plant an idea."

"There's so much stuff they put in front of him. Things from out of nowhere, I never heard of. Like I just found out about Kennedy and that woman. It went on two years. Mo talked to Carmine all the time."

"What woman?"

"You know Mo?"

"Giancana."

"Sam."

"Giancana."

"For two years Kennedy is ramming this woman that's Sam's mistress. I don't know the first thing. They do it in New York. They do it in L.A. They find like twenty minutes in Chicago, bing bang, when he's there for a fund-raising."

Jack was trying to draw himself a picture.

"And Carmine gets reports. She saw him here, she saw him there. He said this, he said that. Two years, Jack. They did it in the White House."

Jack could not conceive of a situation whereby the President of the United States would be fucking the girlfriend of Momo Gian-cana. There had to be a mistake somewhere. This is a guy from the Patch in Chicago, from Dago Town, four or five blocks from where Jack grew up. Jack used to be personal friends with two of Mo's enforcers. He'd been hearing Giancana's name for decades. Since the days he was called Mooney. A wheelman for the 42 Gang. Fifty or sixty arrests. Time in Joliet. Time in Leavenworth. A powerful figure today. Chicago, Las Vegas, etc. But sharing a woman with the President? Jack knew it was going to be hard to swing the conversation back to a loan for a failing business.

Tony was still in his chair but only technically. There was an air of departure, a small restlessness that Jack could trace to his hands, like a smoker who quits.

"Jack, I come by here for old time."

"We used to swim on the Capri roof."

"I'm saying. I didn't come by for the coffee."

"Tony. I appreciate."

"I come by because we go back together."

"We got laid in adjoining rooms."

"Havana, madonn'."

"Tony, I have plans I'm painting the club. A whole new scheme. I want to feature a silky type red, like an old-timey red. The convention business picks up soon. If Carmine could see his way clear to just think about this for a couple of minutes, riding in the car someday."

"I wish I could leave you some ray of light."

"I appreciate."

"I only drive the man around. In fact I'll tell you the most important thing I do for Carmine. Every morning I put him in his vest. I tie him in nice."

"What vest?"

"His vest. His body armor. He's running a fucking country."

They shook hands at the top of the stairs. Then Tony embraced Jack, who felt the emotion of the moment.

"There's something I want to do. I want to send you a twist-board. I have this twistboard I want you to try. Test model. Tony. We used to swim."

Jack called George Senator at the apartment.

He called his sister Eva.

He called Rabbi Hillel Silverman.

He called Lynette Batistone, Randi Ryder, to tell her she couldn't have the night off after all. Double DeLite was sick to her stomach in Grand Prairie.

Jack opened the door to the back room and the dogs shot out madcap and scrambling. There is a thing about the trust of a dog that makes up for a lot of heartache we take in this life. He plucked Sheba from the tumble of fur and went down to the car. He drove one block to the bank. He drove to the Sheraton and went into the coffee shop to tell the girl at the register a joke he knew would knock her to the floor. He drove to some stores looking for a certain food supplement for dieters. He heard police sirens and thought about following, just for a little adrenaline, but felt uninterested all of a sudden, down in the dumps.

This kind of gloom made him feel anonymous. Who was he? Why should anyone care about him?

He drove around a while, then stopped at a bakery and bought a cheesecake. He took it to the Police and Courts Building and rode the elevator to three. He stuck his head in a few offices and took the cake to the press room. Four or five clerks and detectives came in. Jack took a Preludin with a mouthful of cold coffee that was sitting in a paper cup. Somebody noticed the stub where Jack's index finger used to be. A little accident in the nature of an old-time dispute. He told two jokes that went over well. Then he went down the hall to Homicide and looked in on Russell Shively, who was at his desk reading Field and Stream, a lanky type with a sunburnt face who always made Jack feel here is my corny idea of a Texas lawman.

"Russell, how long we known each other?"

"Hell, I don't know."

"Have I ever mentioned suicide to you?"

"I don't believe so, Jack."

"Russell, if I ever mention suicide or the phrase kill myself or do away with myself, I am telling you right now it is not an empty threat to get attention. If you ever pick up the phone and hear a voice that says I'm killing myself and you think it's my voice, Jack Ruby, then I'm telling you right now I'm not bluffing."

These remarks came out of nowhere, of course, so Russell Shively just looked carefully into Jack's eyes and nodded, with no idea what to say.

Jack put his snap-brim fedora back on his head and walked out of the room. He went down to the car and drove off toward the Carousel. He thought of some calls he had to make. Bottles and jars rolled across the floor of the car. He thought of the fight that led to the stub finger. A dozen years ago he had a fight of a total animal nature with a guitar player at the Silver Spur, which Jack was running at the time. The guitarist bit off part of his left index finger. It was a single, sustained and determined head-wagging bite in the course of a stretch of wrestling and it left the top part of the finger hanging, beyond repair. This was harmful to Jack's public image because he wanted to join the Masons, the Freemasons, whatever they're called, for the business contacts and the fellowship. But the Masons would not accept a man who was missing part of his anatomy. This was an ancient bylaw that they kept in the books.