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Boomer lifted his head and glanced over at Nunzio, his eyes welled with tears, his face flushed red.

“I have to go,” Nunzio said. “You two stay as long as you want. Wreck the place if it puts smiles on your faces.”

“Where are you going?” Boomer asked, staring at the old man through wet eyes.

“To make a call,” Nunzio said. “To find the right ear.”

It was a move both Boomer and Dead-Eye wanted to make but couldn’t, and Nunzio knew that. They could never order a hit, pick up a phone, whisper a man’s name and have him done away with. Even someone as despicable as Malcolm Juniper. They were tough cops but not cold-blooded ones. That’s why they needed Nunzio as part of their team. He had made such calls before. He had grown up in the shadows of his father’s world, a place where a nod of the head or the flicker of a light signaled the end of a life. Nunzio knew that the ones at the other end of the bullet were rarely innocents whose lives should or could be spared. He had learned at a young age that every time a call went out, it touched someone who was meant to die.

Nunzio stopped at the corner of Ninety-sixth Street and Amsterdam Avenue. He stood in front of a pay phone, the receiver in his right hand, dropped change into the coin slot, and pressed down on seven numbers.

He waited for the three rings and a pickup.

“Yes,” the voice on the other end said.

“Malcolm Juniper,” Nunzio said. “Tonight.”

He hung up the phone and crossed the street against passing traffic, heading for a corner newsstand to buy a late afternoon paper. The cold air felt clean and fresh against his face, and he whistled a show tune as he walked, the phone call now nothing but a memory.

• • •

MALCOLM JUNIPER STUMBLED as he twisted his hand through his pants pocket, looking for the key to the midtown hotel room he had rented for the night.

The room was Jerry’s treat, his gift for the sweet victory of the day. He even threw Malcolm three crisp hundred-dollar bills, an advance against their upcoming payday. Jerry told him the city was ready to settle, offering a tax-free six-figure sum if they just agreed to walk away, keep quiet, and forget about any lawsuits. Malcolm was all for the big check, but he wanted more. He wanted the police to hassle Boomer and Dead-Eye, maybe mess with their pensions, come down hard and teach the two cripples a lesson.

Teach them not to touch a player like Malcolm Juniper.

Malcolm had scored enough crack in three hours on the street to float his brain for a solid week. He had ordered up an Asian hooker to be sent to his room in less than an hour, pointedly asking the madam for somebody small, thin, and willing to handle rough action.

Malcolm was hungry for a party.

He dug out the key and with an unsteady hand slid it into the slot. He opened the door to the dark single-bed room and stepped inside, his right hand sliding up and down the wall, searching for a light. He kept the door open with the edge of his foot, allowing the light to filter in from the hall.

He stood on shaky legs, staring into the dark void of a hotel room, took in a deep breath, and gave out a short laugh. The warmth of the crack cocaine that flowed briskly through his body, combined with the sweet smell of the flowered room, had emptied him of all tension, all anger. He had made his score. He was a happy man who was only short weeks away from being a rich one.

Life was going to be good.

• • •

THE MAN STEPPED out of the hallway shadows and stood behind Malcolm Juniper, moving with gentle motions. He was dressed all in black, from the brim of the fedora that hid his forehead and eyes to the desert boots that silenced his walk. He stood behind Malcolm and scanned the hall from left to right, a dark specter on a mission that would tolerate no interruption.

The man pressed the cold metal of a silencer against the nape of Malcolm’s neck, feeling Malcolm’s body arch and stiffen. He placed a gloved hand on the center of his back and eased him farther into the room. No