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  Clement said, That's where your forty grand is, in savings?

  Yes, of course.

  I thought you didn't trust banks.

  Skender looked at him. Yes, I trust the bank. They loan me money when I need it.

  Clement glared at Sandy. Turn that goddamn goat-tit music off! As she hesitated, startled, he stepped over to the record player and swept the arm scratching across Donna Summer's Greatest Hits. That disco shit just ricochets off my mind!

  There was a silence.

  Sandy said quietly, very slowly, I think somebody ought to calm down and quit acting like a spoiled brat. You'll live longer.

  Skender seemed glad to look at Sandy as she spoke. He said, I don't understand why he did that.

  Little misunderstanding, Sandy said. Everything's okay now.

  Clement said, calm again, How much you got in your checking account?

  Sandy grinned and shook her head as Skender looked up at Clement.

  I don't keep much there. This time of the month maybe a few hundred. Skender seemed to prepare himself then and said, Why do you want to know this? Hesitant, as though the question might be out of line, an affront to Clement.

  You have a little sister, Clement said, you want to be sure she's taken care of. He was looking around the room now, hands on his hips.

  You don't have to worry about that, Skender said. Can I have the gun back now? I put them away.

  Sandy was watching Skender. She saw his serious, almost-sad expression now. Disappointed. Or finally getting suspicious.

  Clement, still looking around, wasn't paying any attention to him, not even looking at him as he said, When you're hiding in here and the door's closed, can you open it if you want?

  Yes, there's a switch. Skender nodded. There.

  Clement walked over to the metal switch housing mounted on the side wall, turned the Browning automatic in his hand to hold it by the barrel and whacked at the housing with the gun butt until it hung loose and he heard some excited words in Albanian. Clement turned and put the Browning on Skender, who was pushing himself up from the floor. Stay right there, Skenny. Be a good boy. He tore the switch from the wall, threw it out into the basement, then paused and reconsidered what he was about to do. Locking the guy in wasn't going to teach him anything. Introduce him to reality. Clement stepped toward the Albanian.

  You got the EMS number handy?

  Skender was staring hard at him, black eyes glowing. Yes, Albanians could get sore at you, Clement decided. He heard Skender say, I want you to leave here, now.

  We're going, partner, but first I want to call the Emergency Medical Service.

  Skender frowned, taking his time. Why do you need them?

  Yes, they could get pissed at you, but my Lord, they were innocent about things. Place a level on this boy, up one side and down the other and get a true square.

  I don't need the EMS, Clement said. You do.

  He heard Sandy say something like, Oh God, as he lifted the K-mart cowboy hat off the Albanian's head and placed the nose of the Browning against the man's hairline, the man's forehead creasing in furrows as he tried to raise his eyes. Now edge over to the door, Clement said.

  The Albanian tried to look at Sandy and Clement wrist-flicked the gun, giving him a backhand whack across the head. Skender came to attention. He began moving on his knees toward the opening in the wall, Clement prodding him along.

  Go on out, then turn around and sit down.

  Sandy said, What're you gonna do to him?

  Just bring the phone out, hon. There's enough cord. Tell the operator you want the Emergency Medical Service. When they answer, tell 'em to send a van over here to twenty-seven eighty-one Cardoni, corner of Caniff. He looked at Skender, sitting outside the opening in the wall, and said, Hold on, partner, I'll be right with you.

  Sandy hurried out of there with the phone, edging past Skender. Clement followed, roughing Skender's hair with his hand as he came out.

  Skender was swallowing. He said something in a language Clement didn't understand, then said, You are crazy . . .

  Lay back and stick your leg in the opening, Clement said. Either one, I don't care. He walked over to the furnace, reached up, and looked over his shoulder as he flicked the switch. With the hum of the motor the wall began to swing slowly closed. He saw Skender, twisted around watching him, draw his leg away from the wall and Clement switched the motor off. He said, It's up to you, partner walking over to him and placing the muzzle of the Browning against Skender's head put your leg down or get your fur-cap head all over the basement.

  Sandy was saying into the phone, Hi, we're gonna need an ambulance. I mean we do need one, right now . . .

  Clement walked back to the furnace, reached up, flicked the switch on again and watched the wall moving in again, touching Skender's leg now and pushing it up against the stationary section of wall Skender staring, not believing it was happening to him and Clement pulled the switch down. As the hum of the motor stopped, Skender looked around, eyes wide with fright and perhaps a little hope.

  Clement said, I want to impress something on you, partner. I'm disappointed, but I ain't really mad at you, else I'd be pulling the trigger by now. See, but when you're laying in the hospital with your leg in a cast, I don't want you to have any bad thoughts like wanting to tell the police or the FBI or anybody. You do, I'll come visit you again and stick your head in there 'ystead of your leg. You hear me? Nod your head.

  Sandy was saying, No, the person didn't have a heart attack . . .

  Clement flicked up the switch and let his hand come down.

  Sandy was saying, Course it's serious . . .

  With the hum of the motor Skender began to cry out. He sucked in his breath, holding it, his face straining, then let the sound come out, his eyes closed tightly now and his face upturned, the sound rising, building to a prolonged scream.

  Sandy said into the phone, Hey, does that sound serious enough for you? You dumb shit . . .

  Chapter 22

  RAYMOND HAD A VISION. Or what he imagined a vision might be like. Herzog told him the Albanian was in the hospital and Raymond saw clearly, in the next few moments, what was happening and very possibly what was going to happen.

  He saw the Albanians going after Clement.

  He saw Clement running to get his gun, to defend himself.

  He saw Mr. Sweety, yes, with the gun, the Walther P.38.

  He saw Clement holding the gun, the Guy-Simpson murder weapon, and saw himself extending the Colt 9-mm in two hands and saw . . . the clarity of the vision began to fade. He wasn't sure if visions were always accurate. He told himself to back up, look at it again, carefully, beginning at his desk in the squadroom. He remembered . . .

  Wendell on the phone saying to someone, What you know for a fact and what you believe, that could be two different things. I want to know what you know.

  Norb Bryl saying to a middle-aged woman sitting at his desk, We can help her, I give you my word as a man. And the woman saying something and Bryl saying, Well, I hope somebody doesn't kill her.

  Hunter saying to Maureen, imitating a voice out of Amos and Andy, 'yYeah, she come up to me and says she wants to pet my puppy.' I'm thinking, ah-ha, he got it on with her, before he killed her, right? Isn't that what it sounds like? Maureen grinning expectantly. No, the guy's got a dog in his car and she wants to pet the dog.

  Inspector Herzog coming in, approaching Raymond's desk: You mentioned, wasn't Mansell's girlfriend what's her name, Sandy Stanton going with one of the Albanians?

  This was where the prevision began, Raymond feeling the jab in his stomach, realizing he had forgotten to talk to Skender, to warn him, be careful . . .

  Saying Skender Lulgjaraj, and feeling his stomach knotting.

  Herzog saying, Yeah, Skender. Art Blaney was over at Hutzel visiting his wife. He's going past a room, sees a familiar face. It's Toma. Art looks in, Skender's in traction with a fractured leg. Art wants to know what happened and Toma says, 'y
He fell down the stairs.'

  Raymond remembered feeling worn out, even with the thing in his stomach, and saying, Oh, shit . . .

  And Herzog saying, Let's go in my office.

  It was while walking from the squadroom to the office with the view of the river and the highrise that Raymond had his vision.

  I was gonna call him, Raymond said. I don't know what I was thinking. I know the guy's being set up and I didn't call him.

  Toma says it was an accident, Herzog said. Maybe it was.

  Raymond shook his head. No I'm gonna find out what happened, but it wasn't an accident.

  Well, you have hunches, Herzog said, and most of them turn out to be nothing, so you don't follow up on some. Herzog looked over at a wallboard of newspaper clippings covering the Guy-Simpson murders. Half those news stories are hunches, speculation. Who killed the judge? . . . Who gives a shit? You notice, there's hardly any mention of Adele Simpson, she's a minor figure. It's all about the judge, what a prick he was. We give them a few facts and, for the most part, they're satisfied, leave us alone and write interviews with people who say, 'yOh, yes, I knew the judge intimately, it doesn't surprise me at all.' They don't care if we ever solve it, they've got so much to write about.

  Raymond, reviewing his vision, seemed patient, attentive.

  Herzog said, That girl from the News, Sylvia Marcus, she's the only one asks about Mansell. If he's a suspect, where is he? Why isn't he upstairs?

  I haven't seen her around, Raymond said.

  She's here every day. She picked up on him somehow, maybe getting a little here and there, sees a case folder open on somebody's desk Sylvia's a very bright girl.

  You think so? Raymond said.

  Well, she asks good questions, Herzog said. I have a few myself I've been wondering about. Like the car, the Buick. We seem to be taking this one kinda leisurely.

  I know what you mean, Raymond said. But you know how long we've been on it? Seventy-two hours. That's all. Since Sandy got back from visiting Mr. Sweety the car hasn't moved till last night, we took it in, had it vacuumed, dusted. It's like the car's been driven twelve thousand miles with gloves on. Clement's driving a '76 Montego now. He went out last night, but nobody could find him. Didn't come back this morning. Sandy went out, came back early this morning in a cab. We went in the apartment over there last night while they're both out. No gun under the underwear or in the toilet tank. Nothing of the judge's.

  So he got rid of the gun, Herzog said.

  Raymond didn't say anything.

  You've been holding back, not wanting to break down the doors too soon, Herzog said. Meanwhile the guy's riding around in a Montego, you tell me, and might've broken somebody's leg. If you can't get Mansell with the gun, how're you gonna get him?

  Maybe the gun's still around, Raymond said. But you're right, I think I've been holding back, being a little too polite, expecting people you might say to be reasonable and forgetting a very important principle of police work.

  Herzog nodded. When you got 'em by the balls . . .

  Right, Raymond said, . . . the head and the heart soon follow.

  Someone in the family had died recently and that's why the Albanians were in black. Coming down the hospital corridor and seeing the figures, Raymond thought at first they were priests. A nurse was trying to remove them from the room, with their packages and paper sacks, telling them only two at a time, please, and to wait in the visitor's lounge. He saw Toma Sinistaj.

  Then Toma said something as he saw Raymond Cruz and the delegation in black move down the hall.

  Raymond thought of Toma as a face on a foreign coin. Or he thought of him as a Balkan diplomat or a distance runner. He wore a blue shirt with his narrow black suit and tie. He was about thirty-eight but seemed older; his full mustache was black; his eyes were almost black and never wandered when they looked at you. Raymond remembered this; he knew Toma from several times in the past when Albanians had tried to kill each other and sometimes succeeded. He remembered that Toma owned restaurants, that he carried a Beretta, with license, and a beeper.

  Attached to the hospital bed was a frame with an elaborate system of wires that hoisted Skender's plaster-covered leg in the air: like a white sculpture that would be entitled Leg. Skender's eyes remained closed. When Raymond asked how he was, Toma said, He'll be like that a long time and then he'll be a cripple. You know why? Because he wanted to marry a girl he met at a disco place. She tells him okay, but first he has to meet her brother.

  He's not her brother, Raymond said.

  No, I don't think so either. They planned this a long time.

  How much did they get?

  What difference does it make? Toma said. We don't look at it, was it a misdemeanor or felony? You know that. He did it to Skender, he did it to me, it's the same thing. I'm going to look at this Mansell in the eyes . . .

  It's not that simple, Raymond said.

  Why not? Toma said. The only thing makes it difficult, you worried you have to arrest me. He shrugged. All right, if you prove I kill him. You do what you have to do, I do what I have to do.

  No, it isn't that simple, because I want him too, Raymond said. You're gonna have to get in line. After we're done you can have him charged with felonies, assault, but it isn't gonna mean much if he's doing life. You understand what I'm saying?

  I understand you want him for killing the judge, Toma said. I spend some time up on that fifth floor, I talk to people, different ones I know. I understand why you want this man. But if you don't care personally that he killed the judge, then why do you care who kills him? You see the way I look at it? You tell me to get in line. I tell you, you want him you better get him quick, or he'll be dead.

  Raymond said, You always look in their eyes?

  Toma seemed to smile. If there's time.

  He's killed nine people.

  Toma said, Yes? If you know he kills people, why do you let him? Before I come to this coun-try when I was sixteen I have already kill nine people, maybe a few more most of them Soviet, but some Albanian, Ghegs, my own people. Before the Soviets before my time, were the Turks; but before the Turks, always, we have the Custom. If you don't know about it you don't know anything about me.

  I think of us as friends, Raymond said, wanting the man to know that he understood.

  Yes, you give your word and keep it, Toma said. I think you know about honor because it doesn't seem to bother you to talk about it. It isn't an old thing in books to you. But maybe honor goes so far with you and stops. Say a policeman is killed. Then I think you want to kill the person who killed him.

  Yes, Raymond said. Basically it was true.

  But you don't understand the honor that even if a man who's smoking my tobacco he doesn't have to be my brother, but a man I bring into my house if he's offended in some way then I'm offended. And if he's killed then I kill the person who killed him, because this goes back to before policemen and courts of law. Now wait, don't say anything, please. A man breaks the leg of your cousin who is like a brother a very trusting, very nice person and steals his money. What does your honor tell you to do?

  My honor tells me, Raymond said, the word sounding strange to him, saying it out loud, to take the guy's head off.

  You see? Toma said. Your honor stops. It tells you something, yes. But you can't say, simply, 'yKill him,' and mean to do it. You say what you feel like doing, something more than killing him. But what you would actually do is . . . what?

  Arrest him, Raymond said.

  There, Toma said. Well, we're able to talk about it even if we don't see it the same. You don't call me a crazy Albanian.

  Raymond said, How're you gonna find him?

  We have people looking, some others helping, friends. Some of your own people, some with the Hamtramck police, they tell us a few things they hear. We know what kind of car he has, where the girl lives. We find him, all right.

  What if he leaves town?

  Toma shrugged. We wait. Why does he live here? He l
ikes it? People are easy to rob? If he leaves we wait for him to come back, or, we go after him. Either way.

  Raymond looked at the man lying in traction. How'd he break Skender's leg?

  Toma hesitated, then said, He broke it very deliberately. You see the Medical Service report?

  It said he fell down the basement stairs and they found him on the floor. One of the tenants did and called EMS.

  Yes, that was the girlfriend who called, Toma said. As soon as you came in here see, I know you're after this Mansell and you figure out he did this; so I'm not going to lie to you, say Skender fell down the stairs. You want that person for murder, but you don't have him. So I know you don't have evidence, and if you don't find some he remains free, even though he's killed two people no, nine, you say.

  It takes time, Raymond said.

  Toma shook his head. No, it doesn't. Tell me where to find him. It takes only a few minutes.

  Raymond didn't say anything.

  For the sake of honor, Toma said.

  Well, it would take care of yours, Raymond said, but it wouldn't do much for mine, would it?

  Toma studied him with his direct gaze, curious now. There's more to it than I know about. He paused and then said, Maybe you would take his head off.

  Maybe, Raymond said.

  Toma continued to stare, thoughtful. If he resists, yes. I can see that. Or if they tell you, all right, you can shoot him on sight. But if he gives himself up, then what do you do?

  Turn it around, Raymond said. You open the door and he's just sitting there. What would you do?

  I'd kill him, Toma said. What have we been talking about?

  I know, but I mean if he was unarmed.

  Yes, and I say I'd kill him. What does his being armed or not have to do with it? Are you saying there are certain conditions, rules, like a game? Toma emphasized with his eyes, showing surprise, bewilderment, overacting a little but with style, letting his expression fade to a smile, that remained in his eyes. This is a strange kind of honor, you only feel it if he has a gun. What if he shoots you first? Then you die with your honor? Toma paused. They call us the crazy Albanians . . .