“I think a drive-by sounds smart,” Franco said.

When they reached Manhattan, Franco continued west on Fifty-ninth Street. He rounded the southern end of Central Park and headed north on Central Park West.

Angelo thought back to the fateful day on the pier of the American Fresh Fruit Company when Laurie caused the explosion. Angelo had had skin problems from chicken pox and acne, but it had been the burns he suffered because of Laurie Montgomery that had turned him into what he called a “freak.”

Franco posed a question, but Angelo hadn’t heard him because of his angry musings. He had to ask him to repeat it.

“I bet you’d like to stick it to that Laurie Montgomery,” Franco said. “If it had been me, I sure would.”

Angelo let out a sarcastic laugh. Unconsciously, he moved his left arm so that he could feel the reassuring mass of his Walther TPH auto pistol snuggled into its shoulder holster.

Franco turned left onto One Hundred-sixth Street. They passed a playground on the right that was in full use, particularly the basketball court. There were lots of people standing on the sidelines.

“It must be on the left,” Franco said.

Angelo consulted the piece of paper he was holding with Jack’s address. “It’s coming up,” he said. “It’s the building with the fancy top.”

Franco slowed and then stopped to double-park a few buildings short of Jack’s on the opposite side of the street. A car behind beeped. Franco lowered his window and motioned for the car to pass. There was cursing as the car did so. Franco shook his head. “You hear that guy? Nobody in this city has any manners.”

“Why would a doctor live there?” Angelo said. He was eyeing Jack’s building through the front windshield.

Franco shook his head. “Doesn’t make any sense to me. The building looks like a dump.”

“Amendola said he was a little strange,” Angelo said. “Apparently, he rides a bike from here all the way down to the morgue at First Avenue and Thirtieth Street every day.”

“No way!” Franco commented.

“That’s what Amendola said,” Angelo said.

Franco’s eyes scanned the area. “The whole neighborhood is a dump. Maybe he’s into drugs.”

Angelo opened the car door and got out.

“Where are you going?” Franco asked.

“I want to check to make sure he lives here,” Angelo said. “Amendola said his apartment is the fourth floor rear. I’ll be right back.”

Angelo rounded the car and waited for a break in the traffic. He crossed the street and climbed to the stoop in front of Jack’s building. Calmly, he pushed open the outer door and glanced at the mailboxes. Many were broken. None had locks that worked.

Quickly, Angelo sorted through the mail. As soon as he came across a catalogue addressed to Jack Stapleton, he put it all back. Next, he tried the inner door. It opened with ease.

Stepping into the front hall, Angelo took a breath. There was an unpleasant musty odor. He eyed the trash on the stairs, the peeling paint, and the broken light bulbs in the once-elegant chandelier. Up on the second floor, he could hear the sounds of a domestic fight with muffled screaming. Angelo smiled. Dealing with Jack Stapleton was going to be easy. The tenement looked like a crack house.