Devlin said thank you and good-bye and put the handset on its cradle. Had he been away from the Brennans? He had been trying to be straight with himself for so long, he had forgotten what a manipulator Jim Brennan really was. Payments! The sexual overture was no surprise to Devlin. Maryellen had told him stories of her father seducing, or raping, her girlfriends. At times Devlin had not believed her—not the only crazy one in the family, but definitely in the running for craziest of all.

None of this got Devlin closer to unraveling his immediate problems. He dialed Steve Loncaric, who picked up on the first ring.

“It’s me, Steve, Frank. I want to ask you about a story circulating about Jack Brennan and me …”

“Take it easy,” Loncaric said. “You sound tighter than a tick.”

“I saw a man murdered today.”

“Frank, listen to me. People are worried about you.”

“The man was a friend of mine.”

“You’re not getting the point, Frank. I’m worried about the way you sound. You may be my sponsor, but I never have thought you were invincible. You know what I’m talking about.”

“You’re talking about booze, and you knew better than to beat around the bush about it. Going on a bender is absolutely the last thing on my mind—” Devlin stopped. Two uniformed officers, a black woman and and apple-cheeked white man, came into the restaurant. They had come on duty at four o’clock and were taking a break forty minutes later. They moved to the counter. It took both of them to pick up a couple of sandwiches? Who was monitoring the radio?

“Frank? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, Steve. Look, I’m going to have to call you back.”

“Where are you? What are you doing?”

“I’m in Brooklyn. I have to get going.”

“Frank—”

Devlin hung up. He was better off staying where he was until the two cops left the place. He couldn’t be sure that the department didn’t have his picture in every precinct house in the city. He didn’t know if these two birds could find water if they fell out of a boat, but he had a fair idea of what would happen if he misstepped and wound up in custody. Devlin turned his back to the take-out counter, dropped a quarter in the telephone, dialed 411, identified himself, and told the effeminate-sounding young man on the other end the information he needed. In the mirror on the back wall Devlin saw that he had a clear view of the entire restaurant and a good portion of the street outside. The apple-cheeked cop gave his order to the counterman as the information operator spoke up again.

“Detective? That telephone is listed under the name Robert Antonucci, and the address is 2492 Coney Island Avenue. That’s Sheepshead Bay, not Coney Island, but not exactly the high-rent district, either.”