“And then you proved it, stupid son of a bitch!” the old man roared. “You want to die? For guys like you—”

“You wanted me to live,” Devlin said.

“Why didn’t you mind your own fucking business?”

“You were framing me. You killed my friend of twenty-five years right in front of my eyes. That isn’t my business?”

“Come on! You were going to walk and you knew it. Nobody believed it for a moment.”

“You got that from Vito Mariano in Harry Levine’s office,” Devlin said, “or you gave it to him. Thanks. Now let’s talk about your evidence on Mayor Hamilton …”

“You’re so fucking stupid I can’t believe it. We had all the stuff there is years ago. We own him. We’ve always owned him. We run New York. We ran it when I was a kid. The only time we ever took a step backward was when that little prick La Guardia was in there. Stupid son of a bitch, not even seeing your bookmaker friend get it taught you anything. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Now it’s you not only shooting off your mouth, you break my nephew’s nose. You tell me how we’re supposed to let you get away with that?”

“You tell me why you roped me into your bullshit in the first place!”

“Ask your wife,” DiBennedetti said, and hung up.

Devlin was gasping, dizzy. He returned to the booth and waved the waitress over and motioned for still more coffee. He didn’t want to try to talk. He was supposed to ask Maryellen? A woman he hadn’t seen in fifteen years? If what he had seen on television was a glimpse of reality, Maryellen hadn’t been at the funeral. What had Anita Brennan said about her? Yes. Suddenly Devlin thought not of Maryellen, but of Liz Becker. How long had she been married, in the mid-seventies, between her two affairs with Devlin? Four months?

“Oh, God. Oh, my God.” Devlin pushed change into the telephone. Anita Brennan said hello, and he identified himself.

“I have to locate Maryellen. My life may depend on it.”

“Let me get the telephone number for you.” She put the handset down, and a moment later he heard her talking to someone else. Silence, then other voices, distant, murmuring. Finally Anita Brennan said, “Some friends have come by, Mr. Devlin. I’ve never needed people more. The Brennans own this house, and they’ve ordered me out of it in thirty days.”

“And you’re out of the will.”