Devlin brought his hand up to his face carefully. Tape and gauze—a big pile of gauze. They had broken his nose and thrown a patch on it. His pockets were empty. They had his passport and wallet. “You followed the trail the way a chicken follows feed. Now let me make this simple. Tell us the location of the little gun you took yesterday from the Lincoln and you walk. You and Rizzo got the same nose. We never wanted you dead. Your life is fucked and that’s enough. It’s going to take you years to get out of this trouble. Maybe you’ll even do time—and inside, you’ll probably have to kill somebody to keep from getting turned into a girl. Brennan knows now that we aren’t going to kill you. We got the message to him yesterday morning, at St. Pat’s during the funeral. Beautiful. In spite of your involvement with his boys’ anticrime bullshit, letting you live is a better way of twisting his dick. Fuck him. Hell was made for guys like him.”

Some sales pitch. Devlin remembered Harry Levine saying that old DiBennedetti knew he was going to hell. They wanted the little gun that Devlin had taken from the glove compartment—he had been right about that. Setting Kevin’s Plymouth on fire had kept them from searching for it. Devlin knew exactly where the gun was, in the trunk, inside a metal toolbox, under a pile of old wrenches and screwdrivers. Fire would not have touched the gun, and the rust that follows automobile fires was not going to louse up the necessary ballistics tests. Not even putting the car through a crusher would foul the gun as evidence. “Let me sit up.”

“Sure.” The guy took Devlin’s hand and pulled. A living room. On the windows and door were the venetian blinds he had seen from outside. The light in the sky was fading. What time was it? Sitting up made Devlin’s nose feel heavier. He could feel something crunching inside. His throat was dry. Now the nose burned. They had made the mistake of their lives, leaving the .25 in the Lincoln. The little gun tied them to Lederer and all the killings. Since it had fallen into Devlin’s hands, the .25 had been the only thing on their minds. All he had to do was tell them its location and he’d walk? Sure. Next week he was going to star on Broadway. “You don’t care about Lederer.”

The guy smiled. “That was the beauty part. You saved us money. He never got his last payment.”