While he ran hot water into the coffeepot, Devlin went through the sports pages of the Daily News. If he had won money, he owed himself the pleasure of learning how, no matter how much trouble he had concentrating on it. Mets over the Cards, 7-0, behind the seven-hit pitching of Bob Ojeda. Bob Ojeda? Sid Fernandez was supposed to have started. Devlin wouldn’t have bet on Bob Ojeda. Devlin tried to keep reading. How much did Major owe him? Fourteen hundred. Major could handle it. If Devlin’s telephone was being tapped, his relationship with Major was no surprise—or big deal—to the people wearing the earphones. Somebody among them thought he knew Devlin better than he knew himself, maybe even presuming to know where his breaking point might be, the moment when he would reach for a drink.…

Oh no, not that way. Not that way at all. “Fuck you, whoever you are,” he said aloud.

The time was already twenty to twelve. He was supposed to meet Steve Loncaric at the South Street Seaport. Devlin still wasn’t sure of the meeting time. He almost wanted to take the answering machine tape, too. A wireman could tell him if the tape had ever been recorded, then erased. Devlin was sure this was a new tape, but only electronic analysis would settle the question. Why? Why him? Why him now?

There was more to come—had to be. Someone was going to be able to make the link between Antonucci and himself. He had not met Antonucci at the time he had known the Brennan family, he was clear on that much. Mugs like Antonucci never got close to the Brennans. Antonucci was … what to Devlin? And Lopez? It could be argued that Devlin had had Lopez completely under his thumb. Devlin could have been supplying Lopez with drugs. Someone was making it look easy!

Devlin was supposed to work this evening. Eileen expected to see him afterward. Lunch with Loncaric. Devlin’s real life seemed so far away now, he thought he was looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope. Wait a minute. Whoever had him in his sights knew this about him, too. Devlin was going to have to get control of himself. He was going to have to manage his energy and concentration—and start anticipating. More was coming. He hadn’t told John Lord about the Nelson tape. Now he would. And about Liz Becker, too. Liz Becker Weinstein.