“The boys are six-three, two hundred ten pounds; they’re not muscle-bound, because they’re not weight lifters. They spar, they wrestle, and they hit each other with Japanese sticks. They’re lithe and, as I say, there are two of them. The whole prison population is scared shitless of them. That makes them shiv-proof.”

“Don’t they have any weaknesses?”

“Not unless you include batshit crazy.”

“You said the psychiatrist said they are sane.”

“Yeah, but they’re smart enough to fool him.”

“So, you’re saying we can’t touch them.”

“No,” Dino replied. “We can get them. It’s just that so far we don’t have a clue in hell how to do that.”

“There must be a way.”

“Well, you could keep pissing them off, until they try to kill you, then shoot them. But there’s always the risk that they’ll get lucky. Still, you’ve made a good start, buying the family property out from under them. You did buy it under a corporate name, didn’t you?”

“Well, ah . . .”

“Oh, shit.”

“It was all so rushed. The contract and the earnest money have already gone out. I’ll get it changed in the morning.”

“Good idea. It might take them a few minutes to figure out who bought it—if Billy Hotchkiss can keep his mouth shut, a quality for which he is not personally known.”

“God, this is depressing.” Stone moaned.

“Clinically depressing, or just sad?”

“Just sad.”

“How’s Rocky?” Dino asked. Rocky Hardwick, a recent companion of Stone’s and a CIA officer, had been wounded in an attack on his Maine house.

“She’s good. She’s gone down to Virginia, to recuperate at her mother’s house.”

“In an ambulance, I hope.”

“In a medivac chopper, with a doctor and a nurse along for company.”

“Do you think she blames you for getting shot?”

“I hope not. But who could blame her for blaming me?”

“She should blame Lance Cabot. He’s her boss, and he sent her to you about that computer thing, when they tried to extort dough out of you.”

“I like that idea, but it’s hard to suggest it to her at this distance.”

“Send her some flowers with a note saying, ‘This is all Lance’s fault.’”

“The flowers are a good idea, but I don’t know about the blame. I think that, in her mind, she’s already fixed it. I just don’t know where.”

They ordered the chateaubriand for two. It had just been served when Lance Cabot walked in and sat down. “That looks good,” he said, taking one of Dino’s forks and stabbing a chunk.

“Order some,” Dino said, moving the serving dish away from Lance’s reach.

“The usual,” Lance said to a waiter.

“The usual what, Mr. Cabot?”