Condley patted No Neck on one of his beefy shoulders as he waved good-bye to the others. “I like you, man. You’re sick.”

A gray Chevrolet with government license plates was parked in front of Macy’s Apartments, where Condley paid five hundred dollars a month for an efficiency unit. As Condley approached the car, a red-faced man stepped out of the passenger door and pointed toward him. The man’s eyes were commanding, electric with anticipation. He was wearing a gray polyester suit, a heavily striped shirt, and a loud red tie. He was in his mid-thirties and was overweight. And from the bulge underneath his left shoulder Condley could tell he was carrying. The man stepped in front of Condley, blocking the sidewalk.

“Okay, I give up. What’d I do?”

“Nothing,” said the man.

“Then get out of my way.”

“You’ve got to come with me.”

“Who the hell are you—Dick Tracy?”

The man reached inside his coat pocket and showed Condley a Naval Investigative Service badge. “You’re Brandon Condley, right? The general wants to see you.”

“Give me a break. I never even met Hillary Clinton.” Condley noticed a small grin beginning to work on the NIS man’s face. He shrugged. “Okay, we had a beer together, but that was it. I mean, she was married and I wasn’t ready to make a commitment. And, anyway, it was a long time ago.”

“They told me you were a total wiseass,” said the agent.

“Oh, they did, huh? Who is ‘they’? You got a file on me?”

“We keep a file on everybody who’s important, Condley. Which means we wouldn’t waste any paper on you.”

A small crowd had gathered on the street, watching the two. The agent seemed increasingly nervous. Condley gestured toward the car.

“They know you’re a cop, driving a white-bread shitbox like that. You’re affecting my reputation, as they say in the press.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to write a story about you.”

“Unless I get shot. You guys drive around town in these marked cars and everywhere you stop you leave bad will. Bad will, man! Look at these people! Now they think I’m in the mob or maybe the CIA, either that or they think I’m important and are now deciding they’ll rob my ass whenever you leave. So thanks a lot, dickhead.”

“You’re a very hard man to find.”

“Not if you know where to look.”

“If you ever answered your phone this would’ve been a lot easier.”

“That’s why I use caller ID. So when I see a government number I know it’s somebody trying to interfere with my First Amendment right of free association. And besides, I’ve been out of the country.” Condley sighed knowingly. “Why does he want to see me?”

“Because he needs your advice.”