“I’ll give you that, Stone, but I don’t want to waste a lot of resources hunting a dead man. Does Dino want us to drag the East River?”

“I think you’d better work on the theory that Ryan is still walking and talking. Why don’t you roust Gino Parisi’s kid, Al? The two of them were partners when they were working for Gino.”

“Didn’t you hear? Al inherited his daddy’s part of that drinks distribution business, and his uncle, Jerry Brubeck, bought him out of it. He’s rich now—he bought a Mercedes.”

“I’m happy for him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know where Gene Ryan is, and it ought not to be hard to find Al. You might start by finding out at what address he registered the Mercedes.”

“The kid’s from Jersey, I’ll make a call.”

“While you’re at it, why don’t you ask if Gene Ryan has registered a motorcycle in Jersey?”

“I’ll call right this minute,” Dan said. “Give my best wishes to Dino when you see him.”

“Certainly, Dan.” Stone hung up.

—

At that moment, Gene Ryan was standing in line at the New Jersey Motor Vehicles Department, with the registration documents for his motorcycle in hand, along with an application to exchange his New York driver’s license for a New Jersey one. Ryan was an orderly guy, and he liked to keep things neat. He looked at his watch and at the display of the number being called. It was 52, and his number was 72. He sighed deeply.

—

Half an hour after Stone’s call, Dan Harrigan called back. “Stone, we ran Gene Ryan’s name in Jersey and came up with zilch.”

“How about Al Parisi?”

“Him, we found. There’s two of New York’s finest on the way to brace him as I speak. I’ll get back to you.”

—

Al Parisi looked out the window of his new house and saw two guys get out of an unmarked car with New York plates and start up his front walk. He pulled his necktie snug and went to the front door.

He got there before they even rang the bell. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Alfredo Parisi?”

“That’s me.”

“Mind if we come in for a minute?” The man flashed a gold badge.

“Not at all,” Al said, unlatching the screen and holding the door open. “Come right in.”

Al’s first thought was that somebody in the poker game had called the cops, but why the NYPD? He showed the two detectives into the living room, like the upright citizen that he believed himself to be.

“Are you the Alfredo Parisi formerly employed by a New York City beverage distribution business?”

“I’m a former owner of such a business,” Al said. “I sold out to my partner.”