“If you mean, did I hate that little fucker,” Nagle said, seemingly oblivious to his own short stature. “Then you’d be dead on.”

“Why?” Cohen asked.

Nagle reached down and unhooked the belt of his bathrobe. He opened it up to reveal a long jagged scar that ran across the entire right side of his flat abdomen. “Took twenty pints of blood to save me after that bugger stabbed me in the liver.”

“But you didn’t kill him,” Cohen said.

“Not.”

“Then who do you think did?” Cohen asked.

“Christ, how should I know?” Nagle rolled his eyes as he retied his bathrobe. “You think I’m the only guy he screwed over?”

“Have you heard anything about a new dealer in town?” Cohen asked.

“I don’t do that shit anymore—”

Leetch waved his hands in front of him. “Save it, Andrew! Ten to one if we toss this place now, we’ll find enough crack and rock to build an igloo.” He glanced over at the room where the female voice had come from. “What say we start in there?”

Nagle stared at the coffee table. “There might be a guy,” he grumbled.

“Description?” Leetch wiggled his fingers in front of him in his characteristic interview style.

“Tall, dark-haired guy with a bad highlight job. Thirties. Wears a track suit and a couple of gold chains. No class, you understand?”

“Good thing we’re talking to Martha Stewart, here,” Leetch sighed. “Was this guy handing out free samples?”

“Yeah! How did you know?” Nagle’s head shot up. “But only to some of them. From what I heard, he only gave them to the most fucked-up of the junkies. Guess he was looking for easy marks.” Then, as if talking to himself, he added, “Moron. Those are the ones who usually don’t have any cash.”

Cohen squinted at Nagle. “Is this new dealer still around?”

Nagle shrugged. “I only got back yesterday.” He frowned and scratched roughly at his disheveled hair. “Wait a minute. You think this guy took down Jimmy and Frige?”

“We’re still not convinced you weren’t involved,” Leetch said. “But it might help if you could tell us how to find this guy.”

Nagle’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened, as if weighing his options. “And if I gave you a couple of ideas where to look, would you get off my back?”

Leetch shrugged. “Possibly.”

Nagle looked up at the ceiling. “About four or five nights ago, I saw the guy in an alley. He was passing out a hit to this tranny, goes by Shania or Chevelle or something …” He snapped his fingers. “Chavon!”

“And?” Leetch rolled one index finger over the other.

“I was curious. Okay?” Nagle shrugged again.

“You were curious?” Leetch repeated skeptically.