“Hayward’s lawyer? Are you nuts? The guy’s an ex-cop and best friends with the police commissioner. Theresa told me about him.”

“And I had to read about him in a tabloid piece about Hayward. I couldn’t count on my old buddy Butch to clue me in.”

“Clue you in about what?”

“The guy’s rich—not as rich as Hayward, but he’s got a house full of stuff. I found myself a fence who knows the high-end market, so I’m branching out.”

A police car pulled up across the road, and Butch and Curly both fell silent.

“Relax,” Curly said, “they’re just eating their donuts.”

Butch said nothing; he found the Arts section of the paper and folded it to show the crossword puzzle, then started to work on it. “Curly,” he said, trying not to move his lips, “listen to me. I’m done with you—no more money, no robberies or burglaries, no anything. If I hear from you again for any reason, I’ll kill you.”

“Kill me, you little piece of shit?”

“It’s a promise,” Butch said, “a guarantee.” He heard a car door slam.

“Oh, shit,” Curly said, then he got up and sprinted away from the bench.

Butch looked up from the crossword in time to see a cop chasing him, while the other started the police car and drove farther into the park. Butch went back to the crossword.

—

FIVE MINUTES LATER two cops walked up to him, both of them sweating and panting a little. “Excuse me, sir,” one of them said, “do you know the man who was sitting next to you?”

Butch looked at the empty bench. “What man?”

“The one who was sitting there until we started chasing him.”

Butch shook his head. “There was somebody there when I sat down, but I didn’t really take any notice of him.”

“What brings you to the park today?”

“Lunch hour,” Butch replied. “I work over at Ralph Lauren, on Madison.”

“Do you have an employer’s ID?”

“Sure.” Butch fished out the card from his pocket and handed it to him. “Who was the guy you were chasing?”

“Somebody on the wanted list.” The cop returned his card. “Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Crane.”

“Not a problem,” Butch said, then went back to his crossword. He waited five minutes, then took a cab home. He let himself into the apartment and went to the kitchen drawer where Theresa’s little .25 automatic lived. He unloaded it, field-stripped it, and wiped every surface with an oily rag, then reassembled it, wiped every round clean, reloaded the magazine, shoved it home, and put it into his pocket after wiping the exterior.

He left the apartment with a new feeling of confidence, rimmed with anxiety. He’d shoot the bastard if he saw him again, he swore to himself.