“Which turned out not to be necessary,” I said. “Since I was already there.”

“Right.” Chewed and swallowed half an onion ring. “But how was I to know that?”

I leaned on my elbow and smiled. “Now let me tell you what really just happened.”

“What really happened,” he said, with a shrug, and bit into another ketchup-dripping onion ring, “really happened.”

“Well, that’s hard to argue with. But let me share the larger story.”

“By all means. Who doesn’t like a good story?”

“You have somebody who works at the Cosmo Club who keeps an eye on your ex-wife for you. Somebody who called you and told you a guy, who was definitely not a Cosmo regular, was talking to her, and maybe passed her some money. Asking questions obviously on a subject other than what-time-do-you-get-off tonight. Maybe he described to you what I look like. Or maybe he recognized me.”

Another quarter of a burger disappeared. He nodded and chewed. “You do get too much publicity. Being recognized is not good for an individual in your line of work.”

I looked around. “You probably live somewhere in the area…”

“Apartment on DeBaliviere.”

“…and thought you better go over and give, like you said, the ol’ heads-up to Joe Costello.”

“Why wouldn’t I just call?”

“What does the FBI have in common with Fred Astaire?” He chuckled. “Tap tap tap.” About a third of a burger went down this time.

“That’s right, Barney. So that whole routine in the alley was a set-up. To make you look good while I was getting the fear of God put in me.”

He waved what was left of the current sandwich at me. “There you are dead wrong, Nate. And none of what you say contradicts what I told you. I walked over to see Joe and happened to see some poor bastard getting beat up, and I just waded in to help.”

“If you’re the Lone Ranger, I feel sorry for the horse.”

He looked a little hurt by that. He finished the hamburger, then shrugged elaborately as he helped himself to the final of three burgers. “Believe what you wanna believe. I cop to wanting to let Joe know you were in town, sniffing around. Question is, sniffing around about what, Nate?”

“The missing Greenlease money,” I revealed. No need not to. “What did you think?”

He batted at the air. “Ancient history.”

“Three hundred thousand unrecovered bucks is like Abbott and that other Costello doing ‘Who’s on First.’”

His eyebrows went up. “Yeah?”

“Never gets old.”

He touched his face with the tail of the napkin around his neck, daubing away stray ketchup. “Nate, my buddy, my pal, what was done to the Greenlease child was evil and, worse, it was dumb. It stirred up Jake Lingle-type heat, St. Valentine’s Day-type heat, and anyway these rough tough mob bozos are sentimental slobs when it comes to family and innocent children. Nobody in their right mind would want anything to do with that dough. Touch that blood-taint ransom money? Jimmy wouldn’t…” He meant Hoffa. “…Big Tuna wouldn’t…” He meant Outfit capo Accardo. “…the Camel wouldn’t…” He meant Murray Humphreys. “…Buster wouldn’t.” Local mob guy Wortman. “…and Joe? He is the softest hard guy you ever saw, loves his son to the point of absurdity, loves all his off-springs, including those from rotten marriages.”