“You did him in,” McDermott said. Then something happened to his face, his mouth wide open, the corners stretched so that his teeth showed, his eyes glimmering, berserk. For an instant it seemed he would lunge at Corey. But then he turned away, leaning low over the desk with his hands gripping the edge of the desktop.

Corey looked at the five squadmen. They stood motionless, their faces expressionless.

McDermott leaned lower over the desk, then made a staggering move toward the desk chair. He sagged into the chair. He put his hands to his face, rubbed up and down, placed his hands on his chest and gazed up at the ceiling. He said, “All right, I’m ready now. I’m ready to hear it.”

“Hear what?” Corey asked.

The detective-sergeant gazed at the ceiling.

Corey said, “There ain’t nothing I can tell you. How can I tell you anything? I got no idea what this is all about.”

It was quiet for some moments. Then Donofrio moved away from the other squadmen, came close to Corey and said, “Tell him what he wants to hear.”

Corey remained quiet. Donofrio put his hand on the back of Corey’s neck and applied a slight pressure.

“Take your hand off me,” Corey said.

Donofrio increased the pressure. A current of pain caused Corey’s mouth to tighten. “Tell him,” Donofrio said. “You gonna tell him?”

There was more pressure, and considerably more pain. Donofrio’s thumb pressed hard at a vein and Corey let out a slight groan. Then he smiled lazily. He didn’t look at Donofrio. He brought up his elbow, it was a projectile coming up very fast and making contact with Donofrio’s jaw. Donofrio’s hand fell away from Corey’s neck. The tall sad-faced Italian took three backward steps going toward the desk, his knees starting to give way. He reached back and held onto the desk to keep himself from going to the floor. His eyes were closed and he was shaking his head to get rid of the fog. While that was happening, nobody moved. Nobody made a sound. Donofrio opened his eyes and looked at Corey.