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maybe he’ll get bored and screw.”
    The conversation seemed to be over, as Nora turned from him to watch the comings and goings of the people close to the stage. These were theCity’s Negro elite, and Nora was fascinated by them; perhaps because she had no entrée into their world. Few doors were closed to her. Frings leaned back in his chair and smoked a Lucky, trying to force himself to care more about Nora than he did. It was a depressing exercise, and he was relieved to see Floyd approaching.
    “You got a call on the office phone, Frank.”
    Frings excused himself to Nora’s back and followed Floyd to the club office, red velvet on the walls and black leather furniture. A telephone perched on an ebony desk, the earpiece off its hook. Frings brought it up to his ear and spoke into mouthpiece at the base.
    “Frings.”
    “Frank, it’s Panos.”
    Christ, what was he doing calling him at this time of night? “What’s the rumble, chief?”
    “There’s been another bomb.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

    Two years back, Poole had been doing blackmail and private dick work long enough to be self-assured, but not yet long enough to be scared. The scars from State still burned, and he was often overwhelmed with self-disgust. He drank more then and was more than willing to use his size as an instrument of intimidation and fear.
    One night the excuse was a young pro named Alice. She was leaning against a wall, smoking—couldn’t have been more than fifteen—and Poole saw that both her eyes were black, swollen down to slits. He asked her what happened. She said to screw. He persisted and she finally gave in, as much to get rid of him as anything else, it seemed. A john had gotten rough—hit her, kicked her in the ribs, left without paying. Her pimp had taken care of her other eye.
    Poole took Alice on a walk. Eventually they found the john shooting craps in the alley next to Lambert’s Tavern. Poole grabbed him, dragging him deeper into the alley as the other gamblers watched. The energy from their collective adrenaline fueled Poole’s anger. He braced the john. The man went down on all fours, then Poole broke his ribs with a kick. He gave the wallet to Alice, who took the money she was owed and tossed the rest on the man, now groaning in a fetal tuck.
    Next they found the pimp, who surprised Poole by being no older than Alice. No matter. Similar story. When the pimp had finally had enough, Poole held him at eye level and told him, if there was ever any other trouble with Alice, to come to him. If the pimp ever touched her again, he would be back. The pimp nodded and Poole dropped him in a pile.
    Alice had only one way to thank Poole, and he wasn’t interested. Someday, he said, you might be able to do me a favor. Now he was calling in that chit.
    Poole walked through the intermittently lit paths in Greer Park with Alice on his arm. She was blond and thin and her face was painted with ghoulishmakeup. She wore a cheap cocktail dress under an overcoat she had for the cold.
    The gazebo stood in a clearing a few yards from Greer Pond. Surrounding the clearing was a well-groomed stand of trees without any undergrowth, an improved version of nature that offered no effective cover. If police were waiting, Poole would spot them without trouble. As they approached the gazebo, Poole scanned the perimeter of trees for any human shape or movement. Finding nothing, he and Alice continued on.
    Low clouds were illuminated a gray yellow by the City lights, and wisps extended downward like the tentacles of jellyfish. The noise of the City was muffled here, and it was easy enough to picture this as some bucolic country scene.
    Poole had Alice sit on the floor of the gazebo. This spot was often used by prostitutes, and tonight Alice was Poole’s cover.
    “If someone comes other than the mark,” he said to her, “I’m taking it out of my pants. You just stand up like you’re surprised.”
    “I can make this more realistic, if you’d