I took a bad beating once, a long time ago. After that I promised I'd never take another one, no matter what. So when I'm faced with a situation where it looks like I'm going to get my ass kicked, I do the ass kicking first.

When the three leg breakers came into my office they had bad intentions. It was written all over their faces. I wasn't about to wait and see if they intended to maim me, or kill me.

I moved first.

But it really started when she walked in earlier that day...

She wasn't the cliché blonde who enters the P.I.'s office with heaving breasts and wet lips.

She did have a familiar look in her eyes, the look that says "I've never done this before and I'm scared shitless."

My name's Nick Delvecchio. I've been a P.I. in Brooklyn for more years than I care to remember. A few years ago I reluctantly turned forty and people who know me well say I didn't embrace the big four-O gracefully. In fact, they say I got mean.

Well, why not? The world's getting meaner, isn't it? Or haven't Oklahoma City, 9/11 and Guantanamo Bay been proof enough of that? Not to mention the creation of something called an Amber Alert. Me, I'm just trying to keep in step with the times.

The woman looked at me and licked her thin lips. One hand strayed to her lifeless, lank, brown hair and yanked on it in such a way that it reminded me of people who wear a rubber band around their wrist so they can snap it for a quick reminder.

"Mr. Delvecchio?" she asked.

"Yes, Ma'am, that's me."

"I—you're the private detective, right?"

I restrained myself from telling her, "That's what it says on the door," and simply said, "Yes." See? I start out nice.

She tugged on her hair again.

"I'd like to hire you."

"Have a seat, Miss...?"

She sat down across from me and said," Oh, well, do I have to tell you my name?"

That's the way this usually works, but I suppose it will depend on what you want me to do and how much you're willing to pay me."

"You mean if I pay enough I don't have to tell you my name?"

"As long as you're not going to ask me to kill somebody."

Her face fell and she yanked on her hair.

"Hey," I said. "I was kidding."

"B-but," she said, "that's exactly what I want you to do."

I sat forward in my chair and put my hands on my desk.

"You want me to kill somebody?"

"Y-yes."

"Who?"

Yank, yank again on her hair, almost viciously and she said, "Me."

I sat and stared at her for a few moments, then said, "Are you serious?"

"I'm very serious," she said. "I'd do it myself, but I'm too much of a coward."

"Mrs.—Miss—" I stopped, but she still didn't want to give a name. "Ma'am, why would you want to kill yourself?"

"The reasons aren't important to you," she said. "I have money, I can hire it done. That's what I want to do. Will you do it? I have five thousand dollars."

I didn't want to tell her that if you weren't fussy about the level of talent, or how much of a mess got made, you could have ten people killed for that much money.

"No, I won't do it," I said. "I'm not a killer I'm a private detective. Why would you come to me with this, anyway?"

"I have a friend who hired you once, a few months ago. She said you were very good. She gave me your name."

"Did you tell her what you wanted?"

"No, I just told her that I had a problem and needed a professional."

"Well, I'm a professional, but not a killer." Funny, but I couldn't keep myself from feeling insulted.

"I—I'm sorry," she said. "I just thought—well, perhaps you could...recommend someone?"

"Give you the name of a hit man, you mean?" I asked. "And a phone number? Maybe an address?"

She gave her hair another yank and I swore a few strands came out. She got to her feet quickly.

"I—I'm sorry I bothered you."

She turned and ran out of the office.

My first instinct was to chase her, try to follow her and find out who she was. My second instinct was to write her off as a nut and go back to my day.

I got up and hurried out the door, but I should have gone with my second instinct right away. By the time I got down to the street she was nowhere in sight. You can't always find a cab cruising down Sackett Street, so I walked to each corner to see if maybe she was there, but it was no use.

I had allowed a suicidal woman to walk out of my office and return to her search for a hit man.

Wasn't that mean?

I went back to my office and sat behind my desk. If I'd been in a better mood that day I might have asked her for her name right away, and pressed the point. Now all I had was the fact that someone I worked for recently had recommended me.

Oddly, enough, I'd been busy of late, but she had also said I was recommended by a woman. I'd had four women as clients in the past month, six in the past two months. I decided to go back the whole two months.

I pulled the files on the six women and called them. Four I got at home. One scolded me for calling her there, where her husband might have answered the phone, and hung up after calling me a shit. Apparently, she was still with her husband even after I confirmed that he was cheating. And she seemed angrier with me than with him. I assumed she wasn't about to recommend my services to anyone.

The three others I found at home listened to my story and said they hadn't recommended me to any girlfriends. One of them reminded me that we were supposed to "get together." I told her I hadn't forgotten, and hung up. I hadn't forgotten, I'd just decided to ignore the invitation, especially since she had an overgrown husband I had proven to be faithful. She, on the other hand, was not above playing around. She just wanted to confirm that she was the only one doing the playing. She was, but not with me.

I had two other women to call, and they had jobs—careers, actually. They had hired me to do some work for their businesses, so they wouldn't mind me calling them at work.

"Bender and Bender," a girl's voice said.

"Mrs. Styles, please."

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Nick Delvecchio."

"Hold on a moment."

Bender and Bender was a law firm with offices in Borough Hall, where a lot of the legal work in Brooklyn got done. She had hired me to do some background checks on potential employees, as the firm was planning to expand.

When Henrietta Styles came on the phone she was very businesslike. No, she had not recommended me to anyone since I'd worked for her. When I told her why I was calling she said that she did not have any suicidal friends—at least, none that were women. I waited to see if she was kidding, but she was not.

My last chance was a woman named Rita Eiland. She was an assistant manager at a Manhattan advertising company, and had hired me on the recommendation of another lawyer I knew and did occasional jobs for.

"Prescott and Jones," a woman's voice said in my ear.

"I'd like to speak to Rita Eiland, please."

"I'm afraid Miss Eland is not in today."

"Is she at home?" I had the home number, but assumed she'd be at work.

"I—I'm not sure. She called early this morning and said she would not be able to come in because of an emergency. You could try her home...if you have that number."

"I do," I said.

"Can I take a message, in case you don't get a hold of her?"

"Yes, would you please tell her Nick Delvecchio called. I'd appreciate a call back. I just have one question to ask her."

"Delvecchio," the girl said. "You're the private eye, right?"

"That's right. Did we meet when I was up there?"

"Sort of. I'm the receptionist that pointed the way to her office for you, but we never really, you know, got introduced."

"As I remember," I said, hoping this wasn't going to be a wild shot in the dark, "you're pretty cute."

"Oh, well," I could hear the blush over the phone, "you're not so bad yourself." The blush deepened, I was sure.

"What was your name?"

"Diana."

"Diana, you don't happen to know what the emergency was, do you?"

"Well," her tone dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "I heard someone say there was a death in her family?"

"Her family?" I asked. "Could it have been the death of a friend?"

"I guess so," she said. "I'm really not sure."

"You've been very helpful, Diana. Thanks so much."

"Oh, well, sure," she said. "Is that...it?"

It was my own fault. I'd told her she was cute, she expected the next move to be asking her out.

"For now, Diana," I said. "You see, I'm working."

"Oh," she said, as if I'd explained it perfectly, "All right, well...I'll be here."

"Have a nice day," I said, then cringed at how that sounded.

I hung up and tried Rita Eiland's home phone. No answer. Not even a message. I pulled her file out and checked it, was pleased to see that I did have a cell phone number for her. I tried that. No answer. I hate cell phones. Why do people carry them and then turn them off? This time I was able to leave a message. I asked her to call me as soon as she got my call.

As I hung up I didn't know what else I could do. It was all going to depend on what Rita said, if and when she called back.

I couldn't just stay in my office, though. I still had a couple of other cases I was working on, so until I heard back from Rita I figured I'd get to work.

I opened my bottom drawer and pulled out a disposable cell phone still packed in plastic. I was down to three, I could see, as I pulled the plastic apart. As much as I hated cell phones I knew I needed one occasionally, but rather than buy an expensive phone and pay for somebody's program, I used disposables. Mostly, I used them for outgoing calls, incoming. It was only on occasion I'd give the number out. I'm still a firm believer in offices, and land lines, and answering machines. If I'm not in the office when you call, leave me a message. I'll get back to you.

Can you hear me now?

I live in Brooklyn, do most of my work in Brooklyn and Manhattan with occasional forays into Queens, the Bronx, Staten Island and, God forbid, New Jersey. I don't own a car. I can get everywhere I have to on a bus or train. In a pinch I use a cab. And all the fares I pay don't add up to what I would pay to park a car overnight. But if I need a car I usually rent one.

Okay, so in my old age I'm also getting cheap.

I left the office and walked over to Court Street. I had business on Livingston Street, which was thirteen blocks away. That's an easy walk for me. I like walking. But today I found myself walking a little faster than usual, so by the time I arrived I was out of breath. I knew it was the girl. I was thinking about her, knew I had to find her before she did something stupid. It was putting more urgency in my step.

I put her out of my mind long enough to get the day's work done. She didn't reoccur to me until I was walking back. I fished out my disposable cell and tried Rita Eiland again. Still no answer. I left another message asking her to call me ASAP.

When I got back to the office I started in on some paperwork, until the door opened and the three leg breakers walk in...

I reached underneath my desk. That's where I keep a spring-loaded baton. I have a gun but it's not always handy and being able to grab a gun at a moment's notice is a good way to get into trouble. So I keep the baton handy.

"You Delvecchio?" one of them asked. He looked like the only one capable of speech. The other two were unibrowed steroid heads.

"That's me."

"You're comin' with us."

"I don't think so."

"I do." He waved his hand at the other two.

The three of them started for me. I pulled out the baton, pointed and hit the button. It extended nineteen inches, and had a blunt end. It shot out quickly, striking one of the cro-magnons squarely on the chin. That's not exactly the way you're supposed to use the thing. I was aiming for his chest, but this worked better. His head snapped back with such force I was surprised it didn't fly off.

I turned and whipped the baton around and swung at one of the other weight lifters. He brought his huge arm up to block it, and I heard his forearm crack. He screamed and pulled the arm tightly to his side.

The third man reached into his jacket and I knew it was time to go. My office is the fifth room of my five-room apartment. There are two doors, one from the hall and the other leading to the rest of my apartment. I ran through that door, slammed it behind me and flipped the lock. There was a shot. A hole appeared in the door. It wouldn't hold for long.

I hit the button on the baton to retract it and ran for the window. I stepped out onto the fire escape and climbed down. At some point I heard the door splinter, but then I was on the ground and running. I waited for more shots, but they didn't come.

What the hell was going on?

"What kind of self respecting P.I. doesn't have a gun?" Detective Weinstock asked.

"Since when have you respected me?" I asked.

"I said self respecting," he pointed out.

"Anyway. I have a gun, but it wasn't nearby," I said. "If it was you'd be asking me to explain three dead men in my office."

"And the baton?"

"I don't know," I said. "I must've dropped it somewhere. Hopefully, in my apartment."

"Okay, so explain three angry men in your office."

"Well," I said, "they weren't exactly angry when they first walked in."

"You made them angry," he said. "You have a tendency to do that, don't you? Make people angry?"

"They came into my office all pumped up for trouble."

"Did you ask them what they wanted?"

"No."

"Did they actually threaten you?"

"They put a bullet in my door."

"Before or after you attacked them?"

"Before, but—"

"Did you overreact, do ya think?"

Weinstock and I have always had an adversarial. He was now a Detective First Grade on the 78 Precinct Squad, but his once bright star was not as bright, anymore. His attitude about life was a lot closer to mine these days.

"No, I didn't overreact," I said.

"Okay," he said, "I've got their descriptions. We'll check into it, dig that bullet out of your door, but in the meantime why don't you try to figure out who you pissed off?"

I stood up and said, "You're a big help."

"Hey, they could walk in here right now and file a complaint against you. They could say they walked into your office to hire you and you attacked them."

"What about the guy saying, 'You're comin' with us?'" I asked.

"Yeah, you're right, Delvecchio, that would've scared me to death, too."

"I repeat, you're a big help."

"See you around."

I said we were on better terms these days, I didn't say we were friends.

I was on my way back to my office—figuring the leg breakers were on their way to the hospital—when my cell rang. I'd only given the number to one person since I broke the seal on the plastic.

"Delvecchio."

"Nick, it's Rita Eiland. Sorry I didn't call you back earlier but I've had a bad day. A friend of mine died."

"Died?"

"Well, it looks like she committed suicide."

"Where are you?"

Her name was Kelly Moller. She lived with her lawyer husband in a million dollar condo on Joralemon Street in the Brooklyn Heights section of Brooklyn. It was not that far from where I lived on Sackett Street, but in terms of quality and value we were miles apart.

I caught a cab, which let me off in front of the building, just down the street from the Grace Church. Well, actually you'd have to go around the corner and take Hicks Street to Grace Ct. to get to the church, but I could see the back of it.

Rita had told me to meet her there. She said the body had been removed, the police were gone, but she was there because she was a close family friend. I told her twenty minutes. But I made it in fifteen. She met me at the door, looking as she had when I first met her—smart, handsome, well dressed. She and Kelly must have been about the same age, early to mid-forties.

"What's going on, Nick?" she asked.

"Where's the family?"

"In the living room. And it's just her husband."

We were in an entry foyer.

"Let's talk here for a minute," I said. "Your friend Kelly came to see me this morning." I described the woman. "Is that her?"

"Wait here."

She left me for a moment, came back with a framed photo of the woman I'd spoken to that morning. Only in the photo her hair wasn't stringy and lank, it was full and lustrous. She was smiling, actually looked pretty. She could have been the woman I had seen in my office, but not only was she from a different day, she appeared to be from a totally different life.

"That her."

"What did she want with you?" She immediately realized how that sounded. "I'm sorry. I meant why did she need a private detective?"

"She said you recommended me."

"I did, but she didn't tell me why she needed someone."

"She tried to hire me to kill her, or to refer her to someone who would do it."

She gaped at me, thunderstruck.

"What?"

"Are you sure she committed suicide?" I asked.

"That's what everyone is saying," Rita said. "Why?"

"She told me she'd never be able to do it herself," I said, "and I believed her."

"You're saying she was murdered?"

"I don't know," I said. "If she did this, she came right home from my office and did it. I don't see her changing her mind that fast. Plus I had three guys come to my office and try to take me someplace against my will."

"And you think that was connected to this?"

"Again, I don't know," I said. "I'm just trying to make sense of Kelly, Rita."

"You better come in and meet her husband," she said.

She led me into the living room, where several people were seated. This part would not be fun.

"Nick Delvecchio, this is Kelly's husband, Daniel Moller. Dan, Nick is a private detective Kelly tried to hire this morning."

The man stood up from the sofa. He was tall, either side of fifty, about six two, wearing an expensive suit, sporting an equally expensive haircut. Everything about him said money—where he lived, what he wore, and the way he looked at me.

"This morning?" he asked. "Just this morning? Why would she try to hire you, and then kill herself?"

"I don't know the answer to that, sir."

"What did Kelly want to hire you to do?"

"I should probably be telling this to the cops," I said, "but she tried to hire me to kill her."

"What?" her husband spat. "Th-that's preposterous!"

"I agree, sir," I said, "but it's true."

"So, if you had helped her this morning maybe she wouldn't have killed herself this afternoon."

"I told you she tried to hire me to kill her," I said. "What kind of help would you have wanted me to give her?"

"If you'd said something to somebody—" Moller started, but Rita put her hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"Relax, Dan," he said. "Take it easy."

"Nick, maybe Dan has a point." She squeezed his shoulder before removing her hand. "If you had called someone—him, myself—we might have been able to avoid this."

"Rita," I said, as calmly as I could, "she came into my office, asked me to kill her and wouldn't tell me her name. By the time I took her seriously she was gone. I spent all morning trying to figure out who she was. It was only when I spoke to you that I finally found out, and I came right over. How would I possibly have called anyone, least of all you?"

"I see," Rita said.

"Well, all right then," Dan Moller said, "I suppose there's not much more you can do. I thank you for your efforts. If you'll bill my office—"

"Mr. Moller, I've got nothing to bill you for," I said.

"I see. Very well, then...thank you. I, uh, have to go into the office for awhile."

He turned and walked out of the room.

"He has a home office," Rita explained.

"How did she do it, Rita?"

"Pills."

"Who found her?"

"I did. When the police came Dan and I identified her."

"I'm sorry."

"I was worried about her."

"How'd you get in?"

"I had a key."

"What about he husband? What's his story?" I asked. "Their story? Happy?"

"Not really." She didn't offer any more.

"Who held the purse strings?"

"Well, he held the strings, but it was her money."

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"A couple of days ago."

"How was she?"

"Down," Rita said, "she's been down for some time."

"Depressed?"

"Yes."

"Clinically?"

"I can't answer that."

"Well, has she been prescribed any pills? Was that what she o.d.'d on?"

"I can't answer that, either."

"Then who can?"

"Dan," she said. "He told the police everything."

"Okay."

"Nick, what is it?" she asked. "You don't think—"

"I don't believe in coincidence, Rita," I said. "She comes to my office claming she needs help because she can't kill herself, then she comes back here and does it? And whether she did it or somebody else did it, why did she want to die?"

"I—I don't know."

"Well, I want to find out. Who was the detective assigned?"

"I have his card. Let me get my purse."

"You were here when the cops were?"

"Yes."

"Okay," I said. "Get me that card—but don't tell those guys what you're doing. I don't trust them."

The 84 Precinct was on Gold Street. The building was the home of local Government, as well. The Brooklyn Borough Hall, the Municipal Building, the Brooklyn House of Detention, NYC Fire Dept. H.Q., the Board of Ed H.Q., Transit Authority H.Q., NYPD "911" building, and the Transit Museum were all inside it's walls.

I stopped at the front desk and asked for Detective Sibel (pronounced "sy-bell" Rita had told me). When the Sergeant asked who wanted to see the detective I showed him my license and said it was about the Moller suicide.

The Sergeant made a call to the squad and then a uniform showed me the way.

Sibel was about five or six years younger than me. We shook hands and he told me he'd heard stories about me when I was on the job, from his brother.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Herb Sibel was your brother?"

"Right, Herb," Sibel said. "You remember him?"

"I do," I said. "He was a bigger psycho than I was, got more complaints to prove it."

Instead of getting insulted he laughed and said, "That's right! You do remember him."

"How's he doing?" I asked.

"Ate his gun a couple of years ago," Sibel said. They kicked him off the job and he couldn't take it. How you doin'?"

I wasn't kicked off the force, I resigned. But I decided not to ruin the bonding roll we were on.

"Ah, you know. Trying to make it as a P.I."

"I hear ya," Sibel said. "What's your connection to the Moller broad?"

I told him the story of how she'd tried to hire me to kill her and I sent her packing.

"Maybe if I'd been a little more, you know, sensitive, this wouldn't have happened."

"Ah, you don't know that," Sibel said. "These kinds of broads are unbalanced. She mighta dunnit anyway."

"You're probably right. Any chance I could view the body?"

"Why you wanna take a look at the stiff?"

"Just for closure," I said, figuring he wouldn't understand. "Might be able to get her out of my head that way."

Sibel shrugged and said, "No skin off my nose. I'll make the call."

"Thanks," I said. "Any doubt it's suicide?"

"Well, if there was you changed that," Sibel said. "I mean, hell, she asked you to kill her. How much more unbalanced could she be?"

"I guess. Okay, thanks, Detectiv—"

"Ray," he said, "Ray Sibel."

"Thanks, Ray. I'm sorry to hear about your brother."

"Ah, whataya gonna do? The job gets in your blood, right?"

"You got that right," I said.

I went to Kings County Hospital to the morgue. They were ready for me and allowed me to view the body. She was grey, almost deflated looking. An autopsy had not yet been done.

"Is that her?" the morgue attendant asked, as he covered her up again.

"I guess," I said, studying the corpse's face carefully, "that depends on who you mean."

I went back to my office. The cops had been there, had dug the bullet out of the door. They'd left my office door wide open. I closed it and walked around. Nothing was missing. The baton was on the floor in my living room. I took it back to my desk with me. The message light on my phone was blinking the number "1." I pressed Play.

"Mr. Delvecchio, this is Kelly Moller," a shaky voice said. "I need your help. I—I'll call again at five p.m. Please be there."

Interesting. Especially since the time stamp on the message machine indicated that Kelly Moller had called and left me a message after she'd been killed.

I sat at my desk until the phone rang at five. There was nothing else I had to do.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Delvecchio?"

"Yes."

"This is Kelly Moller."

"Yes."

Silence, then she said, "I'm supposed to be dead, right?"

"Right."

"Well, I'm not."

"That's good."

"I'm also not the woman who came to your office this morning, asking for help."

"Okay."

"That woman is dead."

"I know, I saw her in the morgue."

"Look," she said, "I understand you don't know which of us is really Kelly, but the fact remains if you don't help me, I'll be as dead as she is and it won't matter."

"Okay," I said. "Give me your number. I'll call you back on a cell phone, and then you can tell me where you are."

"Do you think your phone is tapped?"

"I'm not taking any chances."

I met Kelly on the Brooklyn Heights Esplanade, which had a great view of the harbor. I recognized her from the photo Rita had shown me. The girl in the morgue had resembled Kelly, but this girl matched the photo. If the photo was real.

"It's beautiful, here," she said. "Calm."

"You got i.d.?" I asked.

"Yes." She took her wallet from her jacket pocket and showed me her driver's license without looking at me. "You need anything else?"

"No. I'm going to assume you're Kelly. Who's in the morgue?"

"I don't know," she said. "A girl hired to impersonate me."

"For what?"

"I don't know. Maybe just to fool you."

"To make me think you were suicidal," I said, "so that when you showed up dead I could testify to it?"

"Sounds good," she said.

"So you're supposed to be in the morgue."

"But I got away," she said. "They killed her, and then identified her as me."

"So now they still have to kill you?"

"Yes." She turned to face me for the first time. The wind blew hair that was anything but lank. She was a very attractive woman, but the fear in her eyes was damaging her looks. "Can you help me?"

I touched the gun—the one I'd gotten from under the floorboards in my office—and said, "I think so."

I let her use my cell phone to call Rita, arrange to meet her on the Esplanade.

"Now what?" she asked, when she broke the connection.

"Now one more call," I said, "and we wait."

Rita arrived first. She seemed shocked, but I don't know if it was to see me, or Kelly.

"Kelly?"

"Hello, Rita. I was expecting someone else."

"Who?" She looked at me.

"Maybe the three goons who came to my office," I said.

Rita blinked, didn't ask, "What three men? Or "What are you taking about?"

"I saw the woman in the morgue, Rita," I said. "I know she's not Kelly. And Kelly certainly knows she's not Kelly."

Now she said, "What are you talking about, Nick?"

"Well, here's Kelly, alive and well," I said. "You told me you found the body, and her husband identified her. The only conclusion I can draw from that is that you and Dan killed her. Why? For the money?"

"I was going to divorce Dan," Kelly said. "You bet your life it was for the money. And my friend Rita's been fucking my husband!"

Without warning Kelly lunged at Rita.

"You goddamned bitch! If I hadn't heard the two of you on the phone plotting my murder I'd be in the morgue now instead of that poor girl."

Rita put her hands up to defend herself, and I noticed she had a gun in her right. I grabbed Kelly around the waist and pulled her away.

"Easy does it," I said, turning away and putting Kelly down on her feet. "Time to go to the cops, Rita." I put my hand in my jacket pocket and turned to face Rita.

"Not quite," she said.

She pointed the gun at us and then she waved. Down the block car doors opened and three men got out. They were big.

"They're really mad at you, Nick, for that stunt with the baton. And I'm surprised. I picked you because I didn't think you were that smart. And you, Kelly, why couldn't you just die like you were supposed to? Then Dan wouldn't have needed three goons—"

"Come on, Rita," I said, stepping between her and Kelly. "You see my hand in my jacket pocket, don't you?"

Rita laughed.

"I'm supposed to believe you have a gun? Like some t.v. private eye? Or is that baton in there?"

"Nope," I said, "it's a gun, and I'm not afraid to use it. Are you?"

She licked her lips. I was probably wrong. She hadn't kill anybody. It had to have been Dan Moller.

"Don't move, Nick," she said. "Don't make me—"

"If you're gonna do it," I said, "shut up and kill me, already."

She couldn't pull the trigger. But any one of the approaching men could. Especially the one with the huge bruise on his chin. Or the one with his arm in a cast.

But they were muscle. The third man had the gun, and he was drawing it from the inside of his jacket as he got close.

"You're coming with us," he said.

"Get a new line," I said, and shot him in the knee, right through my jacket. It virtually exploded and he went down, grabbing it with both hands. Blood flowed from between his fingers and the two 'roid brothers stared down at him in shock.

Rita screamed and jumped. I grabbed the gun from her hand with my left hand, drew my gun from my pocket with my right.

Suddenly, there were cops around us, led by Detective Sibel. They grabbed the three men and Rita; Sibel took my gun away from me.

"You promised on the phone you'd have a good story for me, Nick."

"I think I do, Hal," I said. "Meet Kelly Moller."

-END-

Copyright © 2009 by Robert J. Randisi