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"Look," he said in a slightly argumentative tone as he came up behind the old man, "I don't care what he told you. We settled on that price a week ago. He can't expect me to move this kind of deal and then have all the numbers change… Hang on a sec. I gotta get my door key."

He made a show of trying to keep the fake phone wedged against his cheek while fumbling deep in his pocket for the fictional keys. Manotti noticed the effort as he unlocked the door, correctly interpreting Willy's pleading expression, and held the door open for him to pass through.

"Thanks, man," Willy murmured with a quick smile. "It's been a hell of a day."

He regained control of the pager and said, "No, I was talking to somebody else. Harry, tell me exactly what he told you. I wanna hear if maybe I missed something the first time around, like maybe what a crook this guy is."

Together, Manotti and Willy walked the length of the building's inner foyer and arrived at the waiting elevator around the corner.

"He said what?" Willy said eventually, his voice rising. "That doesn't sound even vaguely right. I got the contract upstairs, unless he sent me something new in the meantime… Shit." He held the pager against his chest as Manotti pushed the button for the third floor. "Mister," he explained, "I hate to be a pain, especially after you helped me out, but I forgot to check my mail and I gotta get to my apartment fast. Could you hold the door?"

After a pleasant dinner out, and being flattered for his courtesy, Manotti wasn't inclined to turn him down. He nodded, said, "Sure," and placed his hand against the doorjamb.

Willy jogged back the way they'd come, opened the door for the waiting Riley, gave him the floor number, and retraced his steps, pretending as he rounded the corner to be stuffing something into his inner pocket. "Hang on, Harry. I'm doing two things at once." He rejoined the old man, nodded his thanks, and said, "Four. I really appreciate it," as Manotti waved inquiringly at the elevator's control panel. Willy then spoke into his fake phone, "No. Just junk mail and a bill. All right, tell me exactly what he said."

For the rest of the trip up, all Willy had to do was make facial expressions and an occasional comment to fulfill what remained of his charade. On the third floor, he raised his eyebrows in grateful parting to Manotti, who waved back, and waited for the doors to close before replacing the pager on his belt. On the next floor, he ran down the hallway, found the stairwell, and doublestepped down one flight.

He carefully poked his head into the hallway, looking both ways, and saw Riley leaning against the wall to the left, out of breath from his quick climb up three stories.

Riley met him halfway. "Number 340," he said in an undertone. "Lucky for me he doesn't live on the top floor. No dog met him at the door and all the lights were out when he opened the door. He's gotta live alone. You want to hit him now?"

Willy shrugged. "No reason not to."

They quietly returned to Manotti's apartment door. Willy stood directly opposite the peephole. Riley flattened against the wall near the doorknob.

Willy rang the buzzer.

They heard a man's heavy tread approach. "Yeah?"

"It's Randy," Willy said brightly. "Remember? From the elevator just now. You dropped this just as you stepped out. At least it has your address on it." He held a checkbook up too close to the peephole for anyone to see what it was.

It didn't matter in any case. The lock was already being snapped open. As the door swung back, Riley whipped around from where he'd been hiding and charged through the opening, his shoulder leading, with Willy close behind. They were both inside, the door closed behind them, before Lenny Manotti had stopped sliding across the floor on his back.

Riley was down on one knee beside him, one large hand clamped across his mouth, before he'd been able to utter a sound. Willy stood at his feet, pointing a gun at him.

"Hi, Lenny," he said in a quiet voice. "We're the ghosts from Christmas past. You wanna play ball, or should I shoot you right now? Nod if it's the first."

Manotti nodded once. Slowly, Riley removed his hand. At that, Manotti narrowed his eyes. "Who are you fuckin' assholes? I don't know you."

Willy put on a disappointed look. "You hear what he called us? Guess we better turn up the heat."

Riley grabbed Manotti by the scruff of the neck and yanked him up like a mannequin. He dragged him into the living room beyond the entrance hall and slammed him down into a chair. He then pulled some duct tape from his coat pocket and began strapping the older man down.

Manotti licked his lips. "What the hell d'you want? Maybe we can make a deal."

Willy smiled, moving a chair opposite his victim and sitting in it so they were virtually knee to knee. "I like that. We're not after much. Problem is, I want it to be the truth. You could tell us anything you wanted to get us out of your hair, and by the time we found that out, you'd have rounded up some of your old buddies."

"I'm retired," Manotti protested. "What do I give a fuck about that shit anymore? What d'ya wanna know, fer Christ's sake? This is stupid."

Willy laughed. "Makes me wonder how many times you did the same thing in your prime. Or did Cashman do it for you?"

Manotti scowled. "You friends with that bum? I shoulda guessed. Couple of fuckin' leg breakers. No style."

"Right. So says the artist. Spare me, Lenny. Actually, we're not friends of Cashman. Haven't seen him in a long time. What's he up to?"

"Who cares?"

Willy leaned forward, suddenly menacing. A switchblade had appeared in his hand and was now resting on Manotti's upper lip, forcing him to cross his eyes as he stared at it.

"What the-"

Willy interrupted him with a tiny jab. "That's the question, Lenny. Truth or consequences. Where do we find Cashman?"

The other man's eyes widened. "That's what this is about? That asshole? Shit. You coulda asked me that in the elevator, I woulda told you. You guys're crazy. Fuckin' boneheads."

Willy was losing patience. The knife tip eased into one of Manotti's nostrils.

"Hey, hey," he said, careful not to move.

"Don't give me etiquette," Willy said menacingly. "Give me what I want."

"All right, all right. Jesus Christ. Last I knew, he was hanging around the Carroll Gardens area, either on Clinton or Henry. I don't keep in touch."

Willy laughed at the cliche. "Doesn't mean you won't drop a dime and let him know we came asking."

Despite his precarious position, Manotti flared, "What's with you? You dumb and ugly both? I told you I think the guy's an asshole. You wanna take him out, be my frigging guest." He leaned forward slightly, making his nose bleed, and yelled, "I don't give a fuck."

Willy sat back and glanced at Riley. "You believe him, Reuben?"

Riley was standing out of Manotti's view and rolled his eyes at the name. He spoke for the first time since entering the apartment. "Sure."

"I guess I do, too. Who's Cashman working for nowadays?"

"He's a freelance," Manotti answered, calmer now that he felt he'd made his point. "That's the biggest reason we split up. I thought he was ripping me off; he thought I was too much the big boss. It's not like I miss him, the guy was a thug."

Willy stood up and moved the chair he'd been sitting on. "Wild guess: You wouldn't want us coming back. Am I right?"

Riley had removed enough duct tape so Manotti could bring his hand up to his nose and touch it gingerly.

"No shit."

"You got anything to add, then? Some way we could find Cashman extra fast?"

Manotti examined his fingertips for blood, finding only a drop. "Go to that neighborhood and ask for a cold gun. That oughtta flush him out. He's into guns big time."

Willy pocketed his knife and stuck out his hand. "Thanks, Lenny. You're a stand-up guy."

Manotti shook his head, but he also took Willy's hand in grudging respect. "And you're an asshole. Close the door on the way out."