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Deity Arms 3 Taking a Chance on Love By The Professor "Jeez! What was that?" Big Iggy gave a sigh. He was used to his smaller partner jumping at the slightest sound. He, too, had heard something from deeper within the recesses of the alley. It wasn't a threatening sound, though. It was probably just a rat scrounging through the garbage. Or maybe it was a wino, sleeping it off someplace quiet where the punks roaming the streets wouldn't see him and roll him for the pitiful few dollars he had crammed in a dirty pocket. "Wadda 'ya think?" Big Iggy asked drolly. "You think it's the cops watching us?" "Well you never know," Little Iggy said defensively. "It never hurts to be careful," he added petulantly. Big Iggy shook his head. "Honestly, I don't know why you got in this business if you're gonna jump every time you hear a noise." "I didn't get in this business," Little Iggy mumbled. "This isn't my business at all. I don't know why the boss always picks us to hide the bodies. It's kinda spooky, y'know?" He looked fearfully at the dumpster where the two of them had just hefted the remains of a man, wrapped in garbage bags, his limbs tied to his side. "I got into the protection business." Big Iggy shrugged. "Look, it's a lot easier making a meat delivery than it is shaking down some poor bastard who opened his shop in the wrong neighborhood. Besides, protection ain't what it used to be. Remember Tommy?" That was the wrong thing to say, Big Iggy thought upon reflection. Little Iggy turned so pale he could see the change even in the darkness of the alley. Tommy Ravella had set out to bring in some new business from this very neighborhood a week earlier. Although generally acknowledged among Tony Capella's associates as the toughest hood in Lower Manhattan, Tommy had simply disappeared, and no one had been able to find out what had happened to him. So it was that Boss Capella had pulled back the protection staff and assigned them to other duties until the whereabouts of Tommy Ravella could be determined. It wasn't good when a representative of the protection division disappeared like that. It was bad for business. At least, Big Iggy thought to himself, the boss had decided to use him and his partner for low-risk errands. Disposing of a body wasn't so bad - as long as the boss didn't ask them to kill the guy. Big Iggy hadn't killed a guy in, oh, at least ten years, and he had nearly botched that. If he hadn't been the boss's cousin, he would have probably been killed himself instead of just demoted to protection. "There it is again!" Little Iggy cried out. "Will you be quiet?" his partner snapped - although this time he felt the hairs on the back of his own neck rising as well. There was something downright spooky about the strange little apartment hotel housed in the building next to the alley. Even the boss gave it a wide berth. And that guy who ran the place... Big Iggy hoped his frightened partner hadn't seen him shudder at the thought of the strange manager of Deety Arms. But maybe Little Iggy was right. Maybe there was something there in the alley with them. He doubted if it was a cop, but even an innocent citizen could stumble into the wrong situation. It never hurt to be careful. Drawing his gun, he sidled along the wall, eyes searching the darkness for any menacing form. Then something jumped out of a pile of boxes near the side entrance to the building. The shape was dark but too small to be a man. Big Iggy sighed in relief. "Will you look? Now you've got me jumping. It's just a fucking rat!" "Yeah," Little Iggy agreed, chastised. "Sorry, pal." Big Iggy re-holstered his weapon and looked back at the dumpster. Everything was in order. "Let's get out of here." As their footsteps receded, a sigh of relief issued from the pile of boxes. "Damn you, Grimcost! He nearly got me." From another pile of boxes further down the alley, another raspy voice replied, "But Garmon, he spotted me. He was looking right at me." The boxes fell aside and an inhuman creature folded and refolded its wings as if to emphasize the point. "He couldn't see you though," Garmon growled, returning the gesture from his own pile. "Humans can't see half of what's in front of them. When you jumped, though, he couldn't help but see you. I thought I was going to have to kill them both. Mr. L wouldn't have liked that." Grimcost walked contritely toward the other gargoyle. "Why didn't Mr. L do something? They killed that man. They killed a policeman." Garmon shrugged. "I don't know. He has something in mind. When I asked him he just told me these men didn't kill the officer; one of Tony Capella's top guns did. It's Capella he wants this time." "Then why not just go to his office and take care of him?" Grimcost asked, his embarrassment replaced by curiosity. Grimcost grinned - or as close as he could get to a grin with his beak. "Mr. L says that's too easy for him. I think he's got something more interesting in mind." *** Viewing the body of a murdered man is never easy. It's even harder when it's the body of a friend. Marcello Fontana - Mark to his friends - had been a good friend of mine since the days at Police Academy. We had both grown up in Brooklyn, although we hadn't known each other there. We both got married right after the Academy and we both got divorces in the same month resulting in a monumental binge that was still the talk of the department. Then I lost touch with him. That had been two years ago. Now I knew why. "According to Downtown, he was working under cover," Matt Conway, my young partner told me as I watched the attendants wheel Mark's body away. At least the spring drizzle had washed the blood off his face but could do nothing to disguise the bruises underneath. Mark hadn't died easily. "For what department?" I asked, reaching in my coat pocket for a cigarette. There weren't any there, of course. I had given them up a year ago on an impulse during one of those damned "smoke outs." I just couldn't seem to kick the craving, but I'd be damned if I let the cancer sticks get the best of me. Nobody and no thing got the best of me. "Organized Crime Task Force," Matt replied. "They were trying to nab Capella." My stomach got tight at that name. Capella was the bastard who had cost me my marriage and nearly cost me my life. "Capella's hard to nab." Matt nodded. "You got that right, boss. Word is Fontana worked his way into Capella's mob but never could work his way up high enough to get the goods on him. Somebody finally slipped up and he was made. Looks like they wanted to send us a message judging from the condition of the body." Matt sounded impassive, but I knew he was upset, too. He didn't know Mark, but nothing upsets a cop like the murder of another cop. If you're lucky, you might go through your whole career on the force and never see it happen. But if you're in Homicide like Matt and I, it happens. You just have to tell yourself you'll find the perp and squeeze him for all it's worth. The problem was that Tony Capella didn't squeeze easily. "Anybody see anything?" I asked as Mark's body was loaded into an ambulance. "Nope," Matt replied. "It's pretty dark back in that alley. The only door back there leads to that apartment hotel over there. According to the manager, nobody had used the door since this morning." I looked at my watch. It was nearly midnight. The anonymous phone call about the body had come in about ten and our guys weren't on the scene for about thirty minutes. "Isn't it kind of late for the manager to still be on duty? I mean this Deety Arms isn't exactly the St. Regis." Matt gave me a funny look as if he wasn't sure of how to tell me something. I had seen the look from him before. He was new to Homicide. Barely thirty, he was a sharp kid. Someday, he'd probably be running the department. I had learned in the few months I had been working with him to trust his instincts. "Come on, Matt. Out with it. What's the problem?" Matt shrugged. "I don't know, Jack. It's hard to explain. There's just something weird about that whole place, and this manager is the kind of weird." "Weird how?" "Well, start with his name," Matt began. "It's L." "El?" I asked. "He's Latino? El what?" "That's it," Matt told me. "It's just the letter L. Or at least that's what his staff calls him. Now I know there are one letter last names. I used to work a neighborhood with a lot of Vietnamese in it. O - just plain O - is a pretty common Vietnamese name. But I've never heard of somebody named L." "This is New York, kid," I grinned in spite of myself. "People call themselves all kinds of crazy things, and here in the Village, it's the worst of the worst for stuff like that." "Yeah, I know," Matt sighed. Deep down, the kid was probably tired of hearing me talk about the strange side of the city. It was as if I was reminding him that he had grown up on the Upper East Side where the money is and where families shield themselves from the seamy side of New York. "But this L guy isn't like all the fruitcakes." "Maybe I ought to go talk to him," I mused. Matt didn't argue with me. I think he wanted me to see this L guy for myself. I had a pretty good idea what he'd be like. Of course I was completely wrong. As if for the first time, I took stock of the building before I entered. The apartment hotel was the largest building on the square, rising to six stories. Like many buildings in the city, the brownstone fa?ade was weathered to nearly a dull gray by years of accumulated pollution. However, the polished heavy oak front doors showed no signs of wear. The doors were flanked by two gargoyles perched on a ledge. I looked away from the gargoyles quickly. There was something unsettling about them - almost as if they were watching me. Between them, carved into the stone, were two words: Deety Arms, but part of the stone on one of the words had either worn or been chipped away, for the second "e" looked more like an "i" at first glance. An involuntary and completely unexpected shudder ran up and down my back. I had heard of this place; every cop who worked this part of the city had heard of Deety Arms. It was an urban legend. In fact, strange stories were told about nearly every business on the cozy square where the building stood. I had never believed any of them - until now. There was just something about the place that made you question reality itself - as if the building just should be there at all. Bracing myself for something out of an Anne Rice novel, I opened one of the heavy oak doors, expecting to hear it creak on its hinges. Instead, the door opened smoothly and silently, revealing a completely unexpected sight. Instead of a tired old lobby with Gothic overtones and deep shadows, I was met by a brightly lit scene of near opulence. The polished oak wainscoting and plush green carpet in the lobby shouted old wealth. Even the hunter green wallpaper above the wainscoting reeked of money with its raised, silk-like patterns. A mountain of a man stood silently by a small desk. He was dressed in a doorman's uniform of impeccable cut, resembling a Marine in full dress rather than the ill-fitting, dumping little men who served that same function in most of the city's apartment hotels. But the man who met me in the lobby was incongruous in such surroundings. He was a funny little man wearing an ill- fitting suit, although the problem of fit appeared more with the man than with the suit. He was a chubby little fellow, and frankly I doubted if a thousand dollar suit would have made him look any better "I'm -" "Good evening, Lieutenant Murphy," the little man interrupted in a reedy voice. "I'm Mr. Luk." "Luck?" "No, Luk." Oh. And how did he know my name? "Mr. Logan asked me to show you to his office. If you'll step this way..." I followed him down a long hallway. The path displayed a series of doors, each made of wood below and frosted glass above, like the old run-down office buildings around the city. But this place wasn't run down. Everything looked new and polished. It was like stepping back into a simpler time, like the thirties or forties. I had expected to walk into an old Universal horror movie. Instead, I had walked into a film noir mystery by mistake. I almost expected Humphrey Bogart to suddenly step out of one of those doors, hat pulled down over his eyes and a cigarette drooping from his thin lips. Was Mr. L really Sidney Greenstreet? Wait. Mr. Luk had called him Mr. Logan. Matt must have misunderstood. I was ushered into a large, tastefully decorated office. It was clear that whoever had designed the lobby had taken a hand in designing this Logan's office. Mr. Logan might not be Sidney Greenstreet, but I had the feeling the legendary character actor would have found himself at home in that office. Behind a large well-polished oak desk sat a well-dressed man, ramrod straight as he appeared engrossed in a document. He was tall and slender, and although his skin was that of a young man, his hair was white and cut quite short. As I entered the room, he rose, favoring me with piercing blue eyes. His suit, unlike Mr. Luk's, fit him to perfection. He looked as if he had just stepped off the cover of GQ. "Lieutenant Murphy," he greeted me, offering me his hand. Did everybody in this place know my name? I took his hand and found his handshake firm and confident. I liked that in a man. "Please, be seated." I hesitated. My coat was wet from the intermittent drizzle, and Mr. Logan's guest chairs were covered in fine leather. Intercepting my thought, Mr. Logan ordered, "Mr. Luk, please take the lieutenant's coat and have it pressed. Also, please bring us some coffee - something mild as it is quite late." My concerns about Mr. Logan and his establishment seemed to evaporate under the power of the solicitous treatment. I eased myself into one of the guest chairs, suddenly realizing how long I had been on my feet. The chair seemed to mold itself around me, soothing tired bones and muscles. I had to get me one of those chairs, I thought. "Now to business," Mr. Logan said, seating himself in a large leather executive chair. He leaned forward across his desk, his face strangely shadowed in the light of his desk lamp - the only light in the room. "Mr. Logan," I began, glad to be back in charge of the investigation once again, "do you know anything about the body we found next to your establishment this evening?" I thought for a moment I saw amusement in the light reflecting off his pale blue eyes. "I was given to understand that the victim was a policeman, working under cover to infiltrate Tony Capella's organization." Damn! I thought. What kind of investigation had Matt been running before I showed up? The object of questioning potential witnesses was to find out what they knew - not to tell them what you knew. Matt must have done most of the talking. "Uh..." I began, trying to restart my questioning but without success. I was saved by the return of the strange Mr. Luk who laid my freshly-pressed coat over the other guest chair. I couldn't imagine how he had done it so fast. There had to be a dry cleaner in the building, but I wondered why it was still open in the middle of the night. He then handed me a cup of steaming coffee from a small silver tray. After placing a similar cup in front of Mr. Logan, he gave an honest-to-God bow and left the room. I took a sip of the coffee. It was lightly sweetened with a splash of cream - just the way I liked it. As for the blend, it was rich and mellow - perhaps the finest cup of coffee I had ever had. But I hadn't come for the coffee. "Mr. Logan..." "Lieutenant, let me save you some time," he broke in. "No one in this building was a witness to the murders. Your friend was killed elsewhere and his body left here by Capella's men as an insult to me and my associates." This was all coming in too fast. "But how do you know who did it?" "Because the body was delivered by Ignatio Morello and his associate, a Mr. Gennaro..." "Big Iggy and Little Iggy," I muttered. "Exactly. But as you know, they aren't - I believe the expression is 'hit men.' The actual murderer was Rudy Costanzo." "Tony Capella's right hand man?" "The same." I took another thoughtful sip of my coffee. "Mr. Logan, how could you possibly know all of this unless...?" Mr. Logan smiled. "Unless I was involved in his activities?" I nodded. The Mafia had many fellow travelers, and in spite of his polished manner, there was much to suggest that he might be one of them. He seemed to know a lot more about Tony Capella than he should. Also, he had insinuated that Mark's body had been dumped practically on his doorstep as a personal affront. "Let's just say I've seen him and his men in action," he replied, pausing to take a sip of his own coffee. "You see, in addition to drugs and prostitution, Mr. Capella is heavily involved in the protection racket as well. A number of nearby businesses have been victims of his shakedowns." I nodded. He wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know. He was evading my questions, answering them but not telling me anything important. I suspected he knew far more than he was letting on. "So are you paying him off?" There was that damned smile again. "No Lieutenant. No one here on the square is paying him off. We've all resisted. This, of course, has come to Mr. Capella's attention." "I'm surprised you haven't had a visit from Tommy Ravella," I told him. "Capella usually uses him to 'negotiate' with folks like you." I didn't add that the last guy I knew who Tommy Ravella had 'negotiated' with spent two weeks in the hospital as a result. Mr. Logan startled me by bursting into outright laughter. "I'm afraid Mr. Ravella proved himself to be a very poor negotiator." I frowned, confused. "Tommy was here?" "Oh yes." "And?" The enigmatic smile was back. "Let's just say that Mr. Ravella has been reassigned and is currently negotiating business deals of a more fundamental nature." I was sure that that was a very clever remark but it went right over my head. One thing that didn't go over my head, though, was the sudden realization that Mr. Logan was more than he seemed. At first glance, I would have thought Tommy Ravella would have chewed up and spit out a dozen Mr. Logans, but somehow this dapper man had bested him. "I have a proposition for you, Lieutenant," Mr. Logan said suddenly. I wasn't sure what Mr. Logan's game was, but curiosity got the best of me and I decided to play along. "What kind of a proposition?" "What would it be worth to you to...I believe the expression is 'take down' Tony Capella?" I shifted uncomfortably. "The Department isn't in the habit of negotiating payments. If you have information we can use, I suggest you share it with us. It's possible that some sort of reward could be -" He ignored my comment and interrupted, "Would it be worth your life?" I hadn't expected the question, but it started me thinking. Tony Capella had done a lot to hurt me through the years. Mark Fontana wasn't the first friend I had lost as a result of Capella's activities. He had cost me my marriage and very nearly cost me my life. Even my career had been influenced by him. I had become so obsessed with taking him down that the Department had reassigned me from organized crime to homicide, relegating me to investigating dead bodies in dumpsters rather than fighting the mob. Would I give up my life to get that slime ball? Yeah, I realized, I would. It would be worth it to die if I could watch Tony go first. My answer was short. "Yes." Mr. Logan's eyes narrowed. "Would it be worth your soul?" I can't explain my reaction. Call it superstition or call it premonition, but something in the way Logan asked the question caused me to realize the question was not entirely hypothetical. Now with a name like Murphy, he could probably have made an educated guess that I had been raised Catholic. He would have been right; I was. Although I attended Mass very irregularly and hadn't been to confession in a long, long time, I still believed, and to be more specific, I was pretty sure I had a soul - whatever it might be. I can't say I believed this Mr. Logan to be the devil or one of his minions, but there was something about him that made me uneasy. His confidence and poise set him apart from anyone else I had ever met. He acted almost as if he was in complete control of everything around him. I had a weird hunch that the answer he now requested - no, demanded - of me would be important in ways I couldn't even imagine. "No," I said softly. "Why not?" While his tone once more demanded a response, I sensed I had given him the answer he was seeking. His eyes seemed not as narrow and his countenance not as intense, though. "I suppose because if I surrendered my life, I'd do so in a good cause," I replied. "But if I surrendered my soul, I might be like him, since he obviously surrendered his soul the day he committed his first crime." Mr. Logan's face melted into a confident smile. "Then I may be able to help you, Lieutenant. Do you believe that I can help you take down Tony Capella?" I surprised myself by admitting, "Yes, I do." I had no concrete reason to believe that, but something about the mysterious Mr. Logan gave me the idea that there wasn't much he couldn't do. Call it gut instinct. Cops are known for it. He leaned forward again. "Then this is what you must do. You need to notify your superiors that you need some time off, starting tomorrow." I nodded. That wouldn't be a problem. Given the strain of police work, it wasn't uncommon for an officer to announce that he or she needed a few days off to handle "personal affairs" - a euphemism for getting one's head back on straight. "How long?" "Perhaps indefinite would be appropriate." "I'll tell them two weeks," I countered. I didn't know what Mr. Logan had in mind, but I couldn't imagine it taking longer than that. "Very well." "So what's next?" I asked. "Meet me here at noon tomorrow," he told me. "I'll need you to stay here in one of our apartments." "For how long?" I asked again. He shrugged. "Indefinite." There was that word again. "What should I bring?" "Whatever you like," he replied agreeably. "Anything else you need will be provided for you." "Can you tell me what you have in mind?" "I will - at noon tomorrow," he said, rising to indicate that our meeting was over. I nodded in response and left. To anyone who might wonder at why I, an experience and supposedly hardened veteran of the New York Police Department, would so quickly agree to Mr. Logan's plan, I can only respond that to understand, one would have to have been in his presence to comprehend the power he exuded. Couple that presence with the understanding that taking down Tony Capella was the most important thing in my life and throw in plain old human curiosity and perhaps you can understand why I agreed to participate in his plan with no knowledge of the details. The devil is in the details someone once said. I was about to find out exactly what that meant, not that I've ever concluded whether Mr. Logan is the devil, an angel, or something in between. I can say, though, that if I had had any idea just what he had in mind that night, I would have never set foot in Deety Arms again. I even had misgivings as I headed for home that night. My misgivings were strong enough that I placed a late night call to one of our researchers I knew on the night shift. When she answered, I began, "Claire, I need some help. What can you get me on a place called Deety Arms as well as something about its manager, a Mr. Logan?" Claire and I had been friends for a long time. She sometimes made me pay for my information - usually with lunches or a platonic date. Other times, she protested she was too busy but would get the information anyhow because I really, really needed it. Never in the ten years I had known Claire had she ever given me the answer she gave me that night. "Jack, whatever you've got, leave it alone." "Look, Claire, I can't take you to lunch this week, but maybe -" "You're not listening, Jack," she shot back. "I mean leave it alone. Deety Arms is sort of off limits. The first time - and the last time, I might add - that I tried to look into that place, not only did I find nothing but higher-ups told me to never look into it again." "Well, how much nothing did you find?" I asked warily. Claire was silent for a minute, as if debating with herself the advisability of answering even that. Finally, she told me, "When you look up the place in any data base in the city, you find out it doesn't exist. According to the records, the location is a city park. At least that's what I found. I talked to someone else who looked it up and found that location to be a deserted warehouse. If I were to look it up for you right now, I have a hunch the computer would tell me it's the location of a vacant lot or a branch or Citibank or maybe even Disneyland, but it wouldn't tell me anything about Deety Arms." I had seen the place for myself so I knew it existed, but I wasn't entirely surprised with Claire's answer. "What about the buildings around it?" "Same thing," she replied. "Everything around that little square just doesn't seem to exist. And yeah, I've been there. There are a couple of good restaurants and clubs on that square. They don't seem to exist either, though." "You think they're on somebody's pad?" "Maybe," she allowed. She didn't sound too confident about that, though. Sure, it was possible the businesses in that area had paid off some city official. Businesses that don't exist don't pay property taxes or sales taxes or get city inspections or worry about any of a thousand regulations that should apply to them. It had happened before, but usually just one business and most of the time the cause had been an honest clerical error. For an entire neighborhood to be off the books was too strange for words. "Who came down on you for looking?" I asked her. "Let's just say it came from the Mansion." For a city employee, there is only one mansion. Since 1942, Gracie Mansion has been the home address of New York City's mayors. "So I suppose you've got nothing on this Mr. Logan either," I surmised. "Only rumors," she replied. "I've heard he's got more power than Con Ed." "Tell me the details." "That's the problem, Jack. There aren't any details - or at least none people at out level are privy to." She was silent for a moment, then continued, "I can tell you this, though. There's something weird about that whole neighborhood. You know that place across the square from Deety Arms - the Southwest Grill?" "I've seen it," I replied. I had never eaten there, though. Mexican food always gave me gas. "I was coming out of there the other night with a couple of friends. One of them mentioned I was with the department so suddenly this whore on the corner takes an interest in me..." "Lezzie or male?" "Neither. Jack, she's dolled up like a streetwalker in a movie - real cute." I knew what she was getting at. In spite of Hollywood's stereotypes, most whores look as if they've been ridden hard and put away wet. I hadn't seen too many of them who looked like the starlets the movie folks seem to cast in those roles. "Anyhow," she went on, "she comes up to me and says that since I'm a cop she needs my help. She said she was a guy." "She was a drag queen?" "Naw. She's all girl; I could tell. She starts to tell me something about how somebody changed her into a girl. I thought about calling Belleview and turning her over to the shrinks but then some guy comes up next to us and she stops in mid-sentence and starts putting the moves on him like I wasn't even there." "Sounds schizo," I commented. "Like I said, it's a weird part of town. Sorry I can't help you on this one, Jack." I promised I'd take her to lunch real soon anyhow and we hung up. Nobody down at the precinct was surprised when I asked for time off. It happens all the time. I told Matt personally. He was at his desk, having worked all night so he looked like shit. Like most junior partners on the force, I usually stuck him with the paperwork. Rank hath its privileges. "You got the watch for a few days," I told him. He looked up from his cold cup of coffee I nodded. "I heard. Problems?" I shrugged. "Just some personal shit I need to take care of. The Captain is going to have Carl Morello tag along with you for a few days." I could see the wheels turning in Matt's head. Carl was junior to him, so that meant Matt would get a little relief from the paperwork even though he'd have to handle more of the fieldwork since Carl was a little inexperienced. On the whole, though, any good cop will trade paperwork for fieldwork and Matt was a damned good cop. "Need a lift - the airport or anything?" It was Matt's way of figuring if I was leaving town or not. Like I said, he was a damned good cop. "No thanks. I got it covered," I replied, grinning to myself when I realized I hadn't given him the information he was fishing for. We parted ways and I spent the rest of the morning putting together enough stuff so I could live out of suitcase for a week. I didn't plan to stay at Deety Arms for a week, though. I figured I'd hear Logan out and if his plan looked good, I'd spend a couple of days on it. Nabbing Tony Capella was certainly worth two days. And if nothing came of it, at least I'd have a couple of days' break from the routine. Deety Arms looked different in the daylight. The eerie Addams Family mystique was gone, and the building looked just like any of a few thousand brownstones gracing the city. Across the street on the square half a dozen restaurants, including the Southwest Grill were doing a brisk early lunch trade, and peppered in among them, a dozen little shops looked as normal as could be. I looked around the Southwest Grill, thinking about Claire's prostitute, but nobody fitting her description was there. I guess it was a little early in the day for whores to be out of the sack. Mr. Logan's dumpy little assistant, Mr. Luk greeted me at the door, as if he had been waiting for me all morning. Who knows? Maybe he had. He wordlessly motioned me to the elevator. "I thought I was supposed to see Mr. Logan." "Yes sir," Mr. Luk agreed smoothly. "He wants you to see your room first. Then he'll call on you once you're ready." "I'm ready now." I figured if things got ugly, I could handle Mr. Luk without breaking a sweat. He looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy, all soft and out of shape. "Mr. Logan is occupied right now," a voice came from behind me. I turned quickly and was confronted with Mt. McKinley dressed in a doorman's uniform. It was the same lunk I spotted last night. He looked even bigger when he was standing right over you. "Do you need some help?" the mountain asked Mr. Luk. "I was just about to escort Mr. Murphy to his apartment," Luk explained. "I'm sure Mr. Murphy doesn't need your help, Horace." It took me about a nanosecond to figure out that I might be tough but this Horace guy looked to be a whole lot tougher. Discretion is the better part of valor and all that crap... "Yeah, Horace," I managed. "I think Mr. Luk here can show me to my apartment without any help." In the blink of an eye, Horace the Massive Mountain became Horace the docile servant. "Of course, Mr. Murphy. Please enjoy your stay with us." I nodded and returned his smile, but I was beginning to wonder just what I had gotten myself into. I was about to find out. Mr. Luk showed me to a nice apartment on the fifth floor. It was bright and roomy, and unlike the other parts of the building I had seen with its Gothic gentility, the place looked almost feminine with its pastel walls and light oak furnishings trimmed in feminine colors. "I assume Mrs. Logan does all the interior decorating?" I mused. Mr. Luk smiled faintly. "There is no Mrs. Logan." "Should I call him Logan or just 'L' now that I'm on the team?" The smile disappeared. "Mr. Logan doesn't like to be called by his... by that name." "But my partner heard some of the staff call him that," I pointed out. "Yes," he agreed, "but not to his face." With that, he started to leave. "Wait a minute! When is Mr. Logan going to see me?" The smile was back as he began to close the door. "I should say very shortly, sir." As I heard his footsteps receding down the hall, I tried to open the door. Somehow I wasn't surprised to find it locked. So what was Logan's game? I asked myself. I sensed he hated Tony Capella as much as I did, so he had to be sincere when he said he wanted my help in bringing Tony down. But in spite of that, there was something he wasn't telling me. Whatever it was, I'd just have to wait until he saw me. With nothing better to do, I decided to look around my new temporary digs. As I said, the place had a woman's touch, but it wasn't overly frilly, thank God. I threw my overnight bag on the pastel bedspread and took a tour of the apartment. It didn't take me long to realize that whoever had leased the apartment before my arrival was planning on coming back. The place was not just furnished - it had a neat but lived-in look, complete with fresh flowers on the kitchen table and pictures of what must have been friends and family members as well as the personal mementos that made a place home. Giving in to the voyeur in me, I took a peek in the closet. Yep, I was right; a girl lived in the apartment, and judging from the brightly-colored dresses and blouses, a fairly young one at that. I wondered why she wasn't home but figured Mr. Logan must have made a deal with her while she was on vacation or a long business trip. The detective I was born to be examined one of the dresses. It was short and sexy but not exactly Fifth Avenue. Same with the shoes - like all women's closets, there was dozens of pairs on the floor and even more neatly stored in boxes on a shelf. Judging from the size of the dress and the shoes, my mystery hostess was about average or maybe a little smaller in stature with a nice figure. As I replaced the dress, I realized I was tired. I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, and I didn't know what Logan had in mind for me for the rest of the day. I supposed it wouldn't hurt anything to take a little nap. I would just put my overnight bag in the corner and... But where was my bag? I had left it on the bed. I looked on the other side to see if it had fallen off. I even looked under the bed but it was gone. But how? No one had come into the apartment, and I had checked every room except the bathroom. Could someone else be in the apartment with me? I pulled my gun from the holster in the small of my back and carefully inched toward the bathroom. I stepped in, but it only took a moment to figure out that no one was home. I did notice one curious thing, though. Cosmetics and other feminine paraphernalia were spread over the bathroom counter. There was even a hairdryer lying there as if the resident had just left for the day and would be coming back any time. Why the hell had Logan set me up in an occupied apartment? Had that Luk character shown me to the wrong room? Well, I'd straighten that out with the mysterious Mr. Logan if he ever showed up. At least I had satisfied myself that there was no one with me in the apartment. Perhaps I had only imagined that I had brought the bag in. I must have left it in my car. Yes, that had to be it. I'd have to get it later. Right now, I was tired... very tired. I lay down on the bed, suddenly too exhausted to remain on my feet another minute. A little sleep was all I needed. Just a little sleep... *** "How do I look?" Grimcost asked, a pair of boxers draped over the stubby horns as his grinning face with its sharp stone teeth peeked through the window. Garmon plopped down on the ledge beside him, folding his wings as silently as if he were flesh and blood instead of granite. "Be quiet, you moron! He just fell asleep." Grimcost sighed and pulled off the boxers, replacing them in the tattered overnight bag he had taken from the bed a few minutes earlier. "Don't worry. I watched him crash on the bed. The changes have already started. See for yourself." Garmon looked in at the sleeping form lying on the bed. Murphy was changing all right, his skin rippling as if he was being view through flawed glass. His coat and trousers were flickering in and out of existence, replaced at momentary intervals by flashes of something silky and red. "It's going to take a lot of Mr. L's power to make him look like much," he sighed. "Look at that - a bullet wound on the side and three ribs that broke and never healed right. And that jaw of his has been broken at least once - maybe twice." "So what's Mr. L's plan anyhow?" Grimcost wanted to know. "You think he confides in me?" Garmon asked. "Whatever it is, it had better be a good one. I think this guy is going to be hard to handle when he wakes up." *** Usually, I woke up from naps alert and ready to go. As a cop, it was a habit I'd had to develop over the years. For some reason, though, I woke up from my unscheduled nap feeling very groggy and out of sorts. I just lay there on the bed, wondering why I felt as if there was something sitting on my chest. Without opening my eyes, I lifted a hand to rub my forehead. It didn't feel right - both my forehead and my hand felt odd. I opened my eyes, sensing that nothing looked quite right. Colors were a little different, and I couldn't see the tip of my nose in my line of vision. There was a funny smell, too; it was the smell of perfume close to my nose, and there was an odd, waxy sensation on my lips when I ran my tongue over them. I pulled myself up, and that's when the fun really began. Every part of my torso seemed to be moving in directions they shouldn't have been able to move in. Something drooped from my chest while my waist swiveled and flesh pooled in my ass. Something was covering my body and it didn't feel right, shifting almost like the whisper of wind on a mostly still day. It took me only a few seconds to realize that something impossible had taken place and that while I might still be Jack Murphy in my mind, the body I now wore would never have been recognized by that name. I was a woman. It's amazing how those four words even now sound so incredible. My mind sought to deny it, but my body knew differently. I stood uneasily, feeling for the very first time the strange sway of a woman's body. My legs felt as if they were too far apart, but then I realized that it was mostly because the familiar equipment between my legs was missing. I was wearing a skirt, I noticed, feeling it wrapped tightly just above my knees - knees that were encased in nylon. I looked down. I had never seen a woman's breasts from that angle before. They looked absolutely huge nestled inside a fairly low-cut red dress. I could see almost down to the nipples, and the man who still resided inside my head could barely tear my gaze away from them. Their flesh was smooth and soft, unlike the rugged, hairy chest I had remembered. I tentatively raised a hand to touch the top of one of the breasts, noting at once that my fingernails were now coated in bright polish as red as my dress. The fingers were long and dainty, and my arm smooth and bare. I plopped back down on the bed, nearly fainting. I was breathing quickly and shallowly, nearly ready to hyperventilate. "No..." I managed to breathe softly, too shocked by everything else to notice the high, musical voice I now had. I became slowly aware of other sensations - hair tickling the back of my neck, a bracelet on my wrist, a thin necklace with a pendant dangling at my neck, and, of course, something attached to the bottoms of my ears. I managed to get control of myself slowly, my breathing returning to normal and the sharp beat of my heart calming inside my altered chest. I stood again, this time not so shaky. With trepidation, I made my way to a full-length mirror I hadn't noticed before. I was about as different from Jack Murphy as anyone I had ever seen. I had lost about a foot in height, probably topping out at only a couple of inches over five feet. My hair had changed from a reddish brown to a pure black, long and very wavy instead of straight as I had enjoyed before. My skin was no longer light and freckled - a tribute to my Irish ancestors. Instead, it was a distinct shade of olive, giving me a Mediterranean look. On the positive side, I wasn't pushing forty anymore; I looked to be very young - early twenties I guessed. As far as the overall appearance went, packed inside the short, striking red cocktail dress and wearing dark, smoky stockings, I was something of a knockout. I was just a short distance away from being voluptuous, with pronounced breasts and hips accentuated by a slim, tight waist. My legs weren't exactly long, but they were well-proportioned and would look incredible in heels. Yes, I thought my legs would look great in heels, but that was the man in my head looking at the image in the mirror as if it wasn't his body. I certainly didn't want to be the one wearing heels! "You're really very attractive," a voice came from behind me and out of sight. I recognized it at once. "Logan!" I had meant for the word to be a challenge, but it came out as more of a hysterical shriek. I turned to face him, expecting him to be smirking. While there was just the hint of a smile on his face, it appeared to be more one of approval than of derision. He was inspecting me as if I were a work of art he had just sculpted. I had a funny feeling that was exactly what I was. "What the hell have you done to me?" I demanded to know. At least I had managed to modulate my voice. I had been able to modulate the tone from shrill to something more acceptable. Unfortunately, my tone now bordered on being sexy. "I have given you the ability to ensnare Tony Capella," he said simply. "How?" I asked, trying very, very hard to keep my voice calm. "By being his girlfriend?" Mr. Logan surprised me by actually chuckling. "Is that what you think? You think I would have gone to all of this trouble just to put you in bed with Tony Capella?" Well yes, that's exactly what I thought. "Didn't you?" I hated the little girl sound of my meek question. I started to fold my arms but found the breasts in the way. Sheepishly, I folded them below my new chest. In a word, no," he replied as he looked me over. "However, I'm afraid I can't go into details with you at this time. Suffice it to say that what has been done to you will start Tony on his road to ruin. You must trust me." "Yeah," I sighed, sitting back down on the bed. "The last time I trusted you, I lost my balls." Mr. Logan winced. "Try not to use such language, my dear. It doesn't fit your new identity." "Identity? Just who am I supposed to be?" He nodded to the bed beside me. To my surprise, there was a small black purse at my side. I grabbed it, nearly damaging an unexpectedly longer nail and pulled a matching wallet out of it. The driver's license was a normal New York license and the picture was a typically poor shot - but even the DMV couldn't take away the fact that the face was cute and exactly like the one I now had. "Gina Maria Russo..." I read. Brown eyes, black hair, five three (hmm, I was an inch taller than I thought) age... "Twenty one? I'm only twenty one?" Mr. Logan smiled. "Consider this compensation for the loss of your... anatomy." "Loss of... Oh yeah." I looked at him, my eyes narrowed. "But you're going to change me back when all of this is over." It wasn't a question. "That would be a little difficult," he admitted. "You see, Jack Murphy is going to be dead by morning." "What?" "Smoking in bed," he continued as if I hadn't said a word. "It seems that Jack Murphy picked an unfortunate time to pick up smoking again. The body will be charred beyond recognition. Fortunately, the sprinklers will save the building from further damage..." "You bastard!" I shouted. "You can't just take my life away." The expression on Mr. Logan's face became one that nearly frightened me into climbing under the bed. "I can and I have," he replied in a cold voice. "Jack Murphy is dead; there'll be no changing that. You are Gina Maria Russo for the rest of your life." I had been hit by bullets that had stung less. The breasts, the feminine face, the long black hair - it was all mine... forever. And the pus... No, not that. I couldn't bring myself to call it be its common name nor by its formal name for that matter. But it was mine now, too. And not just that; I had, I realized, all the internal hardware that went with it. Dear God, what had I done to deserve such a fate? "You told me you would give up your life to bring Tony Capella down," he reminded me. Yes, I thought, still staring down at my body, but I didn't mean it this way. "I can't be a girl," I murmured. "Why not?" "I...I don't know how to... to do anything a girl does." "But you had a wife once," he pointed out, causing me to wince. "If you apply yourself, I think you'll find you know enough from observing her to get by." I didn't want to admit it, but it was true. I had watched my ex get dressed, put on makeup, and do all the little things women are taught to do - except the Tampon thing. Oh God, no! I could - would - get periods now. How the hell did a woman manage to put in a Tampon? "What if I won't cooperate?" I asked, but my defiance was already wavering. When I thought about it, I really didn't have much of a choice. Mr. Logan had changed me in ways I would have deemed impossible before my nap. I got the feeling that cooperation was going to be mandatory. "Then you will be of no further use to me," Mr. Logan told me bluntly. "You aren't a prisoner. You can leave at any time." And do what? I was pretty certain Mr. Logan hadn't bothered to give me a college degree or maybe not even a high school diploma when he created all that new identification for me. On my own, I would be a young woman without friends or family and nothing in the way of credentials to open the door to a career. Telling anyone what had happened to me was probably out of the question, too. Whatever powers Mr. Logan had would certainly be enough to make sure no one believed my incredible story. On the other hand, what he had said about bringing Tony Capella down had been the truth. He really must have a plan or he wouldn't have gone to all of the trouble to change me, I thought. If I did as he said, I might have a chance at seeing Tony out of action. And maybe by doing so, Mr. Logan would have a change of heart and turn me back into a man. Even if Jack Murphy was dead, Logan could surely create a male identity for me as easily as he had created a female one. "What would I have to do if I agree to help you?" I asked. My voice had lost its terseness, becoming sweet and feminine in the process. I hated it, but I knew I would have to get used to it. If Logan had his way, it would be mine for the rest of my life. He showed no surprise at my acquiescence. I began to suspect that I wasn't his first victim. I wondered for just a moment how many of the sweet young things with skirts up to here who paraded up and down the streets of New York had been introduced to womanhood by Mr. Logan. "You will have to live the life I have created for you," he told me, explaining nothing. "When the time is right, you will know what to do." "It doesn't sound like much of a plan," I muttered, but I knew I had no choice. "I want you to freshen up. It's nearly four..." Had I been asleep that long? "...and you need to be at work in an hour and a half." "I work evenings?" I asked suspiciously. I knew a lot of girls who worked evenings. Quite a number of them worked in a profession I had no desire to be a part of. "You are the hostess at Pasquale's Forum," he explained to my immense relief. "Spend a few minutes getting ready. I've taken the liberty of already placing you in an appropriate outfit for this evening, but you need to freshen up a bit." I walked over to the mirror and looked at myself. "What's wrong with the way I look right now?" Mr. Logan sighed, "Perhaps this won't be as simple as I thought." "I don't know what all the fuss is about," I grumbled as a comb ran through my long curly hair finding tangles with each stroke. "Don't flinch!" The comb felt as if it was about to tear out my hair by the roots. The woman inflicting pain on my new tender scalp was someone Mr. Logan sent to help me. She was an attractive woman who had introduced herself as Doris Malone, the proprietor of The Cultured Curl, a beauty shop down on the square. She was, of course, one of Mr. Logan's cohorts; of that I had little doubt. She seemed to find my predicament amusing - a man being forced to be a woman. "Ouch!" "Honey, I've got to get these tangles out. It looks as if you were sleeping with your hair loose." Which, of course, I had been doing - not that it was my idea. "When we get finished here in a minute, we'll fix your makeup." Oh joy. "There!" At least the pain in my scalp was gone, even if it did signal the start of a new fiendish torture. I took a moment to look in the mirror. I had to admit my hair did look better. The curls seemed to be fuller and framed my face better. "Uh... you said something about not sleeping with my hair loose. What am I supposed to do with it?" She gave me a mischievous smile. "Well, you should put it up in curlers..." "Hey! Forget it." "...but most women prefer to just tie it back so that it stays untangled," she went on. "Use these." She indicated some elastic bands on the bathroom counter. I nodded. That sounded simple enough. "Now for the makeup..." Oh shit. Doris didn't stop until she had worked on my nails, touching up the polish, washed off my face and completely redone my makeup as she explained how she was doing it, and proceeded to "accessorize" my outfit with new bracelets, rings, a necklace, and the final indignity - small gold hoop earrings. She muttered something about Logan not understanding how to put together a proper women's outfit. "When you get right down to it, he's just a typical man," she muttered as she put the finishing touches on my eyes. "He should spend some time as a woman. It would do him good." Better him than me, I thought. "Not bad," she pronounced when she was finally finished. Not bad? I thought. I would have gotten an instant hard on - that is, if I had still had anything to get a hard on with. I was downright beautiful once she had finished with me. That isn't to say I was a dog before she started. No, this face and body would have been pretty good covered in soot and wearing a gunnysack. But for the first time in my life, I think I realized what the right treatment did for a girl's looks. Sure, my ex always looked better once she had dolled herself up, but my ex had never had so much to work with. Wanda had been cute all right, but I made my ex at her best look like a boy. "Not bad at all," a voice agreed. I turned to see Logan standing there. Funny; I hadn't heard him come in. "Perhaps you should have made her complexion a little lighter," Doris suggested. "And her breasts could be a little larger..." Now wait a minute; what the hell was wrong with my breasts? Logan shook his head. "No, she is precisely as she needs to be. Any other changes would be counterproductive." "So what happens now?" I asked with a sigh of resignation. "A cab is waiting at the curb to take you to work." I realized with a shudder that it was nearly time to me to face the world in a skirt and heels. It wasn't a very pleasant prospect. "I'll walk you down," he told me. I think he sensed my insecurity. I was actually glad for the company. I made it to the cab with a minimum of embarrassment. Whatever Mr. Logan had done to me had apparently included an instinctive ability to walk in high heels. It was either that or maybe walking in them wasn't really as difficult as most men thought. Only the huge doorman was in the lobby to see me. He even raised two fingers in a respectful salute to me and managed not to smirk - although something told me he wanted to. I thought he had grown by nearly a foot, but I realized suddenly that it was I who had grown shorter by nearly a foot. I began to understand I was going to be spending a lot of time in conversations looking up. I'd be looking up, I thought, but men I was conversing with would be looking either further down. Despite Doris's comment, I felt as if I had a more than substantial set of breasts. How the hell did women put up with their swaying and their weight? Besides, as large as mine were, I knew from my time with Vice that next to any stripper and most prostitutes, my breasts were very modest. But in the dress I was wearing, they were also very evident. I wasn't going to like this being a girl shit one little bit. I made a mental note of the route to the restaurant as the cab whisked me there. It wasn't far from Deety Arms - just five or six blocks. At least I wouldn't have much of a commute. I resolved to walk back when I got off work. It would help to keep me in shape. "What do I owe you?" I asked, opening the purse I had been given. "The fare has been taken care of," the cabbie told me in a deep, resonant voice. I hadn't taken notice of the driver before. I just assumed he would be like most New York cab drivers - someone who just got off the boat from someplace far away and Third World. Instead, he was unusually well- groomed and looked more like a chauffer than a cabbie. He never turned his head in my direction and for some reason his face didn't seem to reflect in the rearview mirror. "Yeah, well thanks," I muttered, wondering as I managed to get out of the cab in a reasonably ladylike fashion if the driver was another one of Logan's "associates." I was pretty certain he was. Pasquale's Forum was your typical New York Italian neighborhood restaurant. It was a storefront location nestled between an Italian market and a used book emporium. The awning was a traditional green and white stripe and the neon sign over it looked as if it had first been installed when Eisenhower was president. I pushed open the heavy glass door, noting as I did that as Jack Murphy I probably wouldn't have found the door nearly as heavy. Inside, the pleasant odors of garlic and oregano rose up to greet me. The restaurant was appropriately decorated; white tablecloths were complemented by red and white checkered napkins and the obligatory Chianti bottle topped with a small candle graced each table. "You must be Gina," a voice called from the entrance to the kitchen. The speaker was a short man - that is to say only about three inches taller than my new form. He was mostly bald but the fringe of dark hair over his ears and the dark, bushy mustache indicated he wasn't all that old - probably in his forties. I had been in my early forties before Logan changed me, so I nearly made the mistake of greeting him as I would have had I been Jack Murphy. As I was now, I looked young enough to be his daughter. "I'm Arturo Romano, the owner. Welcome to Pasquale's," he said cheerfully, extending his hand. Although he had no discernable accent, his accuracy in pronouncing the name of the restaurant told me he was probably a second-generation Italian who spoke the language fairly well. "Mr. Logan told me to expect you." "He did?" I said suspiciously. I guess I had thought that Logan had probably magically made things to appear as if I had worked at Pasquale's for some time. "What else did he tell you?" He shrugged. "Just that he had found a perfect hostess for our place. Teresa, our last hostess, met one of the customers and married him." His eyes narrowed in mock scrutiny. "You don't plan on doing anything like that, do you, Gina?" "Uh...no." His gave me a wide smile and I wondered for a second if he really knew who I was and was making fun of my predicament. I realized, though, that he was guileless and had merely been teasing me. I would have to get used to that, I supposed. Jack Murphy wasn't the sort of person others wanted to tease, but Gina looked a lot less threatening. "Let me introduce you to everyone," he said, grabbing my hand and leading me back to the kitchen. "Everyone" included Arturo's son, George, who worked with his father in the kitchen, and a waiter and two waitresses. The waitresses were both attractive young women. Their names were given so quickly, I just caught their first names - Jennie and Lucy. Jennie was a little taller than I with blonde hair and a winning smile. Lucy was about my height with nondescript brown hair, but she had a body that would turn a guy's head in a hurry. Both were friendly and welcomed me as if I were a long-lost friend. I was always surprised how quickly women could take to each other. I preferred the male method of being just a little reserved for the first few years after being introduced to someone. But those days were over, I sighed to myself. The waiter was another matter. He rose formally when I was introduced. His name was Julio, and it only took a minute to figure out that he thought of himself as God's gift to women. I had heard women speak of being mentally undressed before, but this was my first experience with it. I found I didn't like it any more than natural women did. I wondered how long it would be before the creep made a move on me. There were also a couple of busboys, but they didn't seem to speak any English. The policeman who still dwelled in my mind suspected they were illegal immigrants. Lots of the busboys in the city were. All I caught were their first names. The shorter one was Pablo and the taller one was Jose - or at least those were the names that were probably on their fake Social Security cards. They kept pretty much to themselves, so I didn't expect to get to know them very well. It only took a few minutes for Arturo to explain my duties to me. Besides, I was a quick learner since I had waited table to put myself through college. As hostess, I was expected to seat people, answer the phone, and when I wasn't doing that, help the waiters and busboys with the customers. In a strange way, the job was almost a vacation. Being a cop required me to see the seamy underbelly of the city most of the time. As a hostess, I was able to observe normal citizens out having a good time. And because Pasquale's was a neighborhood restaurant, we enjoyed a clientele of mostly regulars. Arturo would drag me over to a patron's table and introduce me as if I was some visiting relative meeting family friends. I have to admit I was embarrassed the first couple of times he did it. After all, I had only been a young woman for a few hours. I was more than a little embarrassed to be identified as one, especially when I noticed the men casting an appreciative glance at my chest or my legs. Still, there was nothing threatening about them, I realized. I had done the same thing to pretty girls for most of my life. And that, of course was what I was - a pretty girl. I was reminded of my new sex continually throughout the evening, but no reminder was more unpleasant than the aching in my feet. For some reason - probably part of the magic Logan had used on me - I had no trouble walking in heels, but that didn't make them any more comfortable. Even short breaks on the tall stool behind the hostess's stand weren't sufficient to reduce the pain. How did women stand those things? "Are you okay, Gina?" Lucy asked me as the crowd had begun to die off. "Just my feet," I groaned. She looked down. "Those are nice shoes. I have a pair just like them. But I can't imagine wearing them all evening. Didn't you bring some flats?" "Flats?" She sighed. "Listen, Gina, Pasquale's isn't the Ritz. Arturo never made Teresa wear heels. If you want to troll for guys later, bring the heels - but wear the flats here." To prove her point, she directed my glance at the casual shoes she was wearing. I didn't say anything but nodded my thanks. I wasn't about to tell her how my stomach turned when she talked about trolling for guys. The last thing in the world I wanted was to catch the attention of some guy. I had already had to avoid Julio's not-so- subtle advances a couple of times that evening. I made a mental note to dig a pair of flats out of my new closet and never wear the heels again. By the time we closed and cleaned up, it was nearly one. I was exhausted, but against my better judgment, I accepted an invitation from Jennie and Lucy to go get a drink. God knows I had earned one. We walked together to a little bar about half way back to Deety Arms. By the time I slipped into a booth with them, my feet had gone beyond normal pain and reached excruciating pain. "Nice shoes," Jennie grinned as I managed to kick them off under the table. "Yeah, right," I groaned. "I'm glad you like them, but you'll never see them again." Jennie nodded while Lucy ordered us a round of margaritas. "Wise move, girl." I felt strangely at home sitting there with the two girls. It reminded me of many an evening as a cop, drinking with other cops as we discussed the events of the day. Of course there were plenty of differences, too. We were drinking margaritas instead of the beer or whiskey my male body preferred, and I realized suddenly that none of us smoked. Strangely enough, I hadn't really missed smoking either. Even though as Jack I had kicked the habit, I still found myself craving a cigarette every now and then. It was as if my new body simply didn't think of smoking. Besides, the restaurant was non- smoking, so I hadn't been reminded. Of course being the new girl, Jennie and Lucy wanted to know all about me. It was strange, but as the questions were asked, answers just seemed to flow out of me. I wasn't exactly making it up; rather, I seemed to be drawing the facts from some hidden reservoir in my mind. I was from Syosset out on Long Island. My parents - foster parents, actually - were divorced and I hadn't seen them much since I moved into the city. My tone made it obvious I didn't have a close relationship with either one of them. I went to school during the day at CCNY (I groaned mentally wondering if I'd have to commute to 138th every day for classes), majoring in sociology. "What about boyfriends?" Lucy asked with a very evil grin. Nothing came out of the reservoir on that one, so I just stammered, "Uh...well, I've been kind of busy." "You should never be too busy for that!" Jennie laughed. "Yeah," Lucy agreed. "Maybe my Peter can get a friend for you." "Uh...no, really..." To my dismay, I found that a young woman without a boyfriend was subject to as much ribbing as a young man without a girlfriend. I hurriedly decided to ask some questions of my own to deflect the discussion. "Does Arturo's wife ever work at the restaurant?" I had noticed a wedding ring on his finger. Jennie and Lucy got suddenly quiet. "Did I say something wrong?" I asked, concerned. "She never comes to the restaurant," Lucy told me at last. "She still does the books but she does them from home. She used to act as hostess, but she gave that up when Mario died." "Mario?" "Their older son," Jennie explained. The girls took turns explaining to me that unlike George, Mario wanted no part of the restaurant business. Headstrong and willing to bend the law, he dropped out of a community college to work for none other than Tony Capella. Mostly, he was a runner, making deliveries for Tony and other low- level stuff. "The day they let him carry a gun, he came into the restaurant to s