As Booth walked out of the park toward the subway, he tried to figure if he was in any real trouble over this. Going back was out-no way was he going to get anywhere near that car this night. For all he knew, somebody had spotted him and called the cops. If the cops found the gun, he would be in trouble, but the shooter would be in worse trouble and would probably leave him alone for the foreseeable future, which in Booth's case amounted to about four days.

But the likelier outcome was that a big expensive car abandoned in that neighborhood would be stripped that night, the gun scarfed up by some street kid. It might as well be in the river. He walked on, relieved. He had nearly a thousand dollars and two grams of prime cocaine. Time to party. The face that peered in through the window of the Mercedes was a junkie's face; yellow and thin, with a twisted scar over one eye and an expression of deep pain and profound fatigue. A heroin addict of long standing, the man couldn't recognize the bullet-riddled face of the man in the back seat, but he knew the car. Making the logical jump that he was looking at its late owner was easy.

The man's name was Enrico Laxton, known as Po'boy. Like many aging junkies, he made a modest living as a snitch, trading bits of information to the police for small sums, or better yet, bags of smack.

He saw Larue Garry's end as Tecumseh Booth had seen it-as a business opportunity. Laxton was debilitated and shaky, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes. In his yellow sweater and pale slacks Booth had shone like neon and Laxton had got a good look at his face as he ran by the pile of cardboard and rags on which Laxton had nodded out, as invisible as city grime.

TWO