“No,” Cordova agreed.

Stranahan made three fish sandwiches and gave one to the marine patrolman, who had forgotten about going after the lobster poachers, if there ever were any.

“T he other weird thing,” he said through a mouthful of bread, “is the guy’s face.”

“W hat about it?”

“It didn’t match the mug shots, not even close. They made him through fingerprints and dentals, but when they got the mugs back from the FBI it looked like a different guy altogether. So Metro calls the Bureau and says you made a mistake, and they say the hell we did, that’s Tony Traviola. They go back and forth for about two hours until somebody has the brains to call the M.E.” Cordova stopped to gulp some iced tea; the fish was steaming in his cheeks.

Stranahan said, “And?”

“Plastic surgery.”

“No shit?”

“At least five different operations, from his eyes to his chin. Tony the Eel, he was a regular Michael Jackson. His own mother wouldn’t have known him.”

Stranahan opened another beer and sat down. “Why would a bum like Traviola get his face remade?”

Cordova said, “Traviola did a nickel for extortion, got out of Rahway about two years ago. Not long afterwards a Purolator truck gets hit, but the robbers turn up dead three days later-without the loot. Classic mob rip. The feds put a warrant out for Traviola, hung his snapshot in every post office along the Eastern seaboard.”

“Good reason to get the old shnoz bobbed,” Stranahan said.

“That’s what they figure.” Cordova got up and rinsed his plate in the sink.

Stranahan was impressed. “You didn’t get all this out of Metro, did you?”

Cordova laughed. “Hey, even the grouper troopers got a computer.”

This was a good kid, Stranahan thought, a good cop. Maybe there was hope for the world after all.

“I see you went out and got the newspaper,” the marine patrolman remarked. “What’s the occasion, you got a pony running at Gulfstream?”