Bolan glared at him. "Why should I do you any favors, eh?"

"Well- after all..." Perplexed, Seymour massaged his nose, then chuckled. "You're the one brought the whole thing up," he said. "And you did come all the way out here to my home to talk about it. Didn't you?"

"No."

"No?" Seymour's eyebrows rose and his eyes angled toward Plasky.

Bolan calmly lit a cigarette, blew the smoke straight up, and said, "The cops changed all that."

"I see," Seymour said. But it was obvious that he did not see.

"I did see something. I was down there when the shooting occurred. I saw this guy come running out of the Delsey Building. We nearly collided."

"So?" Plasky asked ominously.

"So I could never go on record with a story like that. It places me at the scene, and with Weatherbee wondering about me I can't afford to be placed at the scene."

"Who is Weatherbee?" Seymour wanted to know.

"A homicide detective."

Seymour sighed and grinned at Plasky. "We don't want you to go on record, Sergeant. We wouldn't place your information in the hands of the police."

"I know that."

"You do?"

Bolan nodded. "But it doesn't change anything. Look, my original idea was to sell you people the information. That's all changed now. The cops told me who you are, see. And that changed everything."

Seymour flashed a glance toward Plasky. "And just who are we?"

"You're the Mafia."

Seymour's smile faded. Plasky coughed. Turrin's fingers began drumming against the table. "We're the what?" Seymour muttered.

"Hell, it's common knowledge," Bolan said. "With the cops, I guess. They told me that Triangle is tied in with the Mafia."

"So what kind of game are you playing, soldier boy?" Plasky hissed.

"Down, Nat, down," Seymour hurried in. He turned appraising eyes onto Bolan. "Just suppose the cops were right about that connection. How would that change anything?"