‘Amateurs,’ the old patrolman said. ‘They used their hands and feet. Too much blood and damage without enough pain. It looks like they let him pass out, and kicked him while he was out. That’s a hell of a way to get something. Just amateurs.’

‘They were after information?’ I asked Marx.

‘Yeh,’ the lieutenant said. ‘He couldn’t talk, but we asked him and he nodded. We don’t know what they wanted to know.’

‘Where did it happen?’ I said, and then I heard the plural everyone was using. ‘They? How many were there?’

‘Two,’ Marx said. ‘We found him over in an alley near the West Side Highway. Some dame called in; no name.’ And then Marx eyed me suspiciously. ‘What’s your interest, Fortune?’

But I was thinking about two men. Two men had beaten Petey almost to death. It had been two men who stood out there in the street last night watching Marty’s apartment. I did not need a computer to tell me that the two men, whoever they were, were after Jo-Jo Olsen. I was in something, I did not like it; but I was almost getting mad now as I looked at the bandages and tubes and hanging bottles that were Petey Vitanza.

‘He’s my client,’ I said to Marx.

‘This kid?’ Marx said.

‘He wanted his friend found,’ I said. ‘Jo-Jo Olsen, remember?’

Marx nodded slowly. ‘Yeh, I remember. Funny, but Homicide’s got a pickup out on this Jo-Jo Olsen. What did he do?’

‘That’s what we all want to know,’ I said.

‘You think the two who worked on Vitanza were after the Olsen kid, too?’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Or maybe they were out to stop anyone from finding Olsen.’

Marx watched me. He was a smart cop. ‘You’re looking for Olsen.’

‘I know,’ I said as I looked at the ruin that was Petey Vitanza. There was something like a cold breath that went through that room and along my spine. I only have one good arm; I want to keep it in one piece.