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him.
    â€œWell, I know that. But we don’t want it to look like a vendetta. And if we wait for tomorrow, you can track him down man-to-man.” He looked at me with his deadpan eyes. “If we leave it a day, do we get scooped?”
    â€œNo. Not a chance. D’ Angelo went in for emergency radiation last night. He’s not talking to anyone. Hell, he could be gone already.” I called out across the room: “Oh, Fran, dear. Would you please dial up St. Vincent’s and check on the condition of Frank D’ Angelo? Thank you.” I said to Emma: “She’s great, that one. You gotta watch her.”
    Rafferty made a noise in his throat.
    â€œWhat about Watts?” said Emma. “If we let him have an extra day, it may give him time to get at us.”
    I shook my head. “How? How can he get at us?”
    Emma thought it over. She shrugged at Rafferty. Rafferty thought it over. He shrugged back at her.
    â€œOkay?”
    â€œOkay,” she said.
    â€œOkay, that’s it. We hold it for tomorrow.” Rafferty turned a stone eye on me. “It’s ten-thirty, Wells, go home. We’ll let you know if he calls for the late edition.”
    Without thinking, I glanced at Emma. “He’s the city editor,” she said.
    It had been a long time since Rafferty had heard those words. For the second time that day, he almost displayed an emotion. He almost looked perky.
    It was cool and pleasant when I got outside. The air practically smelled clean. The evening rush had cleared away, and only the cabs swarmed around Grand Central. Their headlights shone in the clear spring darkness. The storefront lights all up and down Forty-second Street shone. So did the streetlamps hangdog under the stately office buildings. And the office buildings pressed black against the purple surface of the sky.
    I was whistling my happy tune again as I crossed the street. And as I walked briskly in the shadow of the concrete terminal. Past the bums lined up at the charity van, waiting for doughnuts and coffee. Past their bent shoulders, unshaven faces, yellow eyes staring aimlessly through the mist from the manholes. Still whistling, I went into the terminal through the corner door.
    I picked up a paper at the newsstand inside then hurried into the vast main arcade. Under the constellations arching across the ceiling above, the beggars sat against the wall, their pants legs rolled up to air their sores. The cops patrolled. I rushed past, thumbing through my paper, humming my tune.
    I went down the stairs into the subway. Caught a Six just as I came down onto the platform. It was crowded inside the rackety train. I found a seat next to a gaunt man in a billowing black coat. His mouth hung open. His eyes were glassy.
    I tried to read the paper some more. I stared at the sports section. CLASSIC ! the back-page headline read. But I couldn’t pay attention to the story. I closed the paper in my lap. I slapped my fist into my palm. The gaunt man stared at me.
    â€œHot damn!” I whispered.
    I had him. I had him dead to rights. That son of a bitch. I don’t forget. I never forget. He sucker-punched me. Now I had him.
    There are some people who say I work too much. Lansing, for instance. She’s always saying that. She says I drown myself in my work as if it were booze. Trying to forget things. Trying to forget my wife, who left me twenty years ago. And my kid, who hanged herself seven years ago. Lansing says I work to avoid my personal life. She says I have no personal life.
    But she’s wrong. She’s dead wrong.
    This was personal.
    I could still remember how it felt. Lying on the floor of the interrogation room. Watts towering over me. Watts’s shoes in front of my face. Blood dribbling out of my nose, smearing my cheek. As if I were some kid who’d been knocked over by a bully. I told him. I told him then. I’d have his badge, I said. I said it with all the helpless