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don't settle money debts with a gun." He nodded toward Plasky. "You can vouch for that Anyway, I satisfied the cop's curiosity. He thanked me for coming in, and that was that."
    "You're leaving something out," Seymour said lazily.
    "Yeah?"
    "Yeah. Sam Bolan gunned down his wife and daughter, too."
    "Hey, take it easy, Walt," Turrin said softly.
    "It's all right," Bolan snapped, his eyes steady on Seymour. "I don't hold it against my pop for doing what he did. Look-I cut out as soon as I was old enough. The less said about the women in my family the better. Okay?"
    Seymour and Turrin exchanged glances.
They know,
Bolan decided.
    "Sure, I understand, Sarge," Seymour replied quickly. "Don't mind me, I'm just trying to get your size. Okay?"
    "Okay. You got it?"
    "I think so. Why don't you tell us your eyewitness version of this killing now, eh?"
    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?"
    "It changes my price," Bolan said, soberly returning Seymour's gaze.
    Turrin chuckled and relaxed into his chair. Plasky snorted and said something unintelligible. Seymour reacted not at all. Finally he sighed and said, "Either you're mighty smart or mighty damn dumb, Bolan. Just what is the game?"
    "The game," Bolan replied slowly, "is that I can identify your killer for you. And suddenly I realize that's the
last
thing you want. You don't
want
any identification. Look-I have no argument with you. I know how these things go. I don't know anything about the beef between you and Laurenti, but I do understand discipline. If Laurenti was trying to pull a fast one, then you only did what had to be done. I just want
you
to understand that I'm no blabbermouth. Not around cops. So-the price is changed. There is no price. There is no eyewitness story. I
saw
nothing and I
say
nothing."
    Plasky's jaw had dropped. He turned surprised eyes onto Seymour and grunted, "This guy thinks-"
    "I know what he thinks!" Seymour snapped. "It's been obvious all along." His gaze had not strayed from the faintly amused face of the soldier. "There was no beef," he informed Bolan. "Regardless of what the newspapers said, Laurenti and his people were not killed by any criminal