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The rest of the morning I sat in a congested watchmaker’s shop on Cherry Lane in the Far West Village.

Melquarth and I worked out a security plan for me and my meeting with the high-ranking police official.

“Suppose he sends cops to take me down?” I asked at 10:58 by the Bavarian cuckoo clock on a high school.

“I don’t think heroin-dealing cops use honest Joes for business like this,” the expert in evil replied. “Anyway…if somebody tries to get at you, they will feel my wrath.”

I felt bad exposing one of my brothers to a madman like Mel, but it was pretty certain that Natches was at least aware of my kidnapping, and I doubted if my murder would have lost him any sleep.

I was at the English Teacup at 1:00. I told the waitress that my appointment was going to be late but that I would order lunch then and get a high tea when he arrived at 2:45.

Somewhere outside, Mel was in a specially designed van that had pretty good firepower. I also placed a quick-drying plaster that hardened like old chewing gum under the table where Natches would sit.

Prepared for victory or death, I took out an old copy of Steppenwolf by Hesse. Since meeting the young woman on the subway I had a yearning for the old German’s romance with the life of the mind.

I had a proper English breakfast with sausage, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, beans, Canadian bacon, and fried toast. I ate even though I wasn’t hungry while reading through glasses that did nothing for my eyesight.

At 2:15 a hale-looking white man came in. He was about my age, wearing a light gray suit. He sat three tables away from me and ordered coffee.

At 2:45 exactly Inspector Natches walked in wearing a dark blue suit. He was both bulky and tall; though he was twenty years my senior, I was sure that he had some fight left in his sinews. He said a word to the hostess and she led him to my table.

He stood over me a moment or two, staring intently. He knew who I was. He might not have pierced the disguise, but Congressman Acres’s message was a clear proclamation.

“Have a seat,” I said.

He hesitated but sat.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but this little game of yours is not going to work.”

“Tea?”

“No, I don’t want any fucking tea,” he said, a few decibels above the proper volume.

People around turned their heads. Natches’s brows furrowed.

The waitress came with the preordered platter of sandwiches and pastries.

“What kind of tea would you like?” she asked Natches.

“Whatever,” he said, at least keeping his voice down.

“I’ll have Irish Breakfast,” I said.

“We only have English Breakfast.”

“Then that’ll have to do.”

We waited for the service, Natches fuming and me feeling like a cop again.

After the woman—who was straw-haired, forties, and quite comfortable with her body—poured our tea and retreated, Natches sat up straight.

The man in the gray suit sat up also.

The tinkling bell at the top of the front door sounded and Mel walked in. He wore black trousers and a herringbone sports jacket. He took the lay of the restaurant and asked for a table quite close to the gunsel in gray.

“Look, man,” I said to Natches. “I’ve been beaten, scarred, disgraced, imprisoned, and had my marriage torn apart by you motherfuckers without even a word of explanation or warning. People have tried to murder me, and you sit there on your ass like you’re Boss Tweed or somethin’. Understand me—you are not safe.”

“You think I’m scared of you? You think just because you can string a sentence together that I’m gonna make you a police again? I wouldn’t have a half-assed disgraced cop like you shine my shoes. I sure the fuck will not kiss your feet.”