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“What?”

“The fuck, man. I asked a civil question, and I know that whatever has happened at Star Shield, Carlton will want to confer with me.”

“Watch your mouth,” said the white cop. He must have had seniority.

“You watch it, asshole.”

The white cop—I didn’t get his name—stood a bit taller. Two other patrolmen moved over, toward us. I was making all the wrong moves. But I couldn’t help it.

“You wanna say that again?” the white cop asked.

“Say what? Asshole?”

His left foot moved a few inches in my direction, his left shoulder leaning forward.

The other officers were ready, and definitely willing, to back him up.

“All right,” someone said. “Stand down.”

“This man is refusing to vacate the area,” the white cop said.

“I did not refuse.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up, mothahfuckah!”

Van Arc grinned.

“Okay, now, children,” the detective advised. “What you doin’ here, Oliver?”

“I came to talk to Paulie.”

“Paulie’s dead,” the detective without a portfolio declared.

“Not a heart attack?” I asked.

The mob of cops that had been getting ready to take me down were still standing around us.

“Go on, now,” Van Arc said to them. “Secure the premises.” Then, to me: “Come on, Joe.”

In the front room of the security company, Cosette McIlroy—the zaftig, beautiful, and über-white receptionist—sat behind her desk, stunned and barely aware.

“Hey, Cosette,” I said.

She tried to smile, failed, then nodded at me.

“You know her?” Carlton asked as we moved to the rear of the room.

“A few days ago, I came here to ask Paulie if he knew anything about where Arman Babylon’s daughter was.”

“And what did he say?”

“The minute I mentioned a favor he’d done for Arman, he turned around and walked out.”

“You think this Babylon could have had something to do with Paulie’s death?” the detective wanted to know.

“Arman’s in a cancer ward.”