Middle Of Nowhere

   Bear straightened up, took another pull off the beer, and said, "No need to be rude. Since when do you and I buy favors off each other?"

   Boldt suggested, "Two hundred bucks and reduced charges. Run it by him, would you?"

   "Garage doors." A faint grin. Bear read the back of the beer bottle for useful information. He picked at the label. Boldt waited him out, knowing that stoned head of his was debating saying something or not. "You be careful with Frankie," he said. "He'll have a blanket 'cross his lap. Never know what's under that blanket 'til it's too late."

   "Got it," Boldt said. The expression reminded him of Bobbie Gaynes; she used it so often, she owned it. The only detective on his squad not to walk. He appreciated the loyalty in ways he would never be able to express. Berenson brought him back to the room with one long draw on the beer bottle and a thundering burp that apparently satisfied him.

   "You want me to try to set it up now or later? Your call."

   "Sooner the better. Mind if I drift downstairs and play a couple numbers while you make the call?" Boldt asked. "It's been a while."

   "Have I ever minded?"

   "You know where to find me."

   "Yes, I do," Bear said. "At my piano, in my club, waiting for my phone call to my contact." He added, "You don't have a fence that needs whitewashing, do you?"

* * *

Frankie Maglioni filled the electric wheelchair from the waist up. A blanket covered his waist and withered legs, sucked dry from atrophy. Nine years earlier he had jumped from the third floor balcony of a Spanishinfluenced estate as the security firm had breached the bedroom door. He'd landed on a steel air- conditioning unit, the impact snapping his spine like a twig and ending a successful career in cat burglary. Though never confirmed, he was believed to be the Dinner Bandit, a name gained for striking the wealthy elderly as they dined in their own house, a floor or two below. He was only convicted of the one crime, his sentence reduced because of the injury, but insurance claims accounted for seven hundred thousand dollars in missing jewelry over a three-year period, all of it attributed to the Dinner Bandit. He was now believed to be a fence.

   He lived in a single-floor loft apartment that occupied the entire third floor of a former paste jewelry factory and was accessed by a freight elevator. Boldt slid open the elevator's wooden slats and introduced himself.

   "We ain't never officially met," the man said.

   "No," said Boldt.

   "I guess because you're Homicide I'm told."

   "Most of the time."

   "But right now, no. You're standing in for Jorgenson and them."

   "I've got a Burglary case, yes," Boldt informed him. "And in case Bear didn't make it clear, I'm not after you. He broke a woman's neck, Frankie."

   "Yeah, Bear said so. I kinda got me a weakness in terms of that kind of thing. Someone does that to someone else—does this," he said, indicating his legs, "a person like me—in my particular situation—kind of thinks twice about letting that slide. You know?"

   "I can imagine that's right."

   "Which is on account of why you're standing here. Plenty of businessmen such as myself you could have talked to."

   "I needed the best."

   "That's bullshit."

   "I need to know about garage door openers."

   Frankie Maglioni shot Boldt a look of surprise, respect and reluctance. "In regards to?"

   "It's his way inside, I think." Boldt added, "It's a new one on us. I need a little education."

   Maglioni backed up the chair behind an electronic hum and the whine of tight gears. The chair turned and wheeled forward to a low table. "No, thanks."

   "And if I can get your probation tossed?"

   "That's a PA I'd be hearing from."

   "And maybe you will."

   "And maybe you and I have a chat right about that time. Know what I'm saying?"

   "We can chat right now."

   "A cop can't get probation tossed," Frankie said.

   "This cop can," Boldt fired back. "I'll get the probation tossed and the arrest taken off your sheet." Boldt waited for that to sink in. "You want me to make the call?"

   "To some dick on your floor who knows the game and makes like a PA? Don't think so."

   "So you make the call," Boldt suggested. "An APA, name of Williamson."

   "Maybe I will."

   "You go ahead," Boldt said. "I know the number." He recited it.

   "Don't want no number from you." Maglioni's distrustful eyes reviewed Boldt from his tie to hairline and back down again. He wheeled back to a drawer and a phone book. "Only reason I'm doing this is because that jail ain't no place for a man in a chair."

   "The only reason you're doing this, Frankie, is that with probation lifted you can plea your next arrest. Otherwise it's hard time. This gets you back to work."

   "You see? Every po–lees–man assumes the rest of us got nothing better to do than to break the law!"

   "It's under government—the listing," Boldt instructed.

   Maglioni reversed the pages and ran a stubby finger down the page. A moment later, after a brief discussion with Williamson, he motored back over to the table. "So you think ahead," he said. "So what?"

   "I didn't say anything."