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“And what is that, pray tell?”

“Arman is in Los Angeles,” I said, knowing that he already had that knowledge. I figured that if I told him something that he already knew was true, he would want to hear more.

“What else?”

“Dalia is alive and talking about Sheepshead Bay.”

“That was in the paper,” he said. “Doesn’t matter who told.”

“But it does matter that she hasn’t given a name to the perpetrator and that she made an anonymous call to the cops.”

“I guess she knows that if she puts in an appearance anywhere she’s likely to get clipped.”

“Not before she tells them that the one who murdered Helma had hit her multiple times in the face with a ballpeen hammer.”

The villain winced. I tried my best not to smile.

“And you know where she is?”

“I do.”

The club owner was considering my words a little more deeply.

“Is that all?”

“I know the circumstances of the death of Paulie Antonucci Sr.”

That pronouncement brought on a little gulf of silence.

“I’m willing to give it all to you at a bargain-basement price,” I continued. “Fifty thousand dollars.”

“That sounds like an inflation of the value of the knowledge you possess,” Lamming observed.

“Two witnesses who can get you multiple life sentences are worth five times what I’m asking.”

“I already know where Arman is. He can’t afford to stay in that ten-thousand-dollar-a-night room forever.”

“No,” I agreed. “He can’t. As a matter of fact, he’s already gone from Pilgrim’s. He moved out before I ever contacted you.”

I’m pretty sure that Lamming was both a psychopath and a sociopath—that whatever feelings he had were buried deep down under many cubic tons of rancid gunk. But pure and honest, nearly childlike hatred flared in his eyes then.

“So?” he spat. “What use are you now he’s gone?”

“I work for the man. Even if he doesn’t give me an address, he’ll call, text, e-mail—something. I could find him. You can bet on that.”

“Why don’t I just carve it out of you here and now?” That was Kenny talking.

“You could try,” I said, calling forth my inner salesman. “But you never know. I might have a weak heart and if you do to me what you did to David Blass, I could croak before you got what you needed.”

“I’ll make you talk,” Rouche promised. Lifting the gym bag to his lap, Kenny pulled out a ball gag—the kind of tool designed to keep the S and M sub from making too much noise in a session.

Malto glanced over at his dangerous minion, taking a moment to consider his oath. Then he turned back to me and said, “You can appreciate the problem I have, Mr. Oliver. You know things I would love to hear. But you also know about my involvement with the pimp and his whore, Paulie Sr., and Dalia.”

“Merely suppositions,” I said, pouting dismissively. “I can’t testify to things I don’t know firsthand.”

“What if I just had Mr. Rouche kill you?”

“You think that would stop Arman and Dalia from testifying against you, incriminating you in open court?”