THREE

Eldon Hoagland emerged from 818 Fifth Avenue, the apartment house where Leaky Swansea lived, at 11:45 p.m. Their get-together had been a rambunctious success and the mayor, not to put too fine a point on it, was plastered. His principal bodyguard, Gene Fasco, a head shorter than Eldon, did his best to hold his charge on a steady course.

Fortunately the late-night doorman was not to be seen. Just as well, as the tall figure being helped through the lobby toward the door would not have inspired civic pride or reinforced faith in the democratic selection process.

Eugenio Fasco had been part of the Hoagland security detail during the campaign. Eldon had liked the policeman and, after the election, had requested that he and his partner, Thomas Nolan Braddock, be permanently assigned. A career officer ending his years in the department as a plainclothesman, Sergeant Fasco was happy with his new post and the not infrequent brushes with glamour that it entailed. Had he not shaken hands with, and been impulsively kissed by, Cameron Diaz? (He had not been quite certain of her identity, but his teenage son certainly was, adding that his aspirations were much more licentious than a mere buss by Ms. Diaz.) Or shaken hands, and even exchanged a few words in the mother tongue, with the president of Italy?

Fasco had a reputation as a dutiful but nonetheless scrappy officer. It was true that if positions in the Police Department were allocated on the basis of brains, Fasco might have been on limited duty. But the mayor's protectors did not have to be rocket scientists, merely wide awake and always suspicious.

The higher-ups in the NYPD Intelligence Division had been confident enough in Fasco's ability that they thought he could even handle a "full Arafat," departmental slang for a counterdefense against a terrorist threat (every three weeks), a credible terrorist threat (once a year), or an actual terrorist attack (none yet, leaving aside the messy 1993 attempt to blow up the World Trade Center). Or the panic that occurred when a young Pakistani, detained by two foot patrolmen in City Hall Park on God knows what suspicion—sheer racism comes to mind—was found to have in his possession an architectural diagram of the building, complete with red-penciled arrows at crucial points. It turned out that the poor fellow, completely unarmed, was an Oxford-educated architectural scholar with a passion for studying spaces influenced by the Place de la Concorde in Paris. City Hall qualified, as the work of Joseph François Mangin, a collaborator on the design of the Concorde. The red marks were never explained, though closer police analysis showed that they all pointed to the location of the exceedingly rare rest rooms in City Hall. The wronged scholar brought a false arrest suit against the city that was settled for an undisclosed sum, so no attorney ever had a chance to determine what the bathroom red marks meant.

Fasco's partner, Braddock, was an imposing black man. Tommy overshadowed both the mayor and Fasco when they walked together; Fasco insisted that if there ever should be a shooting on their shift it would be up to Braddock to throw himself in front of the mayor.

While Eldon was inside Leaky's apartment, Fasco and Brad dock had spent the waiting time seated in the mayor's unmarked black Chevrolet (the modesty and anonymity of the vehicle were security measures), discussing food, one of their few shared interests. Fasco had been convinced that all African-American fare was made with greasy pork, while Braddock believed that Italians ate only watery, tomato-laden pastas. Their nocturnal conversations had broken down, to some extent, their stereotypes. This night Fasco had been rhapsodizing to his skeptical colleague on the joys of preparing, and then eating, scaloppine alla capricciosa: "the veal sautéed, mushroom sauce with oregano, then cheese and ham on top—can't beat it." As his description reached a crescendo his cell phone rang, and Fasco heard a semicoherent pronouncement from the mayor himself, announcing that it was time to go home.

The mayor had forbidden his herders to accompany him inside presumably safe New York apartment buildings. Having guards standing about with visible earphones and heavy-laden suits struck him as ostentatious and undemocratic. "This is not the Former Yugoslavia," he had declared.

So now Fasco had to enter the building and take the handoff of his charge, who had been supported by Swansea to the foyer outside his apartment. The two inebriated Tigers were loudly bellowing a chorus of "Going Back to Nassau Hall" (the recessional for most drinking evenings they had together). Leaky asked Fasco if he would give him a receipt for his delivery.

"It's all right, sir," the detective said gravely, ignoring the idiotic request. "Leave him to me."

"I want a receipt," Leaky demanded again, but staggered back into the apartment without arguing further about it.

As the pair approached the front door of 818 Fifth, Hoagland squared his shoulders and affected a drunk's notion of dignified, steady walking. This lasted for three steps, as Fasco prevented him from lurching forward, straight onto the marble floor of the lobby.

Fasco had maintained telephone contact with his partner during his downward journey and now alerted him that Egghead—the mayor's code name—was about to burst onto the street.

Braddock turned on the engine of the mayor's sedan and then jumped out to help Fasco, struggling to maneuver Eldon toward the car. But there was not a clear path from the entrance. Between was a shiny-coated, broad-shouldered black dog taking a luxurious, large-stream pee at the curb alongside the back door of the sedan. Fasco did not need this obstruction, so he barked at the tall youth holding the dog's leash to "move aside, buddy."

The young man perhaps did not understand or, more likely, given the circumstances, was unable to move the dog. Fasco tried to maneuver his boss around the vigorously peeing canine, but despite his iron-firm grip, the mayor lost his balance and stepped on the dog's hind leg.