“You’re starting to understand what power means, Joe. I’ll get you a gun.”

He vanished and came back in a minute. “Here you go,” he said, handing me a lightweight .38 automatic. “It’s clean, Joe. No registration, no nothing. Just wipe it off and drop it, and it might as well be Lucci’s as anyone else’s.”

I took it from him and fitted it to my grip. It felt good. I pocketed it and stood up. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be right back, by nine-thirty at the latest. Wait up for me and we can talk over the next part, huh?”

“That’s the ticket,” he said. “I’ll be waiting right here. Of course,” he added, “I may have to go upstairs and spend a few minutes with Ruthie.” He winked. “She’d go nuts otherwise.”

I smiled nervously, shook hands with him, and walked down the long driveway to my car. It was a fine car, a new Pontiac, and while it didn’t measure up to his Caddy, it got me wherever I was going. It was one of the benefits of being the Chief’s lieutenant.

That, and a good apartment, and money in the bank. The only loss involved had been Ruthie, and I stopped caring about her after the first month or so. She was just a woman, and the world is full of them. There were other things that were much more important. Power, perhaps. The Chief and Nietzsche had something there.

I drove onto Clinton Street and down toward the waterfront. It was only a little way to Skid Row, the street of broken dreams and broken men. It was the place where nobody really cared about anything, and where everyone waited hopefully for death. Killing a wino would hardly seem like murder. The poor sonofabitch would neither know nor care what happened to him.

I drove slowly once I hit Halsey Street. I didn’t want to park the car and chase around on foot. I wanted one good shot from the front window. Then I would drive like hell for two blocks, then slow down and head back to the Chief’s home. It would be simple enough.

I circled up and down the Row a good four or five times, and I never managed to get off a shot. There were either too many lights or not enough light to see by, either a crowd of bums or no bums at all.

I was almost ready to give up for the night when I got another idea, an original idea. It was my second original idea of the evening, and I just couldn’t pass it up. It was a good idea too. So I drove partway back on Clinton and made a phone call at a drugstore.

I returned to the Chief’s place at 9:30, right on the dot. I rang the bell and waited for him. He took a long time answering, and he was panting slightly when he opened the door. It was easy to guess where he had been, but he had to spell it out for me.

“What a woman!” he oozed. “She goes crazy for me.”

I nodded and walked into the house. I sat down in the chair without waiting for an invitation.

“Joe,” he said, “I really didn’t expect you back so soon. How did it go, boy?”

“Fine,” I said. “Smooth as silk, Chief.”

“Good,” he said. “You’ve got a head on your shoulders, Joe.” He left the room, and came back with another pair of drinks. I took one, only this time I didn’t bother to sip it. I threw it right down.

“Now what?” he asked. “Do we just wait till a prowl cop tumbles to it?”

“Relax,” I said. “It’s all taken care of, Chief.”

He gave me a puzzled look, and I stole a glance at my watch: 9:45.

Just then the doorbell rang. He was right on time. The Chief started to stand up, but I beat him to it. “Stay there,” I said. “I’ll get it.” I went to the door and let him in.

He walked in almost apologetically, holding his hat in his hands. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll deal. Start talking.”

The Chief nearly hit the ceiling. “Lucci!” he screamed.

Lucci shrugged. “That’s the name,” he said. “You wanted to deal, right? Wanted to straighten everything out?”

I couldn’t wait much longer. I was afraid the Chief would have an apoplectic fit. I drew the .38 automatic from my pocket and pointed it at the Chief. I fired it three times, and the slugs hit him solidly in the stomach, chest, and head.