." Bobby flipped open his own pad. "Three white males, after a couple of hours barhopping, last stop Cafe Berkmann on Rivington and Norfolk, walking from that location west on Rivington, then south on Eldridge, are accosted by two males, black and/or Hispanic in front of Twenty-seven here, one of whom produces a gun, says, 'I want all of it.' One guy, our witness, Eric Cash, hands over his wallet, then steps off. The second guy, Steven Boulware"-Bobby pen-pointed to the puker hugging himself on the stoop-"is so boxed, his response is to take a little power nap on the sidewalk. But the third guy, Isaac Marcus? He responds by stepping to the gunman, saying, quote, 'Not tonight, my man.' "

" 'Not tonight, my man,' " Matty marveled, shaking his head.

"Suicide by mouth. In any event, one shot," pen-pointing to the shell casing by the yellow cone. "Home run to the heart, the shooter and his partner book east on Delancey."

East on Delancey: Matty glancing towards the two possibilities, the multiple projects there or the subways, the Lower East Side too isolated, too Byzantine, for anybody other than local kids from the PJs or Brooklyn rollers taking advantage of the hop-on, hop-off BMT.

"Quality of Life shows up five minutes later, a bus from Gouverneur a minute after that, Marcus is pronounced on arrival, I talked to the doc myself."

"Got a name?" Matty head down, writing every word.

Bobby consulted his notes. "Prahash. Samram Prahash."

"Nine-eleven calls?'" "Nope."

Matty continued to scan the street for security cameras, didn't think he'd find any, eyed the tenement windows, wondering how much of a canvass, if any, he could manage before the squad came in at eight. Despite the limbo hour, the block was alive with an intersection of two parties: the last of the young kids still on their way home from the lounges and music bars just like the homicide and his friends; and the pre-land-rush old-timers, the Chinese, Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, and Bangladeshi just starting their day, either leaning out those weathered stone windowsills or going off to work.

Many of the homebound kids lingered behind the tape, but the crime scene barely seemed to register on the ethnics, especially the undocumenteds, heading off for the market terminals, restaurants, and sweatshops around town.

The sky continued to almost imperceptibly lighten, the birds coming on in earnest now, dozens of them barreling low from tree to tree over the crime scene as if they were stringing beads.

Matty nodded towards Nazir in his quarantined shop, the guy smacking himself with frustration, both the kids ending their day and the workers starting theirs usually coming in for his bathwater coffee and a roll about now.

"Anybody talk to my man Naz?"

"The Arab? Yeah, me. Didn't see or hear shit."

Matty then gestured to the slack-lipped drunk on the stoop. "Boulware, you said, right? Why is he still here?"

"The EMTs said he's just intox."

"No, I mean why isn't he at the house?"

"We tried to get him over there, he threw up all over the back of two patrol cars, so I figured keep him around, flood him with coffee, see if he has something to say."

"And?"

"He's still so zotzed he's going to need a past-life regression therapist just to remember his name."

"Then I don't want him here. Can we get somebody to walk him over? Its only a few blocks. Maybe it'll clear his head. And the talker?"

"Cash? Around the corner in a squad car. I figured maybe you'd want to have him walk you through it, so . . ."

Night Watch tended to go light on the interviewing, not wanting to back somebody into a corner an hour before the local squad clocked in, handing over either a witness or a suspect already lawyered up before they could even get a crack at him.

Matty had made that mistake the first time he volunteered for the constantly revolving night pool, being too aggressive with a likely shooter, and the stony looks he got from the locals as he handed over a perp already with representation stayed with him for weeks.

"CSU coming?"

"About an hour out."

"Who else you call?"

"You, the bureau captain."

"Chief of Ds?"

"That's your call."

Matty checked the time, almost five. The chief of detectives got a daily 6:00 a. M. report, Matty wondering if this merited a one-hour-earlier wake-up call, then thought, white vie, dark-skinned shooter in this Candyland of a neighborhood: a media shitstorm if there ever was one.

"Yeah, have the Wheel call him now." Matty thinking, Cover your ass by covering his, then, "Wait, hold off on that," wanting at least an hour's clear work before everybody began breathing down his neck.

"And of course you had somebody notify the family."

"Gee, I was just about to, then you showed up."

It wasn't Oh's job, but . . .

A tap on the shoulder turned him to face a deliveryman, cigarette dangling, his arms filled with long brown bags of rolls and bagels.

Nazir slapped his broken window, extended his arms as if the guy were holding his children.

"May I?" The man obese, bearded, and bored, the smoke stream from the corner of his mouth curling directly into his eye.

Matty signaled for a uniform to let the guy make his delivery. "Then I want that gate down again."

Just as he was about to make some calls, wake a few of his own squad, two sedans rolled up, more Night Watch, down from Harlem, from Inwood.

"S'up, boss?" addressing Bobby.

"Matty?" Bobby deferring to the local.

He was being offered four, two men, two women, three of them Hispanic, which was lucky given where they found themselves. "OK, canvass," waving at the tenements, seeing now that some of the doors to the street were slightly ajar, probably jimmied that way permanently, a sign of Fujianese overcrowding, dozens of men crammed together in the same apartment, needing to come and go at all hours. "You know, as much as realistic. I don't think there's any street-facing security cameras around here, but maybe the subway cameras caught them if they booked to Brooklyn. The nearest station is Delancey and Chrystie, talk to the porters, the token clerk, you know the drill," then to Bobby, "Where's this other guy again?"

Matty stood hunched over, a hand on the roof of the patrol car in order to be on eye level with the victim/witness sitting motionless in the backseat.

"Eric?" As he opened the door, Eric Cash turned to him with shock-starred eyes. A slight tang of alcohol was in the air, although Matty was fairly certain that the kid had the drink chased out of him a while ago. "I'm Detective Clark. I'm very sorry for what happened to your friend."

"Can I go home now?" Eric said brightly.

"Absolutely, in a little bit.