It's the first day of summer, New York State-a hot clear sun and the trees all greening out under a sky as blue as Bombay gin-this hard case named Pike-Earl V. Pike-he's doing ninety in a big navy-blue Benz 600, northbound in the cruise lane of the Taconic, listening to a tape of African drums, has it cranked up so loud the windows are vibrating-it doesn't bother him because his hearing is totally shot-too many years of small-arms fire popping off right next to his skull.