espite the advice of friends and relatives as to the dangers and horrors of New York City, John Szpakowski accepted the position of an installer for New York Telephone. The allure of the Emerald City, the concert halls, the opera, the ballet, were not to be resisted. Manhattan's offerings of culture and adventure seemed ample compensation for a broken heart. Karen was not interested in Chopin as much as shopping. John found it impossible to excite her with the classics and so they went their separate ways agreeably, if not altogether painlessly. John, forever the stoic gentleman, except when he played the piano or the violin, bid her farewell and wished her all the happiness she wanted in the arms of Arnold Benjamin, a lawyer with a passion for partying. John found himself alone in Teaneck, New Jersey, starved for the distraction that Zubin Mehta and the New York Philharmonic, or James Levine at the Metropolitan Opera could provide. From across the river beckoned the Capital of the World. At twenty-seven years of age there was still time to strike out on a new life. Surely new surroundings, and grander ones at that, would force a change of his luck.

The great city with its billion nooks and crannies of possibilities didn't seem to possess a suitable apartment. He had not enough money saved for the Realtor's commission, and began wearing out his shoes against the pavement. Newspapers were useless. The apartments listed were gone before he reached them, or else no one would take them for obvious reasons. Manhattan was just too expensive. Brooklyn was dilapidated. With only a few days available to obtain an apartment before he was expected to take up his new situation with New York Telephone, he employed a strategy of his own invention. He boarded one of the cleaner, newer, express subways and rode it out to Queens for what he felt would be a reasonable amount of time for a commute. He came up out of the ground at the Jackson Heights and Elmhurst station. Here, besides the subway, were also a bus station and an overhead el. He thought this small hub would provide access to all eventualities. John made a spiraling search that found him a studio apartment a block from the el and in a modern building. It had cost a forty dollar bribe to the superintendent to secure it. Then the landlord would not accept his out of State check. The local bank would not allow him to open an account unless he was a resident in the neighborhood. An extra day and cash did the trick.

John took up residence in his new apartment. Four white painted walls, smudged and scratched. The paint covered the telephone jack, the outlets, the switches, and encroached into the edges of the glass panes. The green carpeting had stains and patches. His electricity was not yet turned on. John unrolled his sleeping bag and read his paperback copy of Dostoyevski's The Idiot. When it was too dark to read, he took his violin from its case and played. The passing el, a block away, rattled his windows. "Just temporary," John sighed to himself.

Two years later he was still living in the same apartment. Three robberies in two years took his stereo equipment in stages. Gone was his Denon turntable with SME tone arm holding a handmade Signet cartridge. Gone were his beautiful panels of glowing aquamarine lights, the Macintosh tuner, preamp, and power amp. Gone, too, was his Nakamichi cassette deck and his Janis subwoofer. And worst of all, gone were his beloved Magneplanar speakers, each speaker a triptych of three black panels about five feet high and only an inch thick. Nor could he afford to replace any of his losses, as he was still paying for them. They had stolen his antique, solid oak, filing cabinet. It was a sentimental piece, a gift from his mother. It had once belonged to his maternal grandfather, who had been an accountant. It contained all his sheet music, a collection he had begun in elementary school. It also included all his financial papers, check book, warranties, and copies of tax forms from previous years. As ill luck would have it, the IRS sent him a letter, They were planning to audit him and all his pertinent papers were in the stolen cabinet.

John had never had much furniture. His studio was dominated by his queen size box springs and mattress which rested on the floor. There were two folding wood chairs and a folding card table that served for both desk and dining. After the second robbery, John took his violin to his parents' house for safe keeping. The music left to him were sixty-six plastic milk crates filed with LPs, but nothing remained on which to play them. During his two years in Queens he invested much of his earnings into experiencing the great orchestras, musicians, singers, and dancers in the hallowed concert halls of Manhattan.

John's paternal grandfather's dark gray fedora hung on the wall. It was all John had left of that giant. Mishko Szpakowski plowed behind a horse on the family's farm, and he played the violin beautifully. He followed his older brothers to Germany and then to America. They worked, but Mishko enlisted in the Army, later returning a hero of the first World War. John was told he most resembled his grandfather. He didn't inherit Mishko's great size and strength, but he did inherit his love of music. Mishko bought John his first violin and taught John how to play it, and how to read music. The music skipped a generation, never developing in John's father. Mishko died when John was fourteen. The gray fedora was still too big for his head thirteen years later. John wanted to believe it was a lucky charm, but for two years now it brought no luck.

At work John was called Lucky. The nickname Lucky was applied for two reasons. John frequently won at the Friday get-together for poker, but this was not luck. The poker-faced John understood probability and he was good at reading faces. The games often brought him the money he needed to get through the week. They also thought John was lucky in love. His handsome face, dirty blond hair, blue eyes, attracted women. His soft-spoken manner gave him charm, his reticence held the allure of mystery. His nickname was misapplied here, too. Celibate since Karen, the women he attracted would prefer discos to Donizetti. Beyond the acquaintances he made at his job, in two years he found no new friends in New York to add to those of New Jersey. The women he dated quickly moved on as soon as they determined that John was a bore. None stuck around long enough to discover his musical talents. Not given to talking about himself, regarding his life as totally uninteresting, John never admitted his particular thirst for adventure. He knew it would be just talk, knowing he feared failure too much to risk adventure. Still, at work they called him Lucky. He had been living in New York City for two years, coming to the end of his lease, the rent increase going beyond his reach, and he had a week to secure a new domicile.

John went about his business installing, servicing, and disconnecting telephones. It was a day in March that felt like Spring. It was a good day to have a job that had you out of doors part of the time. John carried five boxes of telephones tied together with string to the Washington Irving Apartments. It was a white brick high-rise with balconies beginning on the fourth floor. He checked his assignments and he had two in this same building, the last two he figured he would have time to do that Friday afternoon. A doorman stood guard. He was an elderly man with the bearing of a soldier. His lean body stood stiffly erect, chest out. His maroon uniform with gold trim was carefully pressed. His cap was worn perfectly level. As he held the outer glass door open, John saw the man's age in the whiteness of his crew cut, his sunken cheeks, and the missing teeth.

"Good afternoon, sir," the doorman greeted John.

"Good afternoon," John replied in kind. Politeness was automatic with him.

"Can I know the party you wish to see, sir?"

"The superintendent, please."

The doorman lifted the handset off the wall. On a panel of white buttons with names printed adjacent, he selected the single red one. "A man from the phone company here to see you, Mr. Henkel. Yes, sir." The doorman held the inner glass door and instructed John how to find the superintendent's apartment, which was on the ground floor. The lobby had white marble walls with mirrors, maroon carpeting, and four cream colored couches. Before each of them was placed a black and chrome coffee table holding various magazines. To one side, contained by a low stone wall, was a little garden containing a fountain. Mounted on the mirrored wall the carved face of a cherub protruded from a clam shell, his cheeks puffed and his lips pursed, the lips dribbling water into the pool. John didn't care for the decor, yet wished he could live in such a place, safe, clean, and expensive.

The superintendent opened the door even while John was reaching to the doorbell. The elderly Mr. Henkel was tall and lean, his face and hands seemed too large for his body. The shirt he wore was clean and starched, his slacks sharply pressed. The television was blurting out from somewhere behind him.

"Hello, you are Mr. —?" and he paused. Mr. Henkel spoke with a mild Teutonic accent.

"Just call me John."

"And you are from the phone company?"

John felt this was evident by the tool belt he wore and patted his butt set, like a gunslinger might his gun, to indicate his purpose. "That's right," he said.

"And you are here to disconnect the phone in 302?"

"Actually, I have two jobs in this building."

"Well, 302 is already vacated. Here is the key," and Mr. Henkel produced the key he had been holding in his hand all along. "It is on the third floor, yes? You take the elevator and turn right when you come out of the door. And you will please return the key to me, promptly, is that okay?"

"Yes, sir. No problem at all." John took the key and stepped back to signal he was ready to depart.

"And you will make sure the apartment is locked when you leave, okay?"

"No problem," John assured him. Mr. Henkel's large face cracked briefly into a wide smile. He stood and watched as John made his way back to the elevators, of which this rich building offered a pair, and he watched until the elevator opened and John stepped aboard.

It was a one bedroom apartment, fully carpeted and empty. Per his assignment sheet, there would be only one telephone and he only found one, in the living room, all alone on the carpet. He dropped it into a plastic bag and carried away the telephone. To appease Mr. Henkel, he promptly returned the key.

"And you checked to make sure the door was locked?"

"Yes, sir," responded John. "By the way, is that apartment available to rent?" he questioned, hoping beyond hope.

"Yes."

"How much are they asking?"

"Sixteen hundred."

It did not surprise John, and with his usual calm, he did not allow his disappointment to reach his face. It was four times what he could afford. Mr. Henkel's stern face once again broke into that unexpected large smile. It was sympathy. He regarded John as a fellow laborer who worked honestly with his hands. Such people could not afford to live in this building, unless they were the superintendent. Mrs. Henkel's voice came from behind her husband.

"Don't let the phone man leave," she said, turning the corner and coming into view with a tray loaded with cookies. She was a plump woman wearing a pristine white blouse and a patterned skirt that reached her knees. "Maybe the nice young man would like a cookie?" She shared her husband's accent. John took two cookies out of politeness, and having returned the key, thanked them, complimented her on the cookie he tasted, and went his way. Again, Mr. Henkel watched him until John reached the elevator. Mr. Henkel looked at him suspiciously.

"I'm installing telephones for a Mrs. Gasser on the sixteenth floor," John called down the hallway. The large face of Mr. Henkel exploded into a smile of acknowledgment. He withdrew his head and John heard his door close. John made his way to the sixteenth floor and to the apartment of Mrs. Philip Gasser.

First she peered at him through the peephole and screeched through the closed door, "Who is it?" John identified himself. The door opened a crack and a woman in her early twenties eyed him over the chain. "Well, it's about time. I've been waiting for you all day. This is really an inconvenience. I don't know why you people cannot show up on time."

"Yes, ma'am, I'm very sorry —" but Mrs. Gasser was not listening.

"I'm going out tonight," she said as she undid the chain and opened the door. The apartment smelled from the new carpet and fresh paint. "I have an appointment with my hairdresser before that, so you will please be quick about it." She turned her back and wandered into the kitchen, a very attractive woman, short, slender, with a bounty of brown hair, but her thick makeup made her face shine, and her perfume hung in her wake making John's eyes water. She hadn't paused, complaining and criticizing from the kitchen. "You have no idea how difficult it is for us. It took me three days just to unpack and arrange the furniture, and this apartment is so much bigger then the last, when am I going to get out to buy more furniture? I mean you can't expect me to just take the first thing I see; it's going to take weeks of searching." John noticed the glass shelves along one wall were nearly empty, waiting to be filled with objets d'art. Mrs. Gasser came out of the kitchen carrying a cup of coffee for herself, only. "Well?" she said.

"You've requested five telephones, Mrs. Gasser. Where would you like them installed?"

"Why in every room, of course. Are you crying?"

"No, it's just the fresh paint," John said diplomatically. "So, you will be wanting a telephone in the living room, the kitchen, and three bedrooms?"

"This apartment only has two bedrooms, and one of those my husband will be using for a study, but I also want a phone installed in the bathroom. How long do you think that will take you?"

"I'll start right now, ma'am."

"Good, you have no idea how hard it is to exist without a phone. My husband is a broker and he has to have a phone. He's been staying late at the office because we don't have a phone yet, and you were suppose to be here on Monday."

John had clipped the buzzer to the RJ-11 jack in the living room wall and flipped it on. "I have to go downstairs to the basement to check for continuity. I'll be right back."

"Great!" she voiced sharply, with blatant irony. "Well hurry up. I don't want to be stuck here all afternoon."

It was a routine job in John's unsatisfying life. The people he met added color to the experience, but not enough, or not the right kind. John just wanted to be finished with the work week and begin his weekend. In the basement he found the direct connect box and opened it. It shattered his routine. He would remember this moment as the first sprout of good luck in what had prior been a fallow life. In the bottom of the box was a small voice-operated cassette tape recorder. John closed the box and started off to find a telephone with which to call Bell Security. Only then did John become aware of the large figure, stock-still, watching from where he had just exited the elevator. The fellow wore a tweed sport jacket with patches on the elbow. It didn't look as if it would button over the man's barrel chest. He bore a bushy mustache that hide his upper lip, and it made him look like a teacher, but that he was sized like a football player. Never taking his eyes off John, he threw his shoulders back, which expanded his chest, and approached. John, by this time, was departing, but saw that this fellow was navigating a collision course. John tried to step to one side, but the big man stepped in front of him.

"Whoa," the big man said in a big voice. "You've seen something, haven't you, young fellow?" The man was grinning unnaturally, like a used car salesman. John remained tightlipped and expressionless, on his guard as to whatever might happen next. "It's okay, guy, I'm with the New York City Police," and the man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket pulling out his shield. "Lieutenant William Randal Carter. I'm with the vice squad, guy." He quickly returned his shield to its pocket. With that the Lieutenant presented his broad hand. John took the hand, but the officer's quick clasp caught John's hand awkwardly, preventing him from returning the firm grip. The officer clutched John's arm with his other hand, and was shaking it at a rhythm in which John had no choice.

"What you need to know, my young friend, is that what you saw is a matter of police business. It is of no concern of yours." The Lieutenant stared down at John with intimidating authority, but in John's apathetic face he saw no assurance of his influence.

"I'm sure you can show me a warrant, Lieutenant Carter," John said dryly. The Lieutenant's broad grin froze into place. A moment of indecision passed.

"Well, of course I can, guy, eh, what did you say your name was?"

"John Szpakowski."

"Well, John, of course I can, but I'm not carrying it on me. It's down at the precinct office. But certainly you're not going to make me go and get it, are ya?" he asked with an inflection to insure that John new it was a rhetorical question. But John was watching past the officer to a trim man in a gray suit stepping off the elevator. The Lieutenant also hear the elevator and followed John's attention to the man now approaching behind him. He turned and gave a suspicious gaze to the newcomer. The trim man called out,

"All right, Mark!" Another trim man in a similar suit came out of the boiler room door behind John. The Lieutenant's smile vanished and he stood erect. "FBI, please stay right where you are gentlemen."

"What the fuck is this?" said the Lieutenant. John said nothing.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm Special Agent, Mr. Harpin and this is my associate, Agent Baum," said the man from the elevator, while plainly presenting his ID.

"Hello," said the agent from the boiler room, as he came up from behind, also displaying his ID, and John and the Lieutenant found themselves surrounded.

"What's this all about?" the Lieutenant demanded.

"What is your interest in this young man's work?" Harpin asked, nodding at John. "You knew the recorder was there, didn't you?"

"What recorder?" the Lieutenant replied.

"What is your name?" Harpin asked John, suddenly ignoring the police officer.

"John Szpakowski."

"You work for the telephone company, right?"

"Yes, of course."

"Could you please show Agent Baum your identification?" John took out his ID and handed it to Baum.

"It's legit. He is what he says he is," said Baum.

"What was this officer —"

"Lieutenant William Carter of the —" the Lieutenant interjected.

"— was Lieutenant Carter discussing with you?" Harpin asked John.

"You don't have to answer that, John," said the Lieutenant.

"You're suddenly very concerned about the rights of citizens," snapped Harpin to the policeman. "Why don't we all go over and take a look at this thing."

"I'm not saying anything else without a lawyer," said the Lieutenant.

"This is not an arrest," returned Harpin. "I dare say you're in enough trouble without having to tell us anything."

They trooped to the box and Baum opened it up. There was the small machine wired to apartment 909 on the binding post. Baum produced a plastic bag and carefully removed the recorder from the box with his handkerchief, placing it in the bag.

"Did you touch the recorder?" Baum asked John.

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"I never touched it, I'm sure."

"What were you going to do about this?"

Without hesitating John replied, "I was going straight away to report it to our Security people."

"If you're finished with me, said the Lieutenant, "I'd like to be on my way."

"Don't be a jerk, Carter," Harpin told the Lieutenant. "We'd like to talk to you a bit. Let's go." They moved as a group to the elevators.

"I thought this wasn't an arrest," shot the Lieutenant.

"It doesn't have to be. Why don't you cooperate a bit?" suggested Harpin. "You have created quite a mess for us. Why don't we all just get some coffee."

"We want to keep this informal," added Baum. Then he turned to John. "I would like to ask you some questions." They stood off to one side while Agent Harpin pushed the button for the elevator's return. "How do you spell your name?" Agent Baum noted John's home and business addresses. "We may not need to involve you any further. If we need your assistance, we will be sure to call on you. You don't mind, do you sir?" asked Baum.

"Not at all," replied John. The elevator arrived. All four stepped in.

"So, he really ratted on us," mumbled the Lieutenant.

"Shut up, Carter."

"He's a bad cop," the Lieutenant mumbled on.

"You're giving yourself away, Carter," Agent Harpin warned.

"Also, we would certainly appreciate it if you would not mention to anyone anything about this incident," said Baum to John.

"I'm sorry, but I think I'm required to report this to our own security people," replied John. Agent Harpin turned his head to look at John. The Lieutenant leaned against the handrail and grinned to himself.

"Yes, well of course." Baum took a card from his pocket and handed it to John. "Whoever you talk to, please ask them to get in touch with me at this number. I will explain everything; meanwhile, I would like your word of honor that you will share this with no one else, except you security people."

"That's no problem," said John. The elevator arrived and the group climbed in. They rode in silence to the next floor. The door opened and they stepped into the lobby.

"You cannot appreciate the importance of this being kept secret from your pals and family. You might find this hard to believe, but it is in the interest of national security." Agent Baum sought a reaction from John's face, but found no indication there as to how John felt about the strange events into which he had become entangled.

"No problem, really. I'm not much of a talker. And if the FBI doesn't need me anymore, I suppose I should be getting back to my job."

"The Bureau will appreciate your silence, and I must also point out, if you jeopardize the secrecy of the apartment, it would be a violation of our Nation's laws." John still showed no noticeable reaction to Baum's advice. Baum let it go at that. The old doorman had been privy to part of their conversation. John arched his eyebrows and looked at the doorman from the corner of his eyes. Baum bid John a good day and stood before the doorman. Cocking his head towards John, he said, speaking loud enough for John to hear, "Now don't you worry about him, Mike, he's one of us." John thought it a roundabout way of letting Mike know that he was in on the secret of the apartment. The ambiguous remark held a different meaning for Mike.

John finished his chores in the basement, disconnecting the wires for the first apartment, checking for the sound of the buzzer on the wires for the second apartment, making the connections, then returning to Mrs. Philip Gasser. The woman was furious with him. "You've been a long time," she greeted him.

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Gasser, but there were some unexpected difficulties with the wiring."

"Well, how much longer do you think it will be?"

"Not too long." But Mrs. Gasser didn't have the patience. In the two bedrooms he installed Princess telephones. In the living room it was a Trimline telephone, and another Trimline on the kitchen wall. But the bathroom was the cause of an issue. The other rooms had all be provided with jacks, which John converted to modular jacks so that the customer could plug in or unplug their telephones with ease. But the bathroom had no telephone line in place. Mrs. Gasser did not want a wire running along her molding. She thought John would drill a hole in the wall an drop a wire into the basement. John told her it would be impossible, but convinced her to be satisfied with the alternative of a long cable on her bedroom telephone that would reach the bathroom. It was agreed upon, but John didn't have the cable with him. Mrs. Gasser needed to leave promptly for her hair appointment. Following a promise that he would return on Monday with the cable, Mrs. Gasser rushed him out her door while saying that it would be fine. Just as he found himself in the hallway she appended it.

"Just be sure to bring it after six that evening. I'll be home by then." With that she shut the door with a bang, before John could turn around and tell her that that was after the hours he was paid to work. As he rode the elevator down, he thought to himself how he could just leave the cable with the superintendent come Monday.

In the privacy of the elevator his thoughts continued on the events that had unfolded that afternoon around the tape recorder. His curiosity got the better of him. As the elevator's door opened on to the lobby, John reached forward, punched the button for the basement, and watched the door slide close again. He checked the basement. It was empty. He checked the boiler room. It was empty, too. He opened the box thinking no one would suspect that it wasn't his business to be there. He put his butt set into monitor, set it to ground, held the clip in his right hand and placed the fingers of his left hand to the tip and ring of the binding post marked 909. He was very lucky and caught a conversation. There was an irate voice.

"— was a good cop. I don't blame him. But what the fuck is going to happen to me now that they know I'm here."

"Don't worry, Mr. Brown," responded a quieter voice. "We're going to take care of you and your family. We have a safe house lined up —"

"This apartment was suppose to be safe," said the angry voice of Mr. Brown.

"We didn't anticipate the resourcefulness of your colleagues," said the quieter voice.

"They're professionals. They're capable of doing a damn good job and without the screw-ups so typical of your Bureau. And now you have to move me, again; what about my family?"

"All of you will be together after we move you on Monday."

"Where, how far from our friends you gonna take us? You think my wife —"

"Look, Mr. Brown, I really don't think it is safe to discuss this over the telephone." At which point John removed his fingers.

As he made his way out of the building, there was old Mike holding open the lobby door for him.

"I'll be back on Monday," John told him.

"Very good, sir, I look forward to seeing you," Mike returned.

That week the poker game was at John Kendall's apartment. It was a small, one bedroom painted in light blue. The walls were covered with glossy, black and white photographs of black musicians and singers from a previous generation. The wall that separated the kitchen from the living room had a window with a counter. On that counter a clock radio was tuned to a jazz station all the time. A thick wood table occupied the center of the living room. The card players encircled it. They were five in number. They were all technicians for New York Telephone. Kendall was dark skinned, thirty-five, handsome, and very muscular from continuous exercise in various martial arts. He sported a thin mustache. John Jorgensen they called Johann. He was very tall and blond. They never played cards at his house because his wife wouldn't permit it. Wilhelm Rantzenbacher, who they called wise Willie, was the oldest. Thirty-seven years with the company. His two kids were long ago grown and out of the house, and he had outlived his wife. Then there was Sarah Vernacchio, who, like John Kendall, was called by her given name. She was thirty-one, pudgy, had no chin, and had very long, very black hair. Of all the technicians, she was the most foul-mouthed, but a good worker and well liked for her many kindnesses. She was divorced and had a little girl she doted over. The games had often been at her apartment, until she moved into her sister's house in New Jersey.

The cards were arranged into and out of patterns, with the money sliding in and out of the pot like shells and seaweed on a tide. Smoking fogged the room. Only John, alias Lucky, and Johann didn't smoke. Bottles of Miller and Budweiser stood by everybody's elbows. The conversation was primarily regarding the company's approaching divestiture.

John's skill did not serve him. The right cards never reached his hands and the events of the afternoon were preventing him from concentrating on the game. He was forty dollars down and the big loser that evening. Johann, who sat at his right, was dealing the next hand.

"Hey, Willie," John said, "you know so much about so many things; do you know what a 'safe house' is?"

Willie took the cigarette from his lips and replied, "well, let's see, isn't that a place where they keep defectors?"

"It can be," Kendall chimed in, his words muffled by the cigar in the corner of his mouth.

"I bow to my associate," said Willie. "He would know far more about it. It's his field." The cigarettes went back between Willie's lips and he picked up the five cards that were face down before him.

"You know what a 'safe house' is?" John asked Kendall, who was sitting to his left at the table. Kendall unplugged his cigar and blew a large smoke ring at the ante.

"Shit, if it's about spies, John will know all about it," Sarah said of Kendall.

"Why didn't you know" said Johann, "Johnny knows everything there is to know about James Bond. You gonna look at those cards, Lucky?" John picked up his cards, two fives, an eight, a ten, and an ace.

"It's true," said Kendall proudly. "What do ya need to know?"

"We need to know if he's betting," Johann inserted.

"Pass," John replied, and then to Kendall, "so you know everything about James Bond."

"I loved spy stories—pass—and when I was in High School, I read and reread James Bond," Kendall continued.

"Dollar," Sarah announced and slid the bill into the pot.

Kendall went on speaking as Willie, then the rest, pushed an equal amount of money into the center of the table. "You want to know what kind of gun he used? It was a .25 Beretta, taped and with a sawn barrel, and a silencer, until Doctor No, when they made him trade it for the Walther PPK 7.65mm and a Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight .38 caliber revolver, hammerless. He also kept a .45 Colt in his Bentley."

"How many cards, Lucky?" Johann urged. John took three. He lifted them and saw a pair of kings and a third five. He added them to his hand of two previous fives and paid them no further attention.

"I'll take three," said Kendall. "Go on, ask me anything."

"I'll take two," Sarah told Johann. "What did he smoke?" she asked Kendall.

"Chesterfields," he snapped back, and then took a long rewarding tug at his cigar.

"Can we cut this crap and get on with the game?" barked Johann. "How many you want?" he directed at Willie. Willie showed him an ace and Johann dealt him four cards. "The dealer takes two," he announced, though no one seemed to be listening. They were listening to Sarah, who was telling about her deep passion for that dreamboat Sean Connery, and her disinterest in Roger Moore.

"Well, actually Bond looked more like Hoagy Carmichael," Kendall informed her.

"Who's that?" she replied.

"You gotta be old, like me, to remember him," said Willie.

Johann sat back, drinking his beer and waiting to see if anyone noticed that the game had stalled.

"Yep, Hoagy Carmichael with a three inch, white scar on his right cheek," continued Kendall.

"What did he drink?" asked Sarah as she reached for her bottle of beer.

"Jesus Christ!" burst Johann, "can we get on with this game?"

"Dollar," said John, and then asked Kendall, "High School's a long time ago, how can you still remember the details?"

"I'm out," announced Kendall and threw down his cards. He linked his fingers behind his head, elbows out, and cocked the chair back on two legs, bracing his right knee against the table to support this delicate balance. "I know because it's info I'll need for a book I'm writing."

"You are writing a book!" exclaimed Willie.

Kendall allowed the question to hang for a bit. He took the cigar from his mouth, leaned forward and stood up. "Yep," he answered. "I'm going to the fridge for more beer. Anyone?" Everyone answered in the affirmative.

"Game!" Johann called out.

"Is it my turn? Oh! Lucky bet a dollar, right? What the shit, I'll make it two." With that she pushed a five in and pulled out three singles.

"I'll make it three," said Willie, and began humming Georgia On My Mind while the radio aired an advertisement. John regarded his opponents. Sarah only took two cards. Maybe she held three of a kind. Willie took four, but John thought he might be bluffing, especially since he was humming.

"I'm out," said Johann bitterly.

"You schmuck," laughed Sarah. "You're making all the noise that you wanna play and then you wimp out." Kendall returned to the table carrying five beers in a carton for six and distributed them.

"Tell us about your book, John?" Willie asked Kendall. "Is it a sequel?"

"In a way," Kendall answered. "There's someone else, a jerk, writing sequels and I don't think he knows what he's doing. In my book, Bond's an old man, dying of cancer; time to pass on the mantle to his son."

"You gonna give him a son?" asked Willie.

"Don't hafta, he's already got one," said Kendall.

"What!" exclaimed Sarah, as if Bond had been unfaithful to her.

"Can you guys finish this hand so I can play," said Johann.

"Sarah, you can put those three dollars back, I'm making it five," said John and he pushed a five dollar bill into the pile.

Sarah looked at the three singles still pinned to the table by her hand. She regarded her cards and John's face. "Fuck you, Lucky, you better not be bluffing. I'm out." Then she turned to Kendall. "I don't remember him having a son."

"You didn't read the books. He lives awhile on a small island off the coast of Japan with a pearl diver names Kissy Suzuki. That was in You Only Live Twice. She is having his son, only he doesn't know it."

"A mixed breed, just like you, eh John?" Johann commented.

"That's right, only James junior is half Japanese. He grows up learning all the martial arts." At this Kendall made a few karate stabs at the air, demonstrating how he would be able to bring his expertise to the story writing.

"Well, if it doesn't sell here," said Willie, "it will certainly go over big with the Japanese. They adore Bond." Then Willie looked over at the other John. "Well, Lucky, it's just you and me." John didn't say anything. Damn, I've seen you smile, even laugh, but at cards your face never tells me a damn thing." He stared harder into John's face. "It's not like when you're playing my daughter's piano. That face goes into such ecstasies, then. Well, I think your bluffing. I'm raising you five dollars."

John measured Willie. Willie was talking too much. Willie was not bluffing, he lacked all the usual signs of concealed nervousness. When Willie wasn't secure with the hand he held, he would suck longer and deeper from his cigarette. Maybe Willie found those two other aces to join the first. Five dollars was nearly all that John had left in front of him. "I call," John said, and pushed out three singles and two dollars worth of quarters. Willie was taking his time, lighting a new cigarette on the stub of his old. First he threw down the ace, the he stretched out four sixes.

"Good damn!" announced Sarah.

"Holy shit," said Johann, "I've never seen that before."

"How can I gamble against such luck as that," John said, realizing Willie had suckered him into staying in and had never really thought John was bluffing. "Well, that cleans me out for the night, guys."

"Your credit's good here," Kendall assured him.

"Can't spare it. Ought to be on my way, anyway. Tomorrow I have to find a new apartment. Sarah, can you lend me a twenty until next week?" And she did. Willie was now shuffling the deck. John stayed to watch one more hand and finish his fresh beer. "You never answered my question, John," he said to Kendall.

"What was that?" Kendall asked.

"What's a safe house?"

"Oh, right. That's just a private residence maintained by the CIA for whatever purpose."

"What about apartments?"

"Oh sure, plenty. They've probably got apartments in most major cities throughout the world. They're places where an agent can hold up and rest for any reason."

"Do the FBI have them, too?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. They might, I think sometimes they might ask the CIA for the use of one, professional courtesy, you might say. The CIA's got more money and can get away with spending it without it showing up accounted for on one budget or another."

John watched the new hand get played, trying to anticipate each player's move. The conversation turned to Reaganomics.

It was after midnight when John reached home a bit dizzy from the beer. As he walked the hall to his door, it was always with the uneasiness of discovering he might have been robbed again. It was soon apparent he had been. Where the doorknob and the cylinder to the bolt should have been were now two gaping holes. "Shit," he intoned, and allowed his face to contort, since he was alone. How could the neighbors not have heard the noise of the break-in. The door pushed open. He switched on the lights and it was immediately apparent what was missing. There was not a single carton of records left. They had also taken the television John Kendall had loaned him. The drawers of his chest were on the floor, the contents spewed about. Then he noticed his grandfather's fedora missing from the nail in the wall. He went into the kitchen, no bigger than a closet, and called the police. After that, he slumped to the floor against the wall and cursed relentlessly.

In the forty-five minutes he had to wait for the police he became restless. He lifted himself from the floor and utilized the time to search the apartment for what else was missing, and there in the dry bathtub he found the fedora. It was partially crushed and had the markings of dirty fingers still on it. The thief, or one of the thieves, took the time to try the hat on and study himself in the bathroom mirror, thought John. The thief must have been disappointed with its appearance. Maybe the hat was too big. The thief had casually discarded the fedora to one side, which was the bathtub.

The two uniformed policemen saw the door with its holes. They knocked.

"Come in, it's not locked," came the voice from the other side. They opened the door and observed John sitting in a dark room. John had switched off all but one light, leaving on only the small light over the stove that gave the kitchen a dull glow. He had his legs propped on the sill that ran the length of three windows, these being the only windows in his apartment. They were opened to the cool Spring night and the sound of traffic in the street not far below. John's chair was tilted back on two legs. The policemen were uneasy about the darkness. One of them, pear shaped, immediately brought his flashlight to the scene, quickly finding the light switch, which he flipped.

"Are you all right, sir?" the pear shaped cop asked.

"Welcome to my humble abode. I've only one other seat. You'll have to take turns."

"Hey buddy," said the shorter cop of slight build. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm all right," John admitted. "They weren't here when I arrived." He answered their questions, they made out their report. He asked them, weren't they going to take fingerprints, while studying the smudges on the fedora in his lap; but he knew they wouldn't bother. It was a rhetorical question, one John asked at all the previous post-robbery police interviews, so now it had become ceremonial. And they performed the same ritual and chants as had the other officers before them. This was just a small time robbery and no one was hurt; meanwhile, they were out their risking their lives to hunt down murderers.

"Are you sure you're okay, now?" the pear shaped one asked for the last time. The el was approaching and John calmly waited for it to come to a halt in the station so that he could be heard.

"Yeah, this is old hat for me," John calmly said while studying his grandfather's fedora. He got up and walked them to the door. "Hey, where am I going to sleep tonight?"

The smaller officer asked, "what's wrong with here?"

"There's no lock on the door."

"Oh, don't worry. They won't come back tonight. You can just slide that dresser across the door if you're worried."

"Thanks for that reassurance, officer," said John. The short cop glared at him, not caring for this twerp's sarcasm. His annoyance was immediately cooled by the absence of any malice in John's face. They didn't know how to take this citizen. After they left, John switched off the light. He watched them from his window as they climbed into their patrol car and drove off. He didn't sleep much that night, and he didn't bother to move the dresser across the door.

In the morning he called John Kendall and told of the loss of the television set.

"Don't worry about it," Kendall told John. "It's not important. This is like the third or fourth time you've been robbed, isn't it, Lucky?"

"Fourth."

"Look, meet me in the city. Let's talk," Kendall suggested.

"I'm okay. It's not necessary," John replied.

"I'm not saying it's necessary, man. We're friends, right?" Kendall waited for an answer. When it didn't come, he reiterated more forcefully.

"Yes, were friends," John acknowledged.

"Well, Lucky, today's your lucky day. There's a special on for certain friends of John Kendall and you're the lucky first caller. You win a free dinner at my apartment, home cooked, okay?"

"Okay," said John, "but you have to let me buy the wine."

"Fuck that. I was there last night when you had to borrow twenty from Sarah. I'll buy the wine, that's the bonus you get for being my friend. You don't have to do anything but relax."

"Okay," John acquiesced.

"One last thing, John," Kendall said. "I've got a heavy date tonight, so dinner will have to be early."

"Oh, but if you have a date —" But Kendall cut him off and insisted. They arranged to meet at the Central Park Zoo. Kendall worked out at a gym on Saturday mornings, then lapped the reservoir once or twice.

When they met, Kendall was wiping off a sweat. He found John, as planned, watching the seals. Kendall was warm in his sweat shirt, while John wore a sweater beneath a nylon jacket. It was a cold morning and every once and a while the sky drizzled.

"Hey, Lucky."

"Hello John," John returned.

"Well, let's go," said Kendall.

"How are we getting to your apartment?" asked John.

"Walk."

"Walking? You're kidding? We're not walking all the way down to Chelsea?"

"Yep. It'll give us a chance to talk." With that Kendall began a brisk pace that John found a little difficult to manage. "Well, did the seals cheer you up?"

"A bit, but the other cages upset me," said John. "Those poor animals are going crazy. The polar bear paces and rubs the bars, always in the same place, and now he's got these large scars. The poor apes, so near their arch enemies, those large cats. Those poor creatures, I felt sorry for them. You know, the thieves who robbed me, who will get away with this, they're the ones who belong in those cages. The trouble is they are protected by anonymity. If they could be put in those cages, their crimes posted like the names of a species, then people could gawk at them and vent themselves by throwing rotten tomatoes, or something. Maybe then they'd feel the disgust and loathing of society."

"I know what it's like," said Kendall. "I've been through it. It's not the money. It's the invasion to your privacy."

"It's more than that, it's a violation of ones person. And to be separated from things of great sentimental value," John added, "things that will have little or no meaning to them.... It irks me that they will be happy and I, who have done nothing wrong, shall suffer. Damn it, John, I don't deserve this suffering, do I?"

"Of course not, John," Kendall replied.

"They say crime doesn't pay," John continued, "but it sure as hell pays better than being the victim. Last night, I wanted them dead."

"The thieves?"

"Yes. Mere thieves and I prayed they should meet with slow deaths. They've left me nothing. I feel empty. I feel it's not worth the bother going on' they'll only take from me again."

"Yeah, that's exactly how I felt," Kendall said.

They stopped at a liquor store in route to Kendall's apartment and bought a bottle of Chianti. The smell of cooking leaked through the door into the hall, even greeting them as they stepped off the elevator. John was perplexed by the smell emitting from an apartment he expected to be deserted. They went in and John found it occupied by a beautiful, dark skinned woman wearing an apron and obviously expecting them.

"Shelby, let me introduce you to my friend from work; this is John Szpakowski, also known as Lucky. John, this is my heartthrob, Shelby Hamilton."

"I've heard a lot about you, John. I'm glad to be meeting you at last," she spoke warmly and extended her hand.

John took her hand and shook it. "Call me Lucky, it will be less confusing. I must confess, John has never once talked of you."

"Well, uh, no, I never mention her." Kendall smiled shyly. "Look, why don't the two of you get acquainted. I need to shower. I'm eager to kiss you, honey, but not like this."

Shelby invited John to keep her company in the kitchen while she cooked their dinner, linguini in a red clam sauce. "I hope you like garlic," she said.

After a short shower, Kendall came out wearing a blue terry cloth robe. He took Shelby in his arms and gave her a long hug and kiss. John took notice of how light Kendall's skin appeared in contrast to Shelby's. Kendall then switched on the clock radio, that immediately produced jazz, and the three of them sat down at a carefully set table, the table that served for the card game the night before. This was the first time John had visited Kendall's apartment during the day. He was more keenly aware of the blue walls and photographs. He had always recognized a few of them, particularly Louis Armstrong and Marian Anderson. To make polite conversation, he asked Kendall about one photograph that was not hanging, but was standing on the glass end table by the couch.

"That's Mississippi John Hurt," he answered. John didn't know who this was.

"Why do you have all these photographs?" John asked.

"They were my father's; he was a photographer."

"It seems like he only photographed blacks," John noted.

"Yep, that's about right." John explained further, "he adored black musicians and devoted himself to photographic studies of them."

"No whites, huh?" John remarked.

"My dad thought the white had plenty of good photographers to document them. But there is one white guy in this collection. He's hanging in my bedroom. He was the exception for my father, the jazz pianist Bill Evans. You're welcome to go look." John declined. "Aside from that, there were other themes and family pictures. My sister had all of those." And in the course of the conversation, John learned that Kendall's father was the white parent, and that his father met his mother through the photography. She was a torch singer in a black night club.

"I understand you're a musician," Shelby said to John.

"Damn good one, too," Kendall added. "When we play cards at old, wise Willie's place, John sometimes bangs away at Willie's upright."

"It's a spinet," John corrected, and then changed the subject to Shelby, because he was too embarrassed to hear talk about himself.

Shelby taught grade school English in Harlem. She was the product of a fine, middle-class family of Philadelphia, a graduate of Rosemont College, and doing her graduate work in English literature nights and during the Summer months at New York University. For her, teaching was an act of devotion stemming from a strong social conscience. She had the bearing and refinement of a gracious woman of society.

"It is Shelby who convinced me to write my book," said Kendall. "She's a hell of an editor, too."

"What about you, Lucky?" Shelby asked. "How come you're working for the phone company and not pursuing a career as a musician?"

"I'm not good enough," John said.

"We can, by choice, survive in a life long drudgery of laboring at that which gives us no pleasure," she said. "Is that what you're doing, Lucky?" It was a rhetorical question, she didn't wait for his answer. "But living, John Szpakowski, that means taking risks. Life is an adventure. There are lots of failures in our lives, but they don't count. It is the adventure that fills the passing moment that counts."

John explained how the adventure would begin for him on Thursday, when he would have to be out of his apartment. He asked Kendall how would James Bond handle it?

"Well, Bond always threw himself into the thick of the trouble," Kendall informed him, "and then would rely on his resourcefulness to get himself out of trouble."

"You see, he was willing to take chances," Shelby added.

"Look, Lucky, if it will make it any easier for you, you can stay here, if you don't mind sleeping on the couch. Most nights I'm at Shelby's place, anyway, so you'll have the apartment to yourself."

Much of Sunday, John sat in his near empty apartment, which still had not had the locks replaced, and considered his growing misfortune. He was nagged by the thought that criminals were happier than their victims. Then he considered his new friendship with John Kendall and his girlfriend, Shelby Hamilton. They were the first real friends he felt were in the making since he arrived in New York nearly two years before. He regretted that the afternoon had ended so soon, when his new friends departed for their planned date, the theater. The cloudiness of the day before and that morning began to dissolve, and though it was suddenly colder, John went strolling through the Jackson Heights community to consider the future. He ruminated on Shelby's advice that living was an adventure filled with risks and requiring a toleration for failures.

Late Sunday night, Kendall finally was at home to answer his telephone.

"John," said John, "would you mind putting me up for four nights beginning tomorrow?"

"Sure, no problem, Lucky, but where are you going after the four nights. Like I said before, you can just stay here outright for a while."

"I think I'll just move back into my parents' house for a while." This is what John told Kendall, although he harbored secret other plans, plans he wasn't sure he would live up to.

"That's really not necessary. You're welcome to stay at my place longer than four days." John wasn't interested in staying longer at Kendall's. John treasured his privacy and prided himself on his independence. Still, just in case, he had established these arrangements with Kendall and his parents. He knew it could be a long time before he raised the money, or had his escrow returned to use as a deposit on a new place.

Monday morning, John packed his two suitcases with as much of his clothes as they would hold and carried them, one in each hand, the crushed fedora under his arm, into work with him. He had decided never to return to that apartment. At work Kendall gave John the spare key and told him he could probably have the apartment to himself that night. Kendall had a date with Shelby.

During lunch, John visited a hatter on a side street a few blocks below the main branch of the New York City Free Library. He had been told it was the only place that cleaned and blocked hats. As it turned out, even this place sent the hats to somewhere in Texas to be worked, and that it cost thirty-five dollars. Still, John agreed to it.

John hung his suit in the bathroom, hoping that some of the wrinkles would come out while he was showering. After he had showered and dried, he put on a white shirt and picked out a tie from Kendall's more elaborate selection. He took from his suitcase a shoe box. Inside were his precious pair of Florsheim wingtips, black. These he kept in immaculate condition for his rare nights out. They felt heavy and hard compared with his usual sneakers. He grabbed the twenty-five foot cord for Mrs. Philip Gasser and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

John watched the Washington Irving Apartments entrance from across the street and down the block. "This is crazy," he said to himself. "Come on Szpakowski," he ordered himself, "you've nothing to lose and you're tired of being the sucker, the victim. Just make believe you're James Bond." He commanded all his skills of bluffing into place, burying his anxiety deep inside, where it couldn't signal his skin.

As he approached the front door to the Washington Irving Apartments, there was old Mike holding it open. "Good afternoon, sir," Mike said.

"Good afternoon, Mike," John responded. "Do you remember me?"

"Why yes, sir, I do," said Mike. John saw in his face that this was true.

"I'm going to be staying here a while, Mike."

"It will be nice to have you, sir," was Mike's response. It was as easy as all that, John thought to himself. Mike now went over to hold the inner door for John. "What room, sir?"

"909" John said without pause, but worried that the question was even asked.

Mike lifted both eyebrows, than quickly regained his composure. "Of course, sir. What color will you be?" asked Mike with a grin. What did this mean, worried John. He had not expected such a question. He studied Mike's ashy face, the clear eyes, the wrinkles in his cheeks. He felt there was nothing malicious in the old man's expression.

"Blue," John answered. Very blue, he thought. It was the first color to come to mind.

"Very good, Mr. Blue. I hope your stay is pleasant."

John was now inside the Washington Irving Apartments, not as a telephone repair man, but as one of the building's residents. At least Mike was willing to believe that John was just another agent, either of the FBI, or the CIA. So far it had appeared remarkably simple, but how was he going to get into apartment 909, especially if there was no one to open the door for him.

"Who is it," screeched the familiar voice behind the door.

"The telephone man," replied John. He knew she was studying him through the peephole. In his suit he didn't look like a telephone man. He didn't have his tool belt. Still, Mrs. Philip Gasser opened the door a crack, the chain firmly in place.

"I don't remember you; are you the same guy as before?" she asked, frowning. Her perfume and make-up came wafting into the hall.

"Yes ma'am, I'm the same fellow who installed your telephones on Friday." John went on to say, before Mrs. Philip Gasser could get rolling, "there's no need for me to come in, you can plug this in yourself." He handed her the coiled cable through the crack of the door, said good afternoon, and quickly left before Mrs. Philip Gasser could find a reason to harangue him. There wasn't a thank-you. He hadn't expected one.

He stood before the door to number 909. It offered no clues as to what might be concealed behind it. He considered three options; to try the doorknob and see if it was unlocked, to knock, or to try and bluff the superintendent into believing he was an agent needing to use the safe apartment. Why would the door be unlocked? How much did the superintendent know about the way this apartment was being used? How did legitimate agents acquire the keys? What would James Bond do in a situation like this? Bond would knock, if no one answered, then he would try the knob. John knocked. He heard someone speak beyond the door, but he couldn't make it out. Then the door was opened, still on its chain. A tall man with black hair and dark eyes looked him over.

"It's about time," the man said. John didn't know what to respond. The man appeared to be expecting someone. John quickly decided, if he was to live his bluff, he had to believe he had as much right to be there as this man, and to act the part. John studied this man from head to foot in the same way that this man was studying him. Then the man said, "you're not the FBI, are you?"

"No, why, should I be?" John answered.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"Mr. Blue," John replied without hesitation.

"Oh, another one of them. I don't expect you carry some kind of ID that says Mr. Blue on it?" He closed the door. John heard the chain being removed and the door swung open. John could now see that this man had been holding a small, silver revolver which he was returning to a holster on his narrow belt. John had felt the twinge of disaster at his core when he saw the gun, but the feeling was deep and blocked from registering on his face. Bond would not be afraid of the gun and John decided on a more assertive tactic to cement his authority to be there.

"And who are you," he asked the man, coldly.

"Me? I'm called Mr. Brown, here." It was the man he heard when he had briefly tapped the binding post on Friday, the man who was suppose to have left that day for Washington DC. Then John saw another man beyond Mr. Brown. This other man had just entered the living room. "And this is Mr. White, one of your brotherhood," said Mr. Brown, with blatant indifference. The other man appeared nearly as young as John. He was slender and nondescript.

"I'm going to be staying here a bit. Is there a place where I can sleep?" Mr. Brown ignored him and walked into the kitchen.

"Sure, no problem," Mr. White assured him. "Here, let me give you a tour of the place." The apartment was fully furnished. It had four bedrooms, a small color television in each; three bathrooms, one in the master bedroom and two in the hall, a large linen and utility closet between them; a living room, a dining room, and a large kitchen with an alcove that was being used as a dinette. Both the living room and the dining room had glass panels that opened on to balconies. The entire place was furnished much like a modern hotel of quality. The walls were cream, except the bedrooms, each finished in a different pastel, and the wall to wall carpeting that extended to every room, including the bathrooms, was a burnt red. Art work and mirrors hung on the walls. In the dining room was a long mahogany table. In the alcove he saw an interrupted game of poker on the small, round Formica table. Mr. Brown was sitting there waiting for his game with Mr. White to recommence, but Mr. White was taking his time showing John around.

"You can help yourself to anything in the refrigerator," Mr. White told John. "If there is something you would like to see there that isn't provided, just put it on the list." He pointed to a list on a small, cork bulletin board by the kitchen's wall phone. It was the only telephone in that big apartment. "There's a maid who comes in every Tuesday and Thursday. She'll take any dirty laundry you might want cleaned and brings it back the next time she comes. You don't seem to have any suitcases."

"I'll retrieve it later," said John.

"Well, if you can't wait, there are the small washer and dryer in the utility closet, but they're noisy. Don't use them if someone is sleeping. Mr. Brown here is using the master bedroom; I'm using the first one down the hall. There's no one else here, so you have your choice of the remaining two."

"Thanks," John said.

"You want to join in a game?" questioned Mr. Brown from the alcove. He was sounding friendlier. "Look, I'm sorry if I sounded a little harsh, earlier. I was expecting someone else. So would you like a seat?"

John smiled and said, "another time, maybe, but I'm tired and would like to settle in." John took the second room down the hall, which left the third bedroom empty, the last one being the master.

The room John selected was pastel green and furnished with a full bed, a cedar chest at the foot of the bed, a seven drawer dresser with a mirror behind it, a tall eight drawer chest on legs, a night stand, a desk with chair, and bookshelves, all of the same dark stained cherry veneer. There was a green velvet club chair with matching ottoman, beside it an end table with a brass lamp. Every drawer was empty. On the shelves was a television and a few Reader's Digest anthologies. John spread himself backwards across the bed. It was very soft. Being too happy to think, read, or watch television, he immediately fell into a half sleep.

It wasn't long before he was wakened by newcomers. He opened the door to his room slightly and listened. It was two FBI agents who had just arrived, the ones Mr. Brown had been expecting, who would be coming to take Mr. Brown away to a safe house near Washington DC. If they were agents Harpin and Baum, then John would be doomed if they discovered him. Mr. Brown was giving them the harsh treatment with which he had earlier greeted John. Then Mr. Brown came stomping down the hallway, heading to the master bedroom to collect his suitcase. Not to be seen, John backed away from the door, then returned to the slight opening. It hadn't sounded like Harpin or Baum. He caught a glimpse of them and they were not the same two agents. He stepped from his room to watch the activity more closely, to give a show of confidence in his right to be there.

Mr. White was standing in the living room smoking a cigarette. The agents offered him a few polite remarks, but Mr. White made it obvious he cared little for their conversation. It seemed to John that the police, the FBI, and the CIA, for he supposed Mr. White to be the CIA, were not on the friendliest terms. When they saw John, they said hello. He returned their hello, but then easily mimicked Mr. White's reticence. Mr. Brown returned with his suitcase, was now wearing a jacket that concealed the holster on his belt. They were all going out the door when John stopped them.

"Hey, wait a moment," he said. The departing three stopped and turned to him. "What about the key?" John left no doubt in his voice as to his authority. He extended his hand for it.

"Oh, right, the key," Mr. Brown said, and reached into his pocket and tossed John the key. "They give you a key and then they tell you not to leave the premises, so what's the point?" It was too easy, thought John. The three men left.

Later that night, John stepped out for a brief spell, meeting the evening doorman, who had already learnt from Mike that there was a new resident named Mr. Blue. John collected his two suitcases from Kendall's apartment, leaving a note to say he was staying elsewhere, but not saying where. He stopped at a bank machine and withdrew fifty dollars, which was more than half of what was left in his savings account, and more than twice what remained in his checking. That night he played poker with Mr. White, winning twelve dollars, when they both agreed they had to be up early.

Two weeks later, John was still living in apartment 909. He knew it couldn't last, but he would try to make it last until he had money in the bank. He used his parents' home in Teaneck as his mailing address. He told no one where he lived. His parents assumed he was living with a girlfriend.

A month later and he was still living in apartment 909. It was too comfortable and he was unwilling to forfeit its luxury. He had no monthly utility bills, never had to shop for groceries, never had to lose time cleaning or doing laundry. In the mornings, three newspapers were left at the door; the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Christian Science Monitor. These he read over a leisurely breakfast. The only nuisance in the whole affair was the steps he had to take to not look like a New York Telephone technician and to avoid meeting with the superintendent, or Mrs. Philip Gasser. He came to work in his suit. His comrades thought he was bucking for a promotion. For a while he left his tool belt and a change of clothes in an equipment locker, but, eventually, he purchased a dark brown briefcase in which he could carry everything in concealment. He had also purchased three new suits and a week's supply of new shirts.

One night, he took Kendall and Shelby to dinner at a small Italian restaurant and ordered Taittinger champagne. He had a library copy of Casino Royale and quoted Bond from page sixty-one: "That is not a well-known brand, but is probably the finest champagne in the world." It was the first time John had ever sampled a real champagne, as opposed to a New York State sparkling wine. At the conclusion of the meal, he gave Kendall the money for the borrowed television that had been stolen.

Six month later and John was still in residence at apartment 909. Mr. White had remained there not much longer than a month. Others came and went, such as a Mr. Green, who stayed two weeks in May. There was another Mr. Brown, who spent but a single night in June. In August there was one week when John shared the apartment with a Mr. Gray and a Mr. Black. It was a week of money-making card games for John. John had been home when Mr. Black first arrived, and John had given Mr. Black the tour of the apartment, just as Mr. White had done for him. Still, for much of the time, even for a month at a time, John found himself the solitary occupant of 909, able to stretch out on one of the two living room sofas and listen to the classical music station on the radio.

On the second to last day of September, John's privacy was again disrupted by a new roommate, a Mr. Anthony Fargione. He was brought there by two FBI agents that John had never seen before. The agents instructed Mr. Fargione not to leave the apartment under any circumstances. Then they took John aside.

"They told us this place would be empty," said the senior agent.

"Lousy bureaucratic record keeping," suggested John, and then added, "I'm in town unexpectedly. It's a big apartment, I'm sure we can keep out of each others way."

"I suppose we don't have to impress you with the importance of Mr. Fargione's presence here being kept a secret," said the older agent. The younger agent never said a word.

"We keep secrets as good as you," said John, with restrained annoyance. The agents were satisfied and John turned his back on them, with well acted scorn, and took to his room.

Mr. Fargione was not like the other quests who came to sojourn at 909. Mr. Fargione was in his fifties. There were streaks of gray at his temples, his hair carefully combed straight back from his forehead, every hair in place as if to form a helmet. Mr. Fargione was a fat man who dressed very carefully in tailored Italian suits. He was loud and demanding when he spoke to the agents guarding him. At all times there was an FBI agent in the apartment to guard Mr. Fargione. The agents changed every twelve hours, or so, four different agents in all. They never used the bedrooms, but stayed awake the night in the living room. Even though Mr. Fargione had immediately usurped the master bedroom, without hesitation, the apartment wasn't good enough for him, and he made a point of letting everyone know. The other quests had been younger men, slender men, nondescript men who never talked about themselves. Since the first Mr. Brown had departed, none of them bothered to use the master bedroom. Mr. Fargione wore a large ring on each hand and a watch that was encrusted with diamonds. He smoked Dunhill cigarettes. Mr. Fargione loved to talk about himself, bragging of his criminal adventures. Mr. Anthony Fargione insisted that John should call him Tony. John, with an apology, asked Tony to continue calling him Mr. Blue, but Tony surmounted the formality by just calling him Blue. Tony played poker better then John did, and John suspected that Tony cheated. Sometimes the agent on guard would play with them.

Despite John's initial repugnance of Tony, they soon became friendly, They shared an interest in the opera. Tony began to routinely make dinner for the both of them. Because Tony was not allowed to leave the apartment, he depended on John to buy fresh meats and vegetables, hating the supermarket stuff that was being delivered. John began putting on weight. Sometimes the agent on guard would eat with them.

There were rare occasions when the FBI guard would leave Mr. Fargione for brief periods to socialize with the other guards, who John observed were posted across the street. At such times Tony would ask for privacy so that he could make personal phone calls. John was always glad to oblige.

While Tony revealed much about himself, he found it hard to get his roommate to talk. "You guys are pretty damn tight-lipped," he complained. Tony had at first thought Mr. Blue was another FBI agent there to protect him and was surprised to learn Mr. Blue didn't carry a gun.

There was a night when John couldn't sleep. He kept the company of Mario Corelli, the night guard, whose uniform was a gray suit, white shirt, and a straight tie with subtle colors. While Tony slept in the room at the far end of the hall, they talked about the heinous Mafia boss. "This guy is nothing less than a murderer," Mario complained in a low voice. "Maybe he never killed someone, himself, but he arranged for it. Now he gets off scot-free. And what a nuisance to keep this guy alive—even at the risk of our own lives? I mean, this guy can't even be bothered to remember to chain the door, and New York isn't a safe place, thanks to goons like him." Anthony Fargione, an important figure in the Chicago Mafia, was going into a safe retirement in the Federal Witness Protection Program.

His debts paid and money in the bank, John was considering vacating 909 with more seriousness than before. He was worrying that he had pushed his luck too far and that it might not hold. He didn't know how long Tony would be staying, and felt the proximity to this dangerous man to be uncomfortable. John thought about greedy men like Tony, such men as them caused him to lose his precious Magneplanars. And now the law would protect Tony, the same law that would surely prosecute and punish John, if he was found out.

John felt especially unsafe at those times when he was left alone with Tony. This was one of those occasions, Mario stepped out for a few minutes. Tony wanted to make a private phone call, again, so John went to his room and locked the door. This time Tony was angry. John couldn't help but hear some of what Tony was yelling into the telephone. Tony did not want to go into hiding without the luxury to which he had grown accustomed, and someone on the other end of that line didn't seem willing to help. John wanted to know what was going on. He wasn't quite sure what Bond would do, but John knew what a telephone man could do. His room didn't have a telephone, but John had his butt set in the briefcase, and the room was prewired.

"— know how she found out? She found out. You think they keep secrets in Vegas?" whined a voice on the far end of the line.

"How do you know she found out?" said Tony.

"She told me. She called me; in fact, she was the call before yours."

"Well, do you think she'll go to the apartment." Tony spoke excitedly, with evident worry.

"Tony, the dame might be gorgeous, but she sure ain't dumb. Of course she'll want to go back to the apartment."

"Shit!"

"And I says to her how dangerous it is, what with everybody lookin' for you, but she still wants to come."

"Shit!"

"She would've caught the first plane if I didn't scare her that they'd kill her just trying to find you."

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

"Hey, Tony, relax, will ya. She's not coming right away."

"Yeah, and what the fuck am I suppose to do? She's not dumb, right? She'll figure it out and send someone for it."

The conversation paused. Then it was the other voice that started again.

"There ain't no one you can trust, Tony. If I had the key, maybe I could go for you. You could mail me the damn key."

"Yeah, but how will you get the money to me. I gotta beat Wendy to that apartment. Look, I'll figure something out tonight and call you back tomorrow, maybe. Don't go too far from the telephone."

"I can't sit by the phone indefinitely," the other voice complained.

"You owe it to me, Sal."

"But Tony —"

"Don't worry, Sal, I'll make this worth your while," and Tony hung up. John removed his clips.

There was no television in the living room. After Mario returned from his visit with his comrades across the street, he went into one of the spare rooms to watch the World Series. John and Tony sat in the alcove drinking whiskeys and playing cards. Tony did most of the talking. John found the games going his way and knew that Tony was distracted.

"I don't trust these G-men," Tony said. "They don't drink on duty, they don't talk, they're all business. Not like you guys."

"Us guys?"

"Yeah, you know what I mean; CIA."

"Tony, I keep telling you —"

"I know, I know; you're not CIA, you're in the import-export business. You ought to quit the crap with me, Blue. The point is I like you guys. You're regular, can act human. I feel like I can do business with you, talk to you."

The guy's an informant, thought John, he feels like he can talk to anyone.

"How much does a guy in your line of work earn, anyway?" Tony continued. "What do you make a year, Blue; forty, sixty, maybe eighty thousand a year?"

"I do all right."

"Look, Blue," and Tony leaned across the table, "I know you guys get paid dirt. Pity, too. An honest guy like you could earn a bundle overnight for a little, completely legal, leg work."

John could guess at what was coming. "What are you leading up to, Tony?"

"We're friends, aren't we, Blue."

"Friends? For a moment I thought you were going to talk business."

"You're a smart cookie, aren't you?"

"Get to the point, or play your hand."

Tony threw his cards down. "Fold," he announced. "You can keep the pot. Look, Blue, can I interest you in a little subcontract work; I mean, it wouldn't be a break from your professional ethics, would it? Hell, you CIA guys —"

"I'm not —"

"I mean you import-export guys, you don't always work on the up and up, anyway."

"Don't insult me, Tony," said John, pulling in his winnings.

"I'm not insulting you, and I'm not asking you to do anything that isn't within the law, kinda; but, I'm telling you, you do me this little favor and you'll earn two years' wages."

"Let me guess," said John, as he began to shuffle the next hand. "You've got money stashed away and you want me to fetch it for you."

Tony's eyes opened wide and he sat up. "You guys are really smart," he said.

"What makes you think I want to get caught with your dirty money?"

"This isn't dirty money. Look, Blue, a guy like me can't save his money in a bank like any Joe Shmoe; I'm not inclined to pay taxes," and Tony winked. "I got to have spending money, and I got to have cash to make deals. I'm talking about good money. The stuff's not marked and it's not counterfeit. That would be bad for business."

"You think the FBI is going to let you keep it."

"The FBI don't know their ass from their elbow. You—import-export guys know that anything can be arranged."

"Still, if I bring the money here —"

"I'll think of something. You'll keep the stuff in your room as if it's yours until I do think of something."

John presented Tony with the deck to cut. Tony tapped it twice with a fist to signify he could trust the dealer.

"Why do you think you can trust me?" asked John.

"Well, you could just say I'm a good judge of character. Besides, I'm going to offer you a cut. An it behooves you to have a good relationship with me. I might be able to help your agency out, some day, not that you're agency needs to know anything about this, but if you came to me personally; well, I never forget a friend."

It doesn't stop you from squealing on them, though, thought John. "Well, Tony, I'm not saying someone in my line of business isn't willing to do a little moonlighting, but what's my cut?"

"I'll give you ten percent."

"That doesn't mean anything to me. How much is ten percent?"

"What, you think I know?" said Tony with an immense grin. "This is just going to be some loose cash I keep around. But I'll tell you this much, you'll be able to buy a couple of Mercedes with the money you'll earn."

"Let's hear what the job entails," said John.

"I've got an apartment in Chicago. It has a locked closet. I'll give you the keys, you'll fly to Chicago, I'll arrange for a friend of mine to meet you at the airport and take you to the apartment. He'll get you in the front door of the building. You'll find some shoe boxes in the closet. You'll just empty as much of them as'll go into a big suitcase and bring it back here. What you can't fit you can give to my friend."

"Are you married?" John asked.

"Yes," Tony answered, puzzled.

"Why can't your wife get the money?"

Tony grew a big grin. "My wife? Look, Blue, I love my wife. I respect her. She's the mother of my children. I take very good care of her. She wants for nothing. They're in protective custody somewhere, and after I've done my trick for the FBI, I'll join her. But she don't know anything about the apartment. Look, Blue, I'm a normal, healthy man; you know what I mean?"

"The apartment was for a mistress."

"That's right."

"Does you mistress know about the money."

"Well, let's just say she knows about the closet. She probably suspects."

"I see," and then John paused, collecting himself, commanding his face to refrain from any expression, of any clue as to his thoughts. "And what's to keep me from running off with the money?"

"It's like I said, I'm a good judge of character," affirmed Tony.

"Don't kid me."

"Besides, if you ran out on me, I'd tell your people—and then I'd hire someone to kill you." With this remark Tony chuckled. John allowed a smile to appear on his deadpan face.

"No, that's not why you trust me," John countered. "You don't have a choice. It's either taking a chance with me, or lose everything."

Mario came into the kitchen. There was a commercial interruption of his program, so he came to the refrigerator to grab a can of ginger ale. Tony changed the conversation, taking a friendly manner with the G-man and asking about the ball game. This gave John a chance to consider Tony's proposition.

What's the worst that could happen to him, he considered. He could be arrested, but he was probably already in trouble with the law for having occupied their apartment, although he couldn't think of what law it was that he broke. In retrieving this money, he was not aware of doing anything illegal. Tony said it was legit and John would be acting in good faith. It required no great risk beyond, maybe, bumping into a very irate Wendy. He would take his ten percent—how much were two Mercedes-Benzes worth, and which model did Tony have in mind when he made the remark—put it in the bank and declare it on his taxes, all up front and sincere, an anonymous gift. And if he didn't undertake this adventure, what would his life be? He had enough money saved to get an apartment, his debts were paid off, he gave the IRS the money they claimed he owed without questioning it. He could leave number 909 that night and he'd be set, set to go on living in a studio apartment at risk of being robbed, working for the telephone company for the next thirty-five years. John was not a greedy man, but his first New York apartment didn't feel as safe as did 909. Shelby's words came back to him. The money would certainly sweeten the return to his life of drudgery. Such a small risk. Such a slight chore. It would be exciting and so rewarding. John remembered what it felt like to be a victim and thought how insulating money could be.

Mario returned to his ball game. Tony picked up his five cards as if to study them, but the card game had been forgotten. He looked up at John.

"Ten percent?" John asked.

"Ten percent of everything you can carry away."

"I'll do it."

"Good man, Blue, you're a good man. Do you have to clear this with anybody?"

"No, I'm doing it on my own time. When do I go?"

"Now."

John found himself aboard a late flight out of La Guardia airport. In the air he carefully reconsidered his adventure. He began thinking this rash act could be his downfall. Was he being too greedy, he wondered. As a good poker player, you have to know when to leave the table.

The night sky and the invisible lake formed an abyss. John saw nothing from his window until Chicago appeared. The city loomed in the void like a glowing reef, the skyscrapers above the water's edge matched by their clear reflection underneath, a jagged, two-sided island suspended in outer space. They might have as easily flown under this city as above it. As the plane came down into O'Hare airport, John was of a mind to catch the first flight back to the East Coast, but not ever to return to the Washington Irving Apartments. Had Sal not been waiting at the airport, he would have turned back.

It was Sal who recognized him from the description Tony provided over the telephone. Sal was prepared to stop anybody who remotely fit that description, but John was the first to come along. He had traveled first-class at Tony's expense. Tony had pulled from his pants pocket a roll of hundred dollar bills wrapped in two rubber bands. It was not the money with which he had been playing poker, that money coming from his wallet. Tony had peeled ten notes off the roll for John. And now he was being greeted by a short, emaciated man smelling of wine and body odor, his dark green suit worn to a shine. On his head was a porkpie hat of nylon. His hair stuck out at the sides in two colors, white overlaid with brown. He smoked a cigarette. "Are you Mr. Blue?" the fellow had asked twice. He had been holding a card before his chest that read 'BLEW' that John had not deciphered.

"Yes, I'm Mr. Blue; and you must be?"

"Sal, dat's me. Glad to meet ya." Sal didn't bother to offer his hand. "Let's go." Sal led the way through the airport. "You got any bags?"

"No." John had a bag when he started out, taking the briefcase with his tools, and then depositing it in a locker at La Guardia.

Sal led John pass two young men fashionable dressed in suits with wide collars, pinstriped shirts, and colorful ties. John didn't notice them studying him. The two men then went off to have drinks while waiting for their flight to New York to begin boarding. The airport's glass doors slide open and off to one side was a white Cadillac limousine with its parking lights blinking. It was not a new car. Sal threw open the rear door for John, but didn't wait for John to approach the car and get in. Instead, Sal made his way to the driver side, spotting a summons under the wiper. He pulled it out, crumbled it, and tossed it aside. John climbed in to the plush rear cabin and closed the door himself.

"Do ya smoke," Sal inquired as he lit a fresh cigarette.

"No."

"Hope you don't mind if I do." John looked for seat belts and couldn't find them. "So, where do you hail form?" John looked at the eyes watching him in the rearview mirror.

"I hope you don't mind if I don't talk," John said, "but I'm very tired and have things on my mind."

"Nah, not at all. Take a nap if you like. There's a bar back there if you want a drink. I'll wake you when we get there." John did not have a drink. He wanted to stay sharp. He had also decided to be extremely cautious and thought of the many times James Bond's drink was drugged. As he sat back and tried to relax, Sal began talking about Wendy.

"I don't know what Tony sees in this Jewish bitch. You should see all the fucking books she's got in that apartment. It's a fucking library. Hey! Did you see the way that asshole cut me off?" Sal looked at John in the review mirror. His passenger was staring out the window and ignoring him. "Unfriendly cuss," he muttered. John heard him, but continued to ignore Sal.

The apartment building was by the lake and in the north of the city. A driveway arced from the street, under a wide awning that extended from above the front doors, and back to the street. Sal parked under the awning, jumped from his seat, and went to go to the trunk from which he pulled a large, bright blue suitcase. John opened the door and climbed from the car, not prepared to wait for Sal to open the door, and doubtful whether he would have.

"Why the suitcase?" John asked. "Tony said there would be one in the closet."

"Yeah, but he told me to buy a new one, in case the udder one in the closet ain't big enough."

Sal led the way up the wide walk hemmed with potted plants. A young man in a dark suit held the door open for them.

"Hello, Sam," Sal said to him.

"Hello, Sal. Mr. Fargione still out of town?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. I think he's gonna be out of town for a long time. Sam, this is Mr. Blue. Mr. Fargione has asked us to pick up some of his belongings. If Miss Levy shows up, can you ring us and give us a warning?"

"Sure, Sal. So that's what this is all about, a lovers' quarrel, huh?"

"Yeah, that's about it, a tiff," Sal confirmed.

John brought out two keys for the two locks on the apartment's door. Once inside the door, after finding the light switch, John found the alarm panel, stood with himself between the keyboard and Sal, and tapped in the number code Tony had supplied him. For all the noise Tony Fargione had made for the inadequacies of apartment 909, his Chicago love nest was smaller in every dimension, with only two bedrooms. There were sliding glass doors here, too, and a tiny balcony that overlooked the lake, but John could not see anything through the glass and into the night. John had expected to see a wall of bookshelves crammed with volumes. There was only one bookcase that he could see, tall but narrow, and filled with a combination of Penguin paperbacks and textbooks on psychology. The carpet was deep and very white. The furniture was wood and leather. John saw it at a glance as he followed Sal into a bedroom. The bedroom was being used as an office. There was no bed. There was an immense desk at one side being faced with a couch and chairs. The furnishings were very ornate. Unlike the living room, with it's modern straight lines, in Tony's office the furniture was carved with arabesques, table legs ending in ball-and-claw designs. Lamp stems were of brass and picture frames were in gold plate. There were paintings of English landscapes, hand-colored prints of hunting scenes, one small icon of the Virgin holding the Christ Child, and a photograph of Enrico Caruso from I Paliacci.

John took the remaining key from his pocket. It was by itself and attached to a gold horn charm. With it he unlocked the closet. The light automatically came on as he opened the door and a spacious, walk-in closet was revealed. To the right hung suits and overcoats, along the floor a line of two dozen pairs of shoes, and on the shelf above a dozen hats, mostly homburgs. It reminded John of his grandfather's hat, about which he had forgotten, and he made a mental note to retrieve it. Against the rear wall was a tall highboy with scrolled, split pediment moldings. Along the left side hung a hundred shirts. On the floor were a large suitcase, a garment bag, a valise, and a rifle case with a brass medallion that read Browning. On the shelf above were hat boxes and the sought for shoe boxes.

The shelf was high and Sal could hardly reach it. John stretched to remove one of the top shoe boxes. He held it between them and took off the top. It was filled to the brim with five stacks of hundred dollar bills, more bills were stuffed on their edges to take up the gaps. Sal stuck his thumb into the box to prove to himself that the hundred dollar bills ran all the way to the bottom. They were stacked four inches deep. John was shocked by the sight and for one moment was not able to contain his amazement. His feelings had escaped to his face, but Sal did not see. Sal was still studying the money. John collected himself, trying to make himself believe the money was make-believe, so that he could handle the situation more calmly. Then John removed all the shoe boxes from the shelf and Sal carried them to the desk.

"You see," Sal said, "my suitcase in bigger. You'd better use mine." To John's eyes there seemed little difference between his suitcase and the equally large, gray one from the closet. He refused to use the suitcase that Sal had brought. He didn't trust Sal. He didn't see why Tony would tell him one thing and Sal would say that Tony called him with different plans. Perhaps Sal had a scheme for exchanging like suitcases.

As the currency was moved from the shoe boxes to the suitcase that John had carried from the closet, John noticed the occasional five hundred and one thousand dollar bill, bills that had been discontinued a dozen years earlier, but were still legal tender. John had no idea what amount of money he had managed to stuff into the suitcase, but he was alarmed at the weight of it. He hadn't planned on lugging something this heavy back to New York with him. There were two filled and one partially filled shoe box remaining. John told Sal that he could have them.

Sal looked up at John. "Well, I'll be a horse's ass," he said, his eyes wide in astonishment. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Sal took the hat from his head. He held it over his heart. "Mr. Blue, you tell Tony thanks. You tell him Sal Lastella can be trusted." John stared at the cheap toupee of dark brown, was it even hair, that nestled on Sal's otherwise silver head. Sal put the hat back on his head, lit a new cigarette from the old, and shoved his three shoes boxes into the suitcase he brought. The remaining, empty shoe boxes were returned to the closet shelf. John locked the place up tight and they returned to the airport.

During the long ride, John listened to his heartbeat. It had begun pounding at the sight of the contents of the first shoe box and all the way to the airport it had not eased. Possession of so much money changed John. He had never been so nervous in his life. He had never before been so afraid of being a victim.

At the airport, Sal pulled up to the curb to let John out. Sal popped the trunk open remotely. John did not stir from his seat. Sal looked at him in the rearview mirror. John smiled at him and waited for Sal to leave the driver seat. John was not taking any chances. When Sal did climb out, leaving the keys in the car and the engine running, John also climbed out on the left-hand side and closed the driver's door before closing his own. They went to the trunk together. John dragged his suitcase from the trunk.

"Well, thank you, Sal. It was a pleasure making you're acquaintance."

"You want me to go in with you, Mr. Blue?"

"No, that won't be necessary." John lugged the suitcase into the airport.

He had bought, with cash, a round-trip ticket in New York and so far everything had gone as planned. At the counter, the young woman presented John with his first serious dilemma.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Blue, that's hardly a carry-on bag you've got there. It won't fit under your seat. You can't take it on board. I assure you the suitcase will be safe in baggage." John was not satisfied. What if Tony's ex-friends had anticipated this and had someone working at the airport? Perhaps he could buy an extra seat for the suitcase? But then that would draw unwanted attention to its preciousness. John changed his mind about flying. As he stepped from the counter, he saw through the glass windows the stretched Cadillac still at the curb, Sal, standing alongside of it, had been watching him. John stood paralyzed, unsure of his next move. He fought to keep his alarm contained. Sal was now coming into the terminal and John knew he would have to create a plan, or an excuse, before Sal reached him.

"What's wrong, Mr. Blue."

"There's been a change of plans," John told him, calmly, and began lugging the oversized suitcase back to the limousine.

"What the fuck do ya mean a change in plans! Where'd you get this message from? Someone hand you a telegram, 'cause I didn't see it, and I don't think Mr. Fargione is gonna like any changes to his plans." Sal went on and on as he followed John back to the Cadillac.

"Open the trunk," John ordered. Sal frowned at him. John took a deep breath, and decided to at least act as if he were in complete control, even if he didn't feel it.

"Open the trunk," John ordered again, and made believe he was all powerful and while smiling glared at Sal. "Open the trunk, Sal," he said very politely, as you might speak to a child, giving them one last chance before punishment. Sal felt sure if he didn't do it, this young, healthy looking man that Tony said worked for the CIA, could certainly hurt him with one of those karate chops. He went to the driver's door, opened it, reached in and popped the trunk's lid. "Take your suitcase out of the trunk," John said, not so much needing Sal's help, but not wanting to leave Sal with free hands to jump behind the wheel and drive away. Sal pulled his light suitcase out, John shoved his heavy suitcase in. "Now," said John, slamming close the trunk and stepping between Sal and his route back to the driver seat, "I need to borrow the car."

"Like hell—" Sal began.

"I am going to drive it to New York and then I will arrange for someone to bring it back." With that, John poked Sal in the center of his sunken chest with just a single finger. To Sal the finger felt like iron, and he thought he was dealing with a professional killer and not merely someone with years of piano lessons. With that single finger, he pushed Sal back to the curb, which nearly tripped him. While Sal was catching his balance, John quickly turned, went to the driver seat, and slipped in. Since their arrival to the terminal, the ignition had not been turned off. As he drove away, he saw in the rearview mirror Sal clumsily rushing into the terminal with his large and mostly empty suitcase. John drove a little further, until he was out of sight of where he had left Sal standing, and parked in front of a small Avis bus. He left the car, this time removing the ignition key, and after removing his suitcase, he tossed the keys into the trunk and shut it. He boarded the Avis bus.

"Do you have a major credit card, Mr. Blue?" the adolescent boy behind the counter asked with a smile.

"I told you, I'm paying cash in advance."

"That's fine, but we need the credit card for purposes of security, you know, in case something happens to the car."

John reviewed the situation and decided to chance it. He didn't like the idea that he was leaving a paper trail, but couldn't think of any alternative.

"Ah, the name on this card—"

"I didn't know you were going to need the card. I tell people I'm Mr. Blue because it is easier than Szpakowski."

"All right, I will also have to see your driver's license, Mr. Szpakowski."

Jesus, of course, John realized, they're not going to rent a car to someone without a driver's license. Why didn't I figure that from the first?

"Is this your present address, Mr. Szpakowski?" the boy asked.

"No, I moved from there nearly seven month ago. I'm living in New Jersey, now." The words were no sooner out of his mouth then he realized how stupid he had been for not lying. Again he was feeling victimized. The Avis clerk took out a book in which bad credit card numbers were listed. "Here, kid," and he handed the boy a hundred dollar bill. "Finish checking the book and you'll see I'm not in it. Then use the address on the license. You can see the name matches that on the charge plate. Use that credit card in your machine and you will see that it is legit." The kid took the hundred, smiling awkwardly, and quickly finished the paperwork.

John was leaving Illinois, entering Indiana, when the Sun came up in his face. James Bond would have been prepared with sunglasses, John concluded. It had been the longest night in his life. The excitement of his cargo kept him awake, but the sharp pain that made his eyes water reminded him that he was exhausted. He was also paranoid that he was being followed by bad men who would kill him for the money, just as Tony would probably have him killed if he didn't show up with it.

John called into work and told the supervisor he would not be coming in due at a problem of a personal nature. Then he asked to speak to John Kendall.

"John, I am in a desperate need of a favor."

"Lucky?" John inquired.

"Yes," the other John replied. "Now listen carefully. I need you to trust me. I want you to find a hotel and rent adjoining rooms, you know the kind I mean? They have a connecting door between them."

"I know what you mean, Lucky, but —"

"Hear me out, John. There are a lot of details and I want to be sure you get them right. I want one room to be reserved for me and the other room in your name, both for two, no, make that three nights, starting with tonight. Any hotel you want, it doesn't matter. Next, I want you to buy the biggest suitcase you can find. Fill it up with books. You can buy used sets of encyclopedias cheap, I just need the suitcase to be heavy. Take it to the room in your name and leave it on the bed, and leave the door connecting to my room unlocked. Do you have all that?"

"Yeah, I got all of that, but —"

"I will call you tonight," Szpakowski continued, "and find out which hotel you've arranged for, so don't go out tonight."

"But I have a date?" Kendall protested.

"Shelby?"

"Yep; and where the hell am I suppose to get the money for —"

"I can't begin to explain how important this is. Use your credit card for everything you need. I'm good for the money. Be at your apartment, at least until I call. And, John, I will meet with you this weekend, will reimburse all your expenses in cash, and pay you an additional two thousand dollars for your services."

"Two thou—"

"And not a word to anyone about any of this?" John amended.

"What's this all about?" Kendall asked in a whisper.

"I'll have to explain later."

"Where are you calling from?" Kendall had noted from the first that the call sounded long distance.

"Indiana."

"Indiana?"

"Yes, now, can you do it all for me?" And John had Kendall repeat every step he had been told. "It will be just like James Bond," John concluded.

"This sounds like it could be dangerous," Kendall said, but there was no response. Lucky had hung up.

At La Guardia two smartly dressed men were approached by a third.

"Well, if it isn't my old friend from LA," the third man said to one of the two.

"Well, hello Ernie," said the other man. The other man turned to the third. "Vinny, this is an old friend, Ernesto Donetti." The three of them shook hands and swapped greetings.

Ernie then turned to his old friend from LA. "Jimmy, I've been sent to talk to you. It doesn't look like your guy will be flying in."

"What happened," Jimmy asked.

"Well, we're not sure. We think he may be driving back to New York. With all that money, he might have just taken off to destinations unknown. But it don't matter."

"How come it don't matter?" asked Jimmy.

"We think we located the skunk for you. We've got connections in the police department. They give us the names of a couple of the agents they think are guarding Fargione. We put tails on them. We also know what block the G-men want the police to patrol more often. The same block where they want the police to check out vacant apartments for would-be assassins, you know, snipers. So there's this apartment house, you see, that everything points to, where we think he's being held in custody."

"Are you sure?" asked Vinny.

"No, we're not sure. But it's a good bet, and the only thing you guys got going. He testifies on Monday. We'll talk more in the car. You guys look like you can use some sleep. We've got guys watching the place for you." The three smartly dressed men left together.

That same morning Josh Harpin of the FBI received a telephone call from Robert MacDonough.

"How's it going, Josh?" asked the voice in the telephone.

"Real good," Harpin answered.

"Well, Josh, I'm calling because my people want to confirm that you're vacating the place on Monday."

"Monday's the last day, Bob. We will be out of there Monday night. And, again, I'm sorry for any inconvenience we've caused your people. We really are appreciative."

"How do you plan to move him out, Josh?"

"It'll be Sunday night, late. The streets will be mostly deserted. They'll be lots of security."

"That's all I need to hear. We're going to send you Fargione's phone bill. He's been rather excessive." MacDonough laughed as he said this.

"The damn fool wasn't suppose to use the phone at all," complained Harpin. "How do you know it wasn't your guy that ran up the bill?"

"Our guy?":

"Yeah, this Mr. Blue."

"Mr. Blue? Who are you talking about, Josh?"

"My men tell me one of yours was living there when we moved Fargione in." There was a pause before MacDonough replied.

"Mr. Blue hasn't been cleared through this office. Of course, that doesn't mean he isn't one of ours. Sometimes these fellows float back from Europe or South America unannounced. I'll check around."

"Get back to me either way, will you, Bob. I'm kind of curious."

"You bet," MacDonough concluded.

The next day MacDonough called Harpin at his Long Island home. He said to Harpin, "we don't know who Mr. Blue is. That doesn't mean he isn't one of ours, though. I hate to bother you, Josh, especially on the weekend, but I'm way out in Connecticut. Can you go into the city and ask this Mr. Blue some questions for me?"

"Why can't you call him?" asked Harpin.

"We don't do this kind of thing over the phone. We just need to know who on the inside knows he's there, then I can check it out." Harpin agreed.

The excitement of toting so much money was wearing thin for John. Forty-eight hours without sleep had altered his priorities. He was occupying two adjoining rooms at the Saint George Hotel. The connecting doors were wide open. He had switched the contents of the two suitcases; Kendall having filled the new suitcase with old telephone books. John had showered, was wrapped in a towel, and, while waiting to dry, fell asleep on the large bed in the room in Kendall's name. The two suitcases rested on the mattress alongside him. The sleep came unannounced. When he woke, six hours later, a Saturday afternoon, for a terrible instant he didn't know where he was. In the next moment it all came back, but as if it had been a dream. He reached into the suitcase next to him and withdrew a handful of cash. There was a brief spark as he realized the money did exist, and that ten percent of it would be his. Then it faded until he felt numb to the money. It had lost its charm, it no longer excited him. It seemed funny.

He left the hotel carrying the original suitcase, but filled with telephone books, coming out of the door to the room in his name, and as he walked past the door to the room in Kendall's name, he placed a 'DO NOT DISTURB' sign on the doorknob. He checked out of his room, but told the hotel clerk that Kendall would still require his room for several more days. Now John didn't give a damn who followed him. They would think the money was being brought to Tony, who was guarded by the FBI. He would explain it to Tony and find out from him where he should take the money to be safe. Then, leaving that place with empty hands, anyone observing him would think he had left the money behind. They wouldn't follow him. And if they tried, he could move quicker without having to lug the suitcase. John didn't realize that he wasn't being followed.

That afternoon Jimmy and Vinny entered a small coffee shop across the street and up the block from the Washington Irving Apartments. They sat in a booth by the window and Jimmy could see the entrance to the apartment by parting the curtain behind the Seeburg. They drank coffee and took their time ordering lunch. Lunch was almost finished when Jimmy began to intently study something through the part in the curtain. "I'll be," he mumbled.

"What?" grunted Vinny."

"Hurry up, we gotta move." Jimmy rushed out with Vinny in tow. "We got to go," he announced to the waitress, waving a twenty and dropping it at the register as they hurried past. "Keep the change."

They crossed the street and walked down the block towards the Washington Irving Apartments. Jimmy spoke to Vinny out of the corner of his mouth. "Look at that guy," and he nudged his chin in the direction he wanted Vinny to look. Vinny saw someone awkwardly trying to pull a large suitcase out of the back of a yellow taxi. "Isn't that the guy we saw at O'Hare."

Then Vinny recognized John and said, "yeah, that's him." They hurried their pace. "But what the hell do you have in mind to do? This place is crawling with cops and G-men."

"He's the key into the apartment, if we move quick."

Speaking too loud, Vinny said, "it's too risky."

"Keep you voice down and open your eyes. He's got the suitcase." Vinny observed the suitcase and remembered the talk about the money.

"It's not the blue one."

"Yeah, but it's big enough and heavy enough."

"Jesus Christ," he said, thinking about the money. Then he said to Jimmy, "this isn't going to work."

"It'll work, but it's got to be fast." Jimmy had no sooner finished saying this, when they rushed into the glass enclosed foyer to see old Mike holding the inner door for John.

"Mr. Blue," Jimmy called.

"This is not going to work," mumbled Vinny.

John turned around and saw the two young men fashionably dressed in double-breasted suits with wide lapels, one brown with very thin, dark stripes, and the other a gray suit of silk. He didn't recognize either of them and was completely unaware that he had once passed them in Chicago's airport. They were both young, clean-shaven, and with black hair. The brown-suited one had straight combed hair that remained stiffly in place. He stepped between Mike and John. The gray-suited one had very curly hair. He stepped over to Mike.

"You probably don't remember me, we met just the other day in Chicago," Jimmy said to John.

At the same time, Vinny was saying to the doorman, "thank you, Pop. You better go back to watching the door, we saw some delinquent looking punks coming down the street." Vinny was forcibly pushing Mike out of the doorway, but Mike held fast to the door.

"Mr. Blue, are these acquaintances of yours?" He spoke through the two men that blocked his view. Jimmy pulled out from under his jacket a small .25 semiautomatic pistol with silencer and put it hard against John's ribs.

"Reassure the old man, Mr. Blue, we don't want him needlessly worrying," Jimmy said through a very thin grin.

"It's okay Mike, I know them," John said back across the two men. Mike release his grip of the door. Vinny pulled it closed.

"Okay, let's go to your room and talk." With these words, Jimmy turned John around. He put his pistol into his jacket pocket and poked it into the bottom of John's spine.

"This isn't going to work," Vinny muttered.

"Shut up," Jimmy sneered.

John felt a hollowness in his chest. He wondered if he was going to die. He considered the option of them just knocking him on the head and taking the suitcase, but the silencer called for premeditated murder. They didn't have to wait for an elevator. Damn, said John to himself, the door would close and he would be out of Mike's sight. What would Bond do? He would kill them with martial arts, but John didn't know martial arts. John knew violin and piano.

"What floor?" asked Jimmy.

"Nine," John answered.

"How many guards are there?" Jimmy asked.

"What?"

"You going to see Mr. Fargione, right?"

"Uh, yes."

"How many others are in the apartment with him?"

"One," answered John, and then considered whether he should answer any questions.

"Look how cool this guy is," Vinny said to Jimmy.

"Don't forget, Sal said he's a spook," returned Jimmy.

What the hell is a spook, John wondered.

"You don't really believe they're going to have one guard, do ya?" Vinny asked Jimmy.

Jimmy lifted his gun from his pocket and held it to John's head. "If he's lying, we waste him." John's mien appeared unaffected by the threat. He ignored the two men and in his head rehearsed "The Ballet of Chicks in their Shells" by Modest Mussorgsky. The music, that only he could hear, had always tickled him. He ignored his fear, but tried concentrating on playing, visualizing his hands rapidly tapping an imagined keyboard. Vinny saw the smile on his face and it worried him. Jimmy saw Vinny's worry and it riled him.

The door slid open to the ninth floor. Jimmy cocked his head to Vinny. Vinny stepped into the hallway and seeing no one, told Jimmy it was clear.

"Do you think the elevator's stop switch will set off an alarm, Jimmy asked Vinny, but John thought he was being asked.

"I don't know," replied John. Jimmy shoved John into the hallway.

"Take the suitcase and stick it in the door," he told Vinny.

"What about the other elevator?" Vinny asked.

"Shit," and Jimmy thought for a moment. "Okay, I got an idea. You cover Mr. Blue." Vinny pulled from his jacket a gun similar to Jimmy's. Jimmy leaned into the elevator and pressed every floor above nine. He let the elevator go. As soon as the door closed, he pushed the down button. "Come on, let's go." He turned to John. "Okay, Mr. Blue, now lead us there. Hurry!" John began to lead them.

"What about the suitcase?" asked Vinny.

"Leave it by the elevator, we'll be right back." And then to John, "come on—and no funny stuff."

God, that hackneyed expression, thought John, they really use it. They hurried down the hall and they arrived at 909.

"Give me the key," Jimmy whispered to John. John pulled keys from his pocket. "Which one is it?" John manipulated one key and held it out, the others dangling below.

"Cover him," Jimmy said. Vinny pressed John against the wall and put the gun to his forehead. John closed his eyes, thinking it would soon be over. He was about to set his hands to the imagined keyboard and play Mussorgsky's "Catacombs", but he was hearing Gioacchino Antonio Rossini's La gazza ladra, the "Overture". Jimmy was hearing it, too, and more clearly, as he had his ear to the door of apartment 909. Jimmy gently inserted the key into the lock. He carefully turned the knob. He slowly opened the door and it wasn't chained. The music was louder, now. The living room was deserted. He looked behind the door, nothing.

Jimmy stepped into the apartment and looking to the right saw Tony, recognizing him from photographs. He was sitting in the alcove at the far end of the kitchen playing solitaire and humming along with the music, his head rocking back and forth in time. Jimmy brought the gun up and walking sideways moved closer for accuracy. He didn't fire until Tony turned his head to see who it was, and he fired before Tony could react. The gun clicked, the barrel went 'phit', and the bullet made the sound of a smack, all at once. Tony's limp body collapsed on the table. A toilet flushed from somewhere behind Jimmy. He rushed over to Tony's body, put the gun against Tony's head and fired a second shot to guaran