The female bartender who was thinking about moving to California came in from the bar and kidded around with us until two older couples in heavy coats and loud shirts walked in and then she had to go back to the bar. The two older couples didn't eat. They just drank.

After a while we bought four beers to go and took them back to my room and watched the local New York news. The weather forecast said that the skies would continue to clear for the next few days, but that then another front would move down from Canada bringing cold and snow. The sports report was fine, but the hard news stories were mostly about subways and city strikes and local personalities and things indigenous to New York. They seemed alien and sort of empty.

Midway through the newscast, a male anchor with a lantern jaw and a rough-hewn face and squinty eyes reported a federal study that concluded that the L.A. basin had the dirtiest air in the country. He grinned when he said it. The black female co-anchor grinned, too, and reported a corollary story that Angelenos drive more than urbanites in any other major American city. The jut-jawed anchor grinned even harder and said that maybe Los Angeles wouldn't have such a bad smog problem if they put in a subway to the beach. That got a big laugh from everybody. Especially the weatherman.

Joe Pike said, "Assholes."

I turned off the television.

It was ten minutes before six.

We sat and stared, neither of us saying much, and then Joe Pike went into his room. After a while I heard his water running. I took off my clothes and did a little yoga, stretching to warm myself, then working through the cobra, and the locust, and the wheel pose, but I couldn't concentrate. I tried doing push-ups and sit-ups instead, but with no better luck. I kept losing count. After a while I got off the floor and called the local news station in New York and told a young woman that I wanted to speak to the jut-jawed anchor. When the young woman asked me why, I said that I wanted to call him a prick. She wouldn't put me through.

Pike stayed in his room and I stayed in mine, and at twenty minutes after seven we went down to the Taurus and drove to Karen Lloyd's.

Tough guys like me never miss home.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The air was crisp and cold and the sky was a velvety black as we parked in Karen Lloyd's drive and walked up to the door. I rang the bell and Karen Lloyd answered. When she saw Joe Pike, she said, "Oh."

I said, "Karen Lloyd, this is Joe Pike. Joe, this is Karen Lloyd. Joe is my partner. He owns the agency with me." Dark, and he still wore the glasses.

Pike said that he was pleased to meet her. Karen looked uneasy but she said hello. Another person invading her life.

The three of us went into the dining room. There was a 9 X 12 manila envelope on the table and a glass of white wine next to it. Most of the wine was gone. I said, "Where's Toby?"

"In his room, doing homework. I told him that people were coming and that I had work to do. He has his radio on. He won't be able to hear us."

"All right."

Karen picked up the 9x12, handed it to me, then picked up the wineglass. "This is what I had in the computer."

"Okay."

Pike and I took off our jackets. When Pike took off his jacket, Karen leaned forward and made a little sound like ssss.

Pike had two bright red arrows tattooed on the outside of each deltoid when he was in Vietnam. They pointed forward, and looked like the kind of red arrows you see on jet intakes or rocket nozzles or other dangerous things. With the jacket off and Pike in a sweatshirt with no sleeves, you could see the tattoos as clearly as if neon tubes had been laid beneath his skin. Karen looked away, not wanting him to catch her staring. People do that.

The orange and white cat came in from the hall, walked over to Pike, and rubbed against his ankles. Pike bent down and held his fingers out. The cat began to buzz. Karen said, "Do you like cats, Mr. Pike?"

Pike nodded.

She said, "His name is Tigger."

Pike nodded once, then stood and walked into the kitchen. Karen said, "Excuse me, the bathroom isn't that way."

Pike went through the door without looking back.

I said, "He isn't looking for the bath. He's looking for how someone might get into your home, or get out, and for where they might hide while they are within it."

She blinked at me.

"It's one of his more colorful habits."

The back door opened and Pike went outside. Karen went to the window and tried to look out at him, but she couldn't see out of the light and into the darkness. No one ever can. "What a strange man."

"Perhaps, but he is someone that you want on your side. He will never lie to you, and he will give you every piece of himself."

She looked doubtful. "Has he been your partner for a long time?"

"Yes. Since I bought the agency. We bought it together."

She looked out of the window again. Worried. "What if he scares Toby? What if one of the neighbors sees him and calls the police? Then we'll have to explain."

"No one will see him and no one will hear him. You ever see a ninja movie? That's Pike."

She squinted out the window some more, then came back to the table and picked up her glass. "How can he see at night while he's wearing those sunglasses?"

I gave her a little shrug. There are some things even the great and wonderful Oz does not know.

In a little while Pike came back and we went through the records. Karen got more wine.

There were two hundred fourteen entries made into eight different First Chelam account numbers, all of which were immediately transferred into two accounts in Barbados. The records were spread over six pages of computer printout, showing single-spaced rows of numbers without meaning, dates to the far left, account numbers to their right, amounts to the right of that, destination accounts on the far right, with dates going back four years and eleven months. I would read the sheets, then pass them to Pike, and he would read them. Karen watched us and drank the wine. It was sort of like reading a phone book with phone numbers but without names.

I said, "Let's start with the most recent deposit and you can walk us through every transaction."

"God, they're all the same."

"You told me that most of the deposits come through Harry, but some of them come through Charlie."

"That's right."

"Then they're not all the same. There are Harry deposits and there are Charlie deposits."

She nodded and said, "All right. What are you looking for?"

"I don't know. All we can do is dig into what we have and see if something presents itself."

"Oh."

"Most of the time, in what we do, there are no clear or ready avenues. Detectives look for clues, and clues tell you what's going on and what to do about it. Do you see?"

"Of course." She didn't look convinced. I think she was trying to relate it to banking.

"I'll need a pad and a pencil."

She got up and went down the little hall and came back with a yellow legal pad and a Paper Mate Sharpwriter pencil. She also got more wine. She seemed tired, but I didn't think it was just the booze. Her hip brushed the jamb when she came back through the door. I said, "Let's start with the transaction I saw in Brunly. Tell us how it was arranged and who arranged it, and how you were told to do what you did and as much as you know about where the money came from and where the money went. Don't leave anything out. Things that you take for granted we don't know anything about. We'll do that one, and then we'll walk through every transaction for as far back as you can remember."

She nodded gamely, and we began.

We went through as much of each transaction as she could remember, starting with the latest and working backward. She remembered more than she thought she would because a lot of what had happened was repetitious. Most of the answers were the same. Charlie's secretary at the meat plant would set the meetings just as she would for Charlie and any other business associate. At the meetings, Charlie would tell Karen which of the eight First Chelam accounts the money should go into and into which of the two Barbados accounts it should be transferred. There were no receipts given and no statements mailed and nothing to prove that someone named Charlie DeLuca was either putting cash into the First Chelam Bank or moving money from one account to another. Karen assumed that someone in Barbados checked to make sure that the right amount of money was being fed into the accounts, but she wasn't sure.