“You hungry?”

“No thanks.”

“What'd you eat?”

“The cookie.”

“Don't be a wise guy.”

“I had some milk.”

“That's it?” He goes to the refrigerator and takes out the jar of herring. Pieces of fish are swimming around in this cloudy-looking juice. “This is protein, Bill.”

I shake my head.

“It's fish. Don't like fish?”

“Not very much.”

He opens the jar, takes out a piece, eats it, opens the refrigerator again, and looks inside. “How about some salad?”

“I'm fine, Mr. Ganzer. Really.”

He puts the herring back and takes off his jacket. “I'll go out later, get us a couple of steaks- you're not one of those vegetarians, are you?”

“Meat's fine.”

“What an agreeable fellow- you play chess?”

“No.”

“So learn.”

It's basically war, and I like it. After six games I beat him, and he says, “Very good,” but I'm not sure he's happy.

“Another one, Mr. Ganzer?”

“No, I'm gonna take a nap.” He reaches out to touch my head but stops himself. “You've got a good brain, Bill.”

I read while he sleeps, getting comfortable on the dusty couch with the knitted blanket over my legs. A few times I get up, look outside, see a beautiful sky. But I don't mind being inside.

He wakes up at 6:15 P.M., takes a shower. When he comes out of his bedroom, he's wearing another suit, brown, a blue shirt, tan shoes.

“I'll go get the steaks,” he says. “No, wait a second-” Opening the freezer compartment above the fridge, he pulls out a package of chicken. “This okay?”

“It's fine, Mr. Ganzer, but I'm not really hungry.”

“How could you not be hungry?”

“I'm just not.”

“You don't usually eat much, do you?”

“I do fine.”

“How long you been on your own?”

“A while.”

“Okay, okay, I won't pry- I'll defrost it and broil it, it's healthy that way.”

By 7:20 the chicken's done, and I'm eating more than I thought I would. Then I notice Sam has barely touched the drumstick he put on his plate.

“You need protein, Mr. Ganzer.”

“Very funny,” he says. But he smiles. “I'm taken care of in the cuisine department. Got an appointment tonight for dinner- you going to be okay alone here?”

“Sure. I'm used to it.”

He frowns, puts the drumstick on my plate, gets up. “I don't know when I'll be back. Probably ten, ten-thirty. Normally, I might entertain here, but I didn't figure you'd want to meet anyone. Right?”

“It's your house. I could stay in the bedroom.”

“What? Hide like some… no, I'll go over there. If you need me, it's six houses down, the white house with the blue trim. The party's name is Kleinman. Mrs. Kleinman.”

“Have a nice time,” I say.

He turns pink. “Yeah… listen, Bill, I been thinking. That twenty-five thousand. If it's rightfully yours, you should claim it. That's a lot of money for anyone. I could make sure no one swindles it from under you- there's a fellow across the street, used to be a lawyer. A Communist, but smart, knows the angles. He wouldn't take a penny from you, could make sure you're protected-”

“No one can protect me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because no one ever did.”

“But, look-”

“No,” I say. “There's no way they'd let a kid keep all that money. And I can't help them anyway, I didn't see the guy's face, all I saw is a license plate-”

“A license plate? Bill, that could be very helpful. They've got ways of tracing license plates-”

“No!” I shout. “No one ever did anything for me, and I don't care about any of it- and if you think that makes me a bad citizen and you don't want me around, fine, I'll leave!”

I get up and run for the door. He grabs my arm. “Okay, okay, calm down, take it easy-”

“Let me go!”

He does. I reach the door, see the alarm's red eye, stop. Here comes a stomachache.

“Please, Bill, relax.”

“I am relaxed.” But it's a lie. I'm breathing fast and my chest is really, really tight.

“Look, I'm sorry,” he says. “Forget it, I just thought… you're obviously a good guy, and sometimes when good guys don't do the right thing, they feel- Ah! Who the hell am I to tell you? You know what to do.”

“I don't know anything,” I mutter.

“What's that?”

“Every time I try to learn, something gets in the way- like with you and the war.”

“But, look, you're making it. Like I made it.”

I want to cry again, but no way- no damn way! Words start pouring out of me: “I don't know what I'm doing, Mr. Ganzer. Maybe I should call the police- maybe I'll do it from a pay phone, tell them the license plate and then hang up.”

“If you do it that way, how do you collect the money?”

“Forget the money, they'll never give me the money. Even if they do, my mom will find out, and then Moron- he's the guy she lives with. He's the reason I left. He'll end up with it, believe me, there's no way I'm going to get a penny and I'll be right where I started from.”

“Moron, huh? A dim bulb?” He taps his head.

I laugh. “Yeah.”

He laughs. I laugh harder. I'm not really happy, but it's a way to get out the feelings.

“A smart guy like you and a dim bulb,” he says. “I can see why there'd be problems- Okay, I'm gonna give you the alarm code. Just in case you want a breath of fresh air. One one twenty-five. Think of January first, 1925. My birthday- I'm a New Year's baby.”

“I'm not going out.”

“Just in case.” He punches the numbers, the light goes green, and he opens the door. “Relax, take it easy- try the herring.”

“Not a chance,” I say, and he leaves smiling.

The chessboard is still out on the kitchen counter. I think I'll experiment with different moves. See things from both sides.

68

Saturday morning at 6:46, the phone woke Petra. Schoelkopf's voice played havoc with her brain waves.

“Got comprehensive warrants on Balch's office and home. You and Fournier go over both with a fine-tooth before we put a bulletin out on him. I've messengered the paper and keys to you, should be there any minute. Get it all done today so we can cast the net on the bastard.”

“Why do we have to wait to cast?”

“Because that's the way upstairs wants it, Barbie. The fact that we came so close to tunnel-visioning on Ramsey scares them shitless. No more questions. Get moving.”

“Does Fournier know about the assignment?”

“You tell him.”

The doorbell rang just as she was stepping out of the shower. Drying off frantically, she wrapped herself in a bath sheet, ran to the door, saw a patrolman through the peephole, and stuck her hand out through a crack in the door for the manila envelope containing the warrants and the keys. The uniform, a tall guy, grinned, checked her out, and said she'd have to sign a form.

“Slide it under the door.” After I slam it in your face.

She roused Wil at 7:15. He sounded half dead, and she thought she heard a woman in the background.

“All right,” he said. “Where first?”

“Up to you.”

“Balch's office is closer. How about… nine? Make that nine-thirty.”

“Want me to pick you up?”

He didn't answer immediately. There was definitely a woman there, talking low and rhythmically, almost singing. “No,” he said. “I'll meet you.”

With no traffic, the drive to Studio City was fifteen minutes of morning breeze, and she had time to stop at DuPars near Laurel for takeout coffee and an apple cruller. In the lot fronting the brown building was a gray Acura but no signs of the driver. The license plate said SHERRI. She pulled up next to it and was eating in the car when Wil arrived in his civvy wheels- black Toyota Supra. He wore an off-white linen suit, black polo shirt, perforated black shoes, looked ready for a Palm Springs weekend; she'd put on the usual pantsuit.