As they returned to his makeshift office in the sitting room off the front hall, Jack mentioned that a condition of the sale was that the closing had to be in thirty days.

"Thirty days," Ramirez said. "Why does this owner wish such a quick closing?"

Jack paused, as if debating how much to say, then shrugged.

"All right, I'll tell you. He's looking for a quick sale because he needs the money."

"He is in financial trouble?" Ramirez said.

"No-no." Jack lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret that should go no further. "He's in the hospital now. The poor man needs the money for medical expenses."

"Really?" Ramirez's tone was properly sympathetic; the sudden gleam in his eye was anything but. "That is too bad."

Jack could almost see the wheels turning in Ramirez's head: in the hospital… medical expenses. . . the photo of two men in the bedroom…

He was making a diagnosis.

"And you say the sale price includes all of the furniture?"

"Yes. All fine, fine European antiques. At the asking price, I assure you, it is quite a bargain."

Ramirez shrugged. "I do not know. It is very old. Have you had much interest in the property?"

"Strangely enough, no. I don't understand it," Jack said slowly, then pretended to catch himself. "Not that there's been no interest. There's been good interest."

Ramirez smiled. "As I said, it is an old house. But I feel sorry for this poor sick man. I will take it off his hands. But not for the asking price, I am afraid."

Jack sniffed. "It's already underpriced."

"I must disagree," Ramirez said.

And then he made a low-ball offer, a good twenty percent under the asking price.

You bastard, Jack thought. Jorge had said he'd steal from a dying man, and Ramirez had just proved him right.

Jack had begun thinking of his imaginary client as a real person, so he didn't have to fake being indignant.

"Out of the question. My client would never consider such a price."

"You will call him and ask him?"

"No. It's an insult to the property."

"Well, if you have had a better offer," Ramirez said with a shrug, "then I will go away. But if you have not, I think it is your duty to consult your client."

"I'll do just that," Jack said.

He whipped out a cell phone and called Jorge's number.

When he answered, Jack said, "Mr. Gates's room, please." While he pretended to wait for a connection, he turned to Ramirez. "Even from his hospital bed, I'm sure Mr. Gates will muster some harsh words about your offer."

Another shrug from Ramirez. "I am only offering what I can afford."

Then Jack spoke into the phone. "Yes. Hello, Mr. Gates. This is David. I'm sorry to call you so early, but I've had an offer on the house." Pause. "Yes, well, I'm not so sure you'll say that after you hear it." He gave the figure and waited, as if listening. "But—" he said, then cut himself off, "But…"

Jack frowned, glanced at Ramirez, then turned his back and stepped away.

"But it's an insulting offer!" he said in a stage whisper. "You can't possibly consider it!"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ramirez's caps appearing behind a slow grin. Oh, yes, you bastard. This is your birthday on Christmas, isn't it—getting the deal of a lifetime and screwing some poor sick bastard in the process.

Jack said, "Yes… yes, I see… very well…" He sighed. "I'll tell him."

Jack hit the end button on the phone, took a dramatically deep breath, then turned to face Ramirez.

"Well," he said. "Mr. Gates has expressed some interest—limited interest—in your offer. But he has two conditions if he's going to sell for that price."

"Yes?" Ramirez was keeping a calm front, but Jack could tell he was ready to Macarena down the hall.

"You must close in fifteen days."

Ramirez was polishing his diamond ring against the sleeve of his blazer. "That is possible."

"And…" This was the biggee. This was where Jack knew he'd either reel Ramirez in or lose him completely. "He wants a twelve-thousand-dollar deposit in cash."

Ramirez stopped polishing and looked up. "In cash? That is an unusual request. In my many, many real estate dealings I have never left a cash deposit."

"Yes," Jack said, "you're absolutely right. Most unusual. In fact, it's absurd, and I'm sure you want no part of it."

Now it was Jack's turn to play hard to get. Risky, but the only way he could see Ramirez coming up with the cash. He took Ramirez's elbow and guided him from the sitting room toward the front hall.

"Thank you for your interest, Mr. Ramirez. I'll inform Mr. Gates that you wouldn't agree—"

Ramirez pulled his arm free. "One moment. I did not say it was unacceptable. Just that it was unusual. Perhaps a smaller amount in cash."

"No, I'm afraid not. The twelve thousand is what Mr. Gates said, and twelve thousand is what it must be. If that's too steep—"

The doorbell rang.

What the hell…?

Jack poked his head through the doorway into the front hall.

Someone was standing at the front door. Jack couldn't make out who it was through the etched glass, but he knew it had to be bad news. No one was supposed to be here but Ramirez and him.

Maybe if he ignored the bell…

Another ring.

Clenching his teeth and silently cursing, he stepped into the front hall and pulled open the door.

A stocky Oriental in a way expensive charcoal-gray business suit and black fedora stood on the stoop. He could have been Harold Sakata doing Oddjob from Goldfinger.

"I am looking for David Johns," the man said. "Is he here?"

Who's this? Jack thought. Someone from Hudak Realty?

He had a feeling his little scam was about to crash into ruin. But he couldn't be too evasive… not with Ramirez in earshot.

"May I ask who—?"

He saw the man stiffen as he looked over Jack's shoulder.

"Mr. Ramirez," the Oriental said.

Jack turned. Ramirez was standing in the front hall, staring at the newcomer.

"Hello… Sung."

The scene had a surreal deja vu feel to it, like Jerry and Newman meeting in a Third World Seinfeld.

When Jack turned back to the Oriental, he saw that the man had slipped into the front hall.

"I wish to see the property," he said.

This was bad—bad because Jack had no contingency for a third player. The new guy wasn't simply a wild card, he was a wild card who knew Ramirez.

"I'm sorry, Mr… Sung, is it? This is by appointment only."

"But I tried to get an appointment. I called three times but no one called back."

"Really?" Jack said slowly, knowing Ramirez was listening. "That's strange. I never got your messages. Perhaps the answering machine isn't working properly." He snapped his fingers as if he'd just had an epiphany. "That's why the response has been so poor! The machine's on the fritz."

"Perhaps," said Sung. "I decided to come over to see if anyone was here."

"And now you have seen," Ramirez said. "I am here, so now you can go."

No love lost between these two, Jack thought. And was that a hint of anxiety in Ramirez's cold dark eyes? Obviously they both had offices in the same building—that was the only way Sung could have seen the flyer.

And maybe they'd butted heads before in a real estate deal.

It hit Jack then that maybe he could stick this wild card in his own hand and play him against Ramirez.

"I'm glad you did, Mr. Sung. Mr. Ramirez was just leaving, so I'll be free to—"

"Wait one minute," Ramirez said. "I made an offer and it was accepted. We have a deal."

"But you said you never leave a cash deposit."

"I said that I never have. I did not say that I never will." He pointed back to the sitting room. "Come. We will talk."

Sung folded his arms across his chest. "I will wait."