"No, I suppose not."

"There's a flight this evening at eight-thirteen," Preston said, "that arrives in Philadelphia at ten fifty-nine. We rent a car there, Alan. An hour and a half on the Jersey Turnpike, through the Lincoln Tunnel, and we're home. At one or two in the morning, surely I can slip into that building undetected."

"We have a lot of luggage, Preston. Maybe we should put the rental car in that garage of yours, run everything up in the elevator."

Preston looked scornful. "A dreadful idea, Alan," he said. "I think you'd best leave the generaling to me."

"If you say so."

"I do say so. A lot of activity around that garage, Alan, and my personal automobile suddenly parked on the street, would be a dead giveaway. I want to be home, Alan, but I do not want every private detective in the employ of my ex-wives to know I am home."

"Then that's what we'll do, then," Alan agreed.

Easier said than done. Alan checked Preston out, using his own name and credit card, while Preston prepared an envelope for DeeDee to pass on to Duane, containing, Alan had no doubt, less than Duane would be pleased by, and then Alan, having just driven all the way down here from Miami International, turned around and drove all the way back again.

Next, at the airport, having just checked out all this luggage, he proceeded, with minimal help from Preston, to check it all back in again. Having rid themselves of baggage and rental car, they did have time for a rather awful dinner with a Spanish overcast before boarding their flight, where, once they were safely seated in first class, Alan was happy to forget dinner with another complimentary Bloody Mary.

And then, for quite some time, nothing happened. The pilot did occasionally come onto the sound system with that sedated-frog pilot voice to explain the delay — something about traffic backed up at Chicago O'Hare, though what that had to do with a flight between Miami and Philadelphia,

Alan did not feel competent to say — but the effect was, they left the ground not at 8:13 but at 9:45, more or less, which put them in the sky over Philadelphia not at 10:59 but at nearly one in the morning. Since they had arrived at Philadelphia at the wrong time, throwing everybody's schedule off, they had to spend an additional fifteen minutes circling in the sky above that city until at last a niche was found for them among all those millions and millions of summer travelers, and the plane finally landed.

Luggage. More luggage. Wait, still more luggage. It was quarter to two when the last of the three carts of luggage reached the car rental desk, where, astonishingly enough, the reservation Preston had made this morning in Alan's name was still good. Not only that, they had another Lexus Enorma, this one in bright yellow.

Alan had to fight to stay awake on the long drive up through New Jersey, which meant he had to have the radio on loud. Preston also had to stay awake, because of the loud radio but also to monitor Alan's wakefulness, so by a quarter to four, when they at last drove through the Lincoln Tunnel into Manhattan, both were feeling rather shredded. The only good part of it was that neither had the strength to start a fight, even though both of them wanted with all their hearts to start a fight.

But a fight very nearly did break out anyway, when Preston insisted, as they were driving through Central Park, that Alan turn the Enorma back in to its owners tonight. "We have to have this trip behind us," he announced, "as though it had never existed. We cannot have this vehicle, in your name, in front of my home until God knows what time tomorrow. It won't be difficult for you at all, Alan."

Of course it would be difficult, as they both knew, but Preston didn't care. However, they did finally get to the apartment building, where they put most of the on-duty staff to work emptying the car and transporting everything up the regular elevator to the penthouse, once they'd convinced the staff that Preston was really Preston. No one employed here now had been here in that prehistory when Preston had been an actual presence in the building.

Once everything was in and up, it was established that the doorman would recognize Alan whenever he returned from his Enorma unloading, and would deliver him to the penthouse. So all that was left for Alan to do was get back in the car, drive to the rental agency's office on Eleventh Avenue, turn the car in, roam the streets a while in search of a taxi, find one, ride it back to Fifth Avenue, ride, wilting, up in the elevator to the penthouse, and walk into a place of a million lights, where Preston paced back and forth on the living room floor.

"Where have you been?"

"Everywhere," Alan said. "I would like to sleep now, if I may."

"It's always about you, Alan," Preston said. "I've noticed that. Come along, I'll show you your guest room. That's why I've been waiting up for you, Alan, to be your host. There's the guest room there, it has its own bath, I've had your bags put in there higgledy-piggledy, I shall now turn out every light and go straight to bed and I do not want to know the world again for hours and hours and hours."

"I'll second that," Alan said around a yawn.

When, a few minutes later, too tired to do anything but wash his face and brush his teeth, Alan turned off his own last light and declined gratefully onto Preston's extremely comfortable guest-room bed, the red LED of the bedside alarm read 04:47.

43

THE TRUCK WAS a three-year-old Ford E-450 sixteen-foot diesel cube van, painted white some time ago, without company markings or other writing on its sides, doors, or back. The cab was comfortable, the rear door rolled up easily, and the flat floor interior was broom clean and without the odors of yesteryear. The truck's green license plates were from Vermont, a state about which there has never been a shred of suspicion, unlike some we could mention, and the CD left behind in the deck was Schubert's Trout Quintet.

Seeing this, Stan said, "The previous owner give up the ministry?"

"Something like that," Max said.

Already at eight in the morning, Max's shirtfront was streaked with gray from leaning on cars, talking over their tops at potential customers, of whom a few straggled around the lot at the moment, hoping to find something that could take them to work today. Harriet had a perky nephew who played salesman sometimes, when the customer load backed up, and he was out there now, fetching thrown sticks and talking up the merchandise and otherwise making himself useful, while Max and Stan discussed the trade at issue.

So Stan took one wary step back from the Ford and said, "Something like what, Max? Does this vehicle blow up?"

"Nothing like that at all," Max assured him. "I'll tell you the story in the office. For now, I understand you got a free gift for me."

"Stockbroker's special," Stan said, pointing at the BMW. "It's all yours except the plates."

"The plates?"

"I'll switch with the truck. I wouldn't want to drive around New York with Vermont plates. Somebody might stop and ask to borrow a ski."

"Mm hm." Max walked around the BMW to the other side, leaned on it, looked over its top, and said, "You got any papers with this thing?"

"Nothing you'd want to hold in your hands."

"We're talking virgin birth here."

"It's a miracle, Max. And it's all yours, if the truck's story doesn't scare me too much."

"I'll wanna hear the BMW story, too," Max said. "Come on in."

As they stepped into the office building, Harriet was typing and the phone was ringing — nothing new. "We get more privacy inside," Max said, as Harriet at last paused in her typing and grabbed the phone: