"No no no!" Kelp said, and his eyes didn't blink at all. "I told you, Bernard, non-violence, it's an old family tradition. There's more than one way to skin a cat."

"They all leave the cat dead."

"I swear to God, Bernard," Kelp said, and actually raised his hand in the Boy Scout pledge. "My cousin strictly wants to know for sure who the guy is, and his dealing with the problem will absolutely one hundred per cent not include physical violence."

"He wants to outbid the other side?"

"I have no idea what's in my cousin's mind," Kelp said, blinking like mad.

"All right," Bernard said. "Tell me what you know about the guy."

"He's white," Kelp said. "He's tall, skinny, black haired, he's got a game leg. The right foot's in a big orthopedic shoe, and he limps. Also, he got picked up for something late in October, I don't know for what, and a very famous lawyer called J. Radcliffe Stonewiler got him off."

Bernard frowned deeply. "You know a lot of funny details about this guy," he said.

"Please, Bernard," Kelp said. "Don't ask me where I get my information, or I'll have to make up some cockamamie lie, and I'm no good at that."

"Oh, Andy," Bernard said, "you underestimate yourself." And the food and wine arrived. "Nice," Bernard said. "Let's eat a while, and I'll think about this."

"Great idea," said Kelp.

So they ate, and they drank wine, and at the end of the meal Bernard said, "Andy, can you promise me, if I get you anything on this bird, nothing illegal will happen?"

Kelp stared at him. "Nothing illegal? Bernard, you can't be serious. Do you have any idea just how many laws there are?"

"All right," Bernard said, patting the air. "All right."

But Kelp had momentum, and couldn't stop all at once. "You can't walk down the street without breaking the law, Bernard," he said. 'Every day they pass new laws, and they never get rid of any of the old laws, and you can't live a normal life without doing things illegal."

"Okay, Andy, okay. I said okay, didn't I?"

"Bernard, just off the top of your head, how many laws would you say you broke so far today?"

Bernard pointed a stern finger across the table. "Lay off, Andy," he said. "Now I mean it."

Kelp stopped, took a deep breath, got hold of himself, and said, "I'm sorry. It's a subject that's close to my heart, that's all"

Bernard said, "Let me rephrase it, Andy, okay? No major crimes. No, wait, you'll be talking about industrial pollution in a minute. No violent crimes. Is that a fair request?"

"Bernard," Kelp said, with solemnity, "it is not my intention, or my cousin's intention, to harm one hair of this fellow's head. He won't get killed, he won't get wounded. All right?"

"Thank you," Bernard said. "Let me make a phone call, see what I can do." He pushed his chair back and said, "While I'm gone, order me an espresso and a Sambuca, okay?" And he got to his feet and headed toward the phone booth in the back.

"Bernard," Kelp muttered after his departing back, "you're a highway robber." But he ordered the espresso and Sambuca from Sal the waiter, and the same for himself, and was chewing on one of the coffee beans from the Sambuca when Bernard came back. Kelp gave him an alert look, but first Bernard had to taste his Sambuca, then he had to put a sugar cube in his espresso. Finally, stirring the espresso, he looked seriously at Kelp and said, "Your cousin's tangled with a wrong guy."

"I thought so," said Kelp.

"His name's Leo Zane," Bernard said, "and he has the worst kind of no record."

"I don't think I follow."

"Picked up lots of times, always on very serious stuff – murder, attempted murder, aggravated assault, twice for arson – but never convicted."

"Slippery," Kelp suggested.

"Like a snake. And twice as dangerous. If your cousin wants to deal with this guy, he better wear gloves."

"I'll tell him. Did you happen to get an address while you were on the phone?"

Bernard shook his head. "Zane isn't a homebody," he said. "He lives in furnished rooms, residence hotels, he's a loner and moves around a lot."

"Drat."

"There's one thing that might help," Bernard said. "There's a clinic up in Westchester he goes to sometimes. On account of his foot. Apparently, that's the only place he ever goes for treatment, that one clinic."

"What's it called?"

"Westchester Orthopedic."

"Thanks, Bernard," Kelp said. "I'll tell my cousin."

Bernard pointed a serious finger at Kelp. "If anything happens to Zane," he said, "anything at all, I'll connect it back to you, Andy, I swear I will."

Kelp spread his hands in utter innocence. Not a blink marred his eyes. "Don't you think I know that, Bernard? I know you're a straight guy. I wouldn't have called you if I figured to pull something like that."

"All right," said Bernard. Relaxing, he looked down at his Sambuca, smiled, and said, "You ever try this?"

"Try what?"

Bernard took out a pack of matches, lit one, held it over the Sambuca, and a small blue flame formed on top of the liqueur, where the coffee beans floated. Bernard shook out the match, and sat smiling at the blue flame.

Kelp didn't get it. "What's that for?" he asked.

"The idea is," Bernard said, "it like roasts the coffee beans."

"But what's that burning?"

"The alcohol, of course."

"Then why do it?"

Bernard looked startled. "By God, you're right," he said, and blew out the flame.

"I hope you made a wish," Kelp said.

Chapter 6

The scrawny black cat jumped from the floor up to the windowsill, where Leo Zane was pouring milk into the saucer. Setting the milk carton on the table nearby, Zane stood at the window a minute longer, scratching the cat behind the ear as it lapped up milk. A dreary March rain dribbled down the glass, and Zane's foot continued to ache. It was the weather, of course, the dampness of the end of winter, and the trip to the clinic, his first in almost six months, had done no good at all.

He ought to go away for a while, somewhere warm and dry. Maybe Los Angeles, sit in the sun, absorb some warmth into the bones of his foot. Absorb warmth into his body, his entire body was cold and achy now; the damp pain, like death, crept up through his frame from his foot, filling him with chills and cramps. No matter how much clothing he wore, no matter how warm the room or how much hot coffee he drank, the cold torment was still there, deep in his bones.

What was keeping him in New York? Very little, beyond his own lethargy. Every year around this time he made the same vague plans to leave, but he never went, he always found some excuse, he seemed wedded to the climate that made him sick. And this year?

Well, in fact, this year there were one or two jobs still open. The psychiatrist's wife, for instance; she was turning out to be surprisingly difficult to dispatch. Of course, the jobs that had to look like accident or natural causes were always the most difficult. And then there was the Chauncey job, that was still on tap.

Not that Zane expected actually to do anything on the Chauncey job. His one conversation with that fellow Dortmunder, plus the occasional interval of observing the man, had convinced him Dortmunder would try no tricks. Once Chauncey collected from the insurance company – possibly next month, more likely in May – Dortmunder would assuredly turn over the painting, Chauncey would pay Zane the remaining fifteen thousand due on the contract, and that would be that.

The psychiatrist's wife. If only she drove a car. You'd think, in this day and age – Movement beyond the window attracted Zane's attention.

Down below, a man hunched against the rain as he entered his automobile, a dark blue Jaguar sedan, parked by the fire hydrant. It had MD plates, from over in New Jersey, and Zane reflected again on what a dodge that was. Put MD plates on a car, you could park anywhere you wanted, just as though doctors still made house calls. Up at the clinic they were parked all over the – Hadn't there been a Jaguar sedan parked outside the clinic?