Did he plan to ring the upstairs doorbell, too? Well, we don't have to put up with that. So May walked down the corridor from the kitchen to the apartment front door, passing along the way the open door on her right to the room where John sat brooding in the direction of the switched-off television set but not, she knew, actually seeing it.

With the apartment door open, she could hear the asymmetric tramp of feet coming up the stairs; more than one, then. And yes, into view from the staircase came Andy and with him that nice kid Judson who'd attached himself to the group recently.

"Harya," Andy said, approaching. "I brought the kid."

"I see that. Is he the reason you rang the bell?"

Looking a bit sheepish, Andy grinned and said, "Basically, yeah. We don't want to give him too many bad habits all at once."

"Hi, Miss May," Judson said.

"Hi, yourself," May said, and stepped back from the doorway. "Well, come on in. John's in the living room, not watching football."

"Oh," Andy said. "That doesn't sound good."

"That's what I think."

They went in to see John as though entering a sickroom. Brightly, May said, "John, look who's here. It's Andy and Judson."

He sort of looked at them. "Harya," he said, and stopped sort of looking at them.

"Sit down," May said, so Andy and Judson perched uncomfortably on the sofa and she wrung her hands a little, not a normal gesture for her, and said, "Can I get anybody a beer?"

Andy could be seen to be about to say yes, but John, in a voice of doom, said, "No, thanks, May," so Andy closed his mouth again.

"Well," May said, and sat in her own chair, and everybody carefully didn't look at John.

Andy said, "This weather. For November, you know, this weather's pretty good."

"Very sunny out there," Judson added.

"That's nice," May said, and gestured at the window. "In here, you hardly notice."

"Well, it's really sunny," Andy said.

"Good," May said.

And then nobody said anything, for quite some time. Andy and Judson frowned mightily, obviously racking their brains in search of topics of conversation, but nothing. The silence in the room stretched on, and everybody in there except John became increasingly tongue-tied and desperate. John just continued to brood in the direction of the television set. Then:

"The problem is," John said.

Everybody turned to him, very alert. But then he didn't say anything else, just shook his head.

They waited; nothing. Finally May said, "Yes, John? The problem?"

"Well, I'm thinking about it backwards," John said. "That's what's been wrong."

May said, "Backwards? I don't follow."

"When the kid said yesterday, we can't get into the vault—"

"I'm sorry I said that, John," Judson said. "I've been wanting to tell you that, I'm sorry."

"No, you were right," John said. "That's what I've been saying all along, there's no way to get into that vault."

"I'm sorry."

"Fuggedabodit. See, what it is I gotta do, I gotta stop thinking about getting into the vault because I can't get into the vault. That's the backwards part."

Judson said, "It is?"

"The mountain," John explained, "gotta go to whatsisname. Mohammed."

Fearing the worst, May said, "John?"

"You know," John said, and gestured vaguely with both hands. "He won't go to that, so that's gotta go to him. Same with the vault. We can't get in at the chess set, case closed, no discussion, so what we gotta do is get the chess set to come out to us."

"That's brilliant, John," Andy said. "How do we do that?"

"Well," John said, "that's the part I'm working on."

25

THOUGH FIONA AND Brian ended their workdays at radically different hours, they began them together, up no later than eight, soon out of the apartment, a stop at Starbucks for coffee and a sweet roll as breakfast on the subway, then the ride downtown together until Fiona got off the train in midtown, Brian continuing on toward his cable company employer's studios down in Tribeca.

This Monday morning was the same, with the usual hurried peck on the lips as Fiona left the train, paused to throw her empty coffee cup into the same trash barrel as always, and walked up the flights of concrete stairs to the street, then down Broadway and over to Fifth, where a poor beggar huddled against the chill air near the entrance to C&I.

Fiona reached into her coat pocket in search of a dollar — she always gave such unfortunates a dollar, not caring how they might spend it — when she realized it wasn't a beggar at all, it was Mr. Dortmunder. Terribly embarrassed, feeling her face flush crimson, hoping he hadn't seen her reach into her pocket or at least hadn't interpreted it for what it was, she forced a large smile onto her face, stopped in front of him and, too brightly, said, "Mr. Dortmunder! Hello again."

"I figured," he said, "we should maybe talk out here, not all the time up in Feinberg. You got a few minutes, we could walk around the block?"

She checked her watch, and she was in fact running a little early today, so she said, "Of course." To make it up to him for mistaking him for a beggar, she said, "I'd be happy to."

"Nice," he said. "So we'll walk."

So they walked, amid the morning scurry of office workers. The Monday crowds on Fifth Avenue were very different from Sunday's; those tourists were still in their hotel rooms, discussing the comparative excitements of a sightseeing bus around Manhattan or a ride on the Staten Island ferry, while the people on the sidewalks this morning were much faster, much leaner, and much more tightly focused on where they were going and why. It was hard for Fiona and Mr. Dortmunder to move among them at the slower pace required for conversation, but they tried, taking the occasional shoulder block along the way.

"What it is," Mr. Dortmunder said, "we got a real problem getting at that thing down in that place, like I told you last time."

"I'm sorry this whole thing got started," she said.

"Well, so am I, but here we are." He shrugged. "The thing is," he said, "your grandfather and the guy working for him, they're pretty set on getting that thing. Or, I mean, me getting that thing."

She felt so guilty about this, much worse than mistaking him for a beggar. "Would it help," she said, "if I talked to my grandfather?"

"Defeatist isn't gonna get far with him."

That sounded like her grandfather, all right. Sighing, she said, "I suppose not."

"But there maybe could be another way," he said.

Surprised, ready to be pleased, she said, "Oh, really?"

"Only," he said, "it's gonna mean I'm gonna have to ask you to help out."

She stopped, absorbed a couple rabbit punches from the hurrying throng, and said, "Oh, no, Mr. Dortmunder!"

They'd reached the corner now, and he said, "Come on around here, before they knock you out."

The side street was easier. Walking along it, she said, "You have to understand, Mr. Dortmunder, I'm an attorney. I'm an officer of the court. I can't be involved in crime."

"That's funny," he said. "I've heard of one or two lawyers involved in crime."

"Criminal lawyers, yes."

"That's not what I mean."

A luggage store with an inset entrance wasn't yet open for business. Pulling him into the space, surrounded by luggage behind windows, she said, "Let me explain." Sure.

"Feinberg," she said, "is a respectable serious law firm. If they knew I was even this much involved in— Mr. Dortmunder, let's be honest here."

"Uh," he said.

"What we're talking about," she said, "is robbery. Burglary. It's a felony, Mr. Dortmunder."

"That's what it is, all right."

"You simply can't ask me to be involved in a felony," she said. "I mean, I'm trying to be good at what I do."