This was the tricky part, to cut and not break. He started at the top, which was the hardest to get at, running the cutter horizontally in as straight a line as possible along the glass, as near to the top rail as he could get, the cut angled just a bit toward the wood.

Because he didn’t want to have to do finicky after-work with the window almost completely free, he went back and cut the same line a second time, then did the same kind of cut down both stiles, first on the left, then on the right. He was aware of the kid watching him from below, but kept his concentration on the work at hand.

The slice across the bottom was the hardest. Having cut just a few inches along that line, he felt he had to hold on to the suction cup handle, just in case the pane decided to fall out before he was ready. Left hand holding the handle, left elbow braced against the jamb, he slid the cutter across once, then twice, then pocketed the cutter and leaned a little forward pressure onto the glass.

At first he thought he hadn’t done enough, but then, with unexpected speed, the pane angled backward into the room. Kelp needed both hands on the handle and both elbows down against the stool in order to keep control of the glass, which was pretty heavy, particularly from this angle. Holding tight, he lifted the pane up and away from himself, then lowered it into the room. Partway, he switched his left hand to grip the glass at the top, keeping away from the fresh-cut edge.

Tink, the glass said, when it touched the floor, but landed with no harm. Kelp used both hands to reach in and down and move the pane to the left, leaning forward against the handle. Then he rattled the ladder to get the kid’s attention, looked down, and waved that he was going in.

It wasn’t easy to get through the glassless window. There were metal shelves to both sides of it in there, but they were a little too far away to give him much help. Mostly, he had to try to slither on his belly, using first elbows and then knees to keep himself clear of the strip of sliced glass below him. From time to time he’d stop to shift position, then inch a little farther along the way, until at last he could firmly grasp a metal shelf on the right and use it to bring his legs the rest of the way into the room.

Down below, the kid would have gone by now, leaving the ladder in place. He would go back up with Dortmunder and Tiny to wait for Kelp to disarm the door and let them in.

Kelp studied himself and found a new roughened area on the front of his jacket, but no other signs of his recent close embrace of cut glass. He stepped through from the pantry into the kitchen, which was moderately illuminated by all its appliance lights, and crossed it to the dark doorway leading into whatever room was next.

When he felt around this doorway in the dark, he found it came with a door, now open against the wall. He closed the door, so he’d be able to switch lights on in here without being seen from outside, then found the light switch, which worked a ceiling fixture.

With light and privacy, he turned to see where he was, and the man sitting up on the sofa bed pointed a Glock at him and said, “Halt.”

43

KELP HALTED. “Whoa,” he said. “You scared me. I didn’t know anybody was here.”

“No, you did not. You will put your hands on top of your head.” The man was Asian of some kind, not the slender delicate Asian of the coastal countries, but a larger, meatier, mountain country Asian, a guy who looked as though he came from a long line of professional wrestlers. This must be one of the Asians Doug had told them about just today—or yesterday—and now, immediately, here he was, as big and dangerous as promised, plus a Glock pistol, an efficient-looking blue-gray watchdog with its one unwavering eye fixed on Kelp.

Doug had never met these people, and was glad of it. Even Babe, he’d told them, kept out of their way. And here was Kelp, in the guy’s bedroom in the middle of the night.

So how many of them were here? And what could Kelp do about it? Raising his hands to rest palms down atop his head, “I’m sorry,” he said, “I thought I could sleep here tonight.”

The man in the bed wore a white T-shirt and was partly covered by sheet and blanket. His right knee was lifted, beneath the blanket, with the butt of the Glock resting on the knee, the hand holding the Glock as still as a statue.

At the moment, he was in an investigatory phase, before deciding what to do about Kelp’s existence in his bedroom. He said, “Why would you sleep here tonight?”

“I missed the last train to Westin,” Kelp told him. “That’s happened a couple times before, and I crash here for the night.”

“Here,” echoed the man. “And who are you?”

“Doug Fairkeep. I work for Get Real.”

The man shook his head; the Glock didn’t move. “What,” he said, “is Get Real?”

“We produce reality television,” Kelp told him. “This is our building, GR Development. GR; Get Real.”

“That is not the company.”

“Oh, you mean Monopole,” Kelp said.

Now the man nodded, but the Glock still didn’t move. “Yes, I mean Monopole.”

“They own Get Real. But that’s who I work for.”

“Not many persons are permitted to enter this apartment.”

“At Get Real,” Kelp said, “it’s only Babe Tuck and me.”

“I have heard the name Babe Tuck,” the man said.

“I’m glad of that anyway,” Kelp said. “Listen, okay if I put my hands down?”

“Andy!” came a half-whispered cry, muffled by distance and the closed bedroom door but audible just the same.

Kelp decided to react big. Jumping a big sideways step farther from the door, though keeping his hands atop his head, he said, “What was that?”

“I heard that,” the man said. “You have someone with you?”

“No! Do you?”

“I do not.” Frowning with deep suspicion, he said, “You will open the door.”

“Open the door?”

“Andy!”

“I don’t know,” Kelp said. “There’s somebody out there.”

The man climbed out of the bed, the Glock never stopping its surveillance of the space between Kelp’s eyes. He wore tan boxer shorts. His legs were strong and mostly hairless. He said, “Open.”

“I’ll stand behind it, all right?”

Now Kelp lowered his hands, put both of them on the doorknob, and pulled the door slowly open.

This time, the “Andy, what’s happening?” was a little louder, and identifiable as the kid. The goddam kid.

The man with the Glock said, “You go first.”

“Oh, boy,” Kelp said.

It seemed to him a reasonable amount of fear would be the most plausible reaction to show at this point, so slowly he went through the doorway, peering in obvious fright to left and right. The man followed, switching on the kitchen lights, poking the Glock into the small of Kelp’s back to move him along, and Kelp said, “Listen, I need a weapon.”

“A weapon?”

Kelp turned to look at the man, who was even larger and more intimidating when standing up and standing close. “I don’t know what’s out there,” Kelp told him, “and neither do you. Maybe it’s more than you can deal with all by yourself.” He pointed to the row of frying pans hung from hooks above the island in the middle of the kitchen. “Okay if I carry one of those?”

The man gave a very small headshake. “What good would it do?”

“Make me feel better,” Kelp said. “Safer. Let me take that one there.”

Impatient, the man said, “All right, take it. But then you go first. Through that door.” Meaning the pantry.

“Absolutely,” Kelp said. He took down the frying pan, a nine-inch cast-iron model, satisfyingly heavy. “This seems good,” he said, hefting it in both hands, then swung it sidearm with all his might into the side of that head, just above the left ear.

The man dropped like a sudden avalanche. The Glock chittered across the tile floor to smack into the dishwasher. Kelp slapped the frying pan down onto the island, grabbed the Glock, turned it around so he wasn’t aiming it at himself, and paused to look at the man, who had returned to dreamland, lying on the floor on his right side, right arm extended as though showing the way.