He looked at her and smiled.

"You would crack wise at the moment your husband shot us both with a shotgun," he said.

"That presumes his being sober enough to hold a shotgun," Dorothy said. "You really do have to go, don't you?"

"The only reason I played at all today is because Tommy Whitlock canceled at the last minute."

He pulled a fresh polo shirt over his head, and then started to pull on a pair of cotton trousers.

"How lucky for the both of us," she said.

He looked at her and smiled again.

"Be careful with the zipper," she said. "I wouldn't want anything to get damaged."

"Neither would I," he said.

"I'm not going to see you again, am I?" she asked.

"I don't see how," Pick said.

"I'll miss you, baby."

"I'll miss you too, Dorothy," he said. He found his wrist-watch on the bedside table and strapped it on. "Christ, I am late!" he said.

He looked down at her, and she pushed herself onto her elbows. He leaned over and kissed her.

"I really am going to miss you," she said.

"Me, too," he said.

"Be careful, baby," she said.

He jumped up and, hopping, pushed his bare feet into a pair of loafers.

Then he left, without looking back at her.

Thirty minutes later he was in San Francisco by the entrance to the parking garage of the Andrew Foster Hotel. A sign had been placed on the sidewalk there: SORRY, BUT JUST

NOW, WE NEED ALL OUR SPACE FOR OUR REGISTERED GUESTS!"

Like everything else connected with the Andrew Foster Hotel, it was not an ordinary sign. It was contained within a polished brass frame and lettered in gold. And the frame was mounted in an ornate cast-iron mounting. The Andrew Foster was one of the world's great hotels (the most prestigious as well as the most expensive hotel in San Francisco), the flagship of the forty-two-hotel Foster Hotel chain. Certain standards would have been expected of it even if Andrew Foster were not resident in the penthouse.

Andrew Foster was fond of quoting the "One Great Rule of Keeping a Decent Inn." It was not the sort of rule that could be written down, for it changed sometimes half a dozen times a day. It could be summarized (and was, behind his back) as immediately correcting whatever offended his eye at the moment.

What offended Andrew Foster could range from a smudge on a bellman's shoes ("The One Great Rule of Keeping a Decent Inn is that the staff must be impeccably turned out. If you do that, everything else will fall into place."); to an overdone medium-rare steak ("The One Great Rule of Keeping a Decent Inn is to give people at table what they ask for. If you do that, everything else will fall into place."); to fresh flowers starting to wilt ("The One Great Rule of Keeping a Decent Inn is to keep the place from looking like a rundown funeral home! If you can do that, everything else will fall into place!").

The gilt- lettered sign appeared on the sidewalk shortly after Mr. Andrew Foster spotted a simple GARAGE FULL sign. Everything else would fall in place if people were told (by means of a sign that didn't look as if it came off the midway of a second-rate carnival) why they couldn't do something they wanted to and were offered the inn's apologies for the inconvenience.

Ignoring the sign, Pick Pickering drove his car, a black Cadillac convertible, roof down, a brand new one, into the parking garage. He quickly saw that the garage was indeed full; there was not sufficient room for the rear of the car to clear the sidewalk.

One of the neatly uniformed (after the fashion of the French Foreign Legion) parking attendants rushed to the car.

"May I park your car for you, sir?" the attendant asked, very politely.

Pick Pickering looked at him and grinned.

"Would you please, Tony?" he asked. "I'm really late."

"No!" the attendant said, in elaborate mock surprise. "Is that why everybody but the Coast Guard's looking for you?"

"Oh, Christ," Pickering said.

" "The One Great Rule of Keeping a Decent Inn,' " Tony quoted.

" is That People Are Where They Are Supposed to Be, When They Are Supposed to Be There,' " Pickering finished for him.

"You've heard that, Pick, have you?" Tony asked. "You want me to let him know you're here?"

"Please, Tony," Pickering said and walked quickly, almost ran, between the tightly packed cars to a door marked

STAFF ONLY.

Behind it was a locker room. Pickering started pulling the polo shirt off his head as he pushed the door open. He had his pants off before he stopped before one of the battered lockers.

Two dinner jackets were hanging in the locker, and three dress shirts in cellophane bags fresh from the hotel laundry, but there was no underwear where there was supposed to be underwear. And not even any goddamned socks!

Moving with a speed that could come only of long practice, he put suspenders on the trousers, studs and cufflinks in the shirt; and as he hooked the cummerbund around his waist, slipped his bare feet into patent leather shoes.

Ninety seconds after he opened the locker door, Pick Pickering tied the knot in the bow tie as he waited impatiently for an elevator.

The elevator door opened. The operator, a middle-aged black woman, stared at him and said, "You've got lipstick on your ear, Pick, and the tie's crooked."

"Would you believe this?" he said, showing her his bare ankles as he stepped into the elevator and reached for a handkerchief to deal with the lipstick.

"Going to be dull around here without you," she said, laughing.

"I understand he's in a rage," Pickering said. "Is there any special reason, or is he just staying in practice?"

"You know why he's mad," she chided. "Where were you, anyway?"

"San Mateo," he said. "I was delayed."

"I could tell," she said, then added, "You may wish you called him and told him."

Most of the "passenger waiting" lights on the call board were lit up, but the elevator operator ignored them as she took him all the way up without stopping. Pick watched annoyed and angry faces as the car rose past people waiting.

"Your ears are clean, but don't give him a chance to look at your feet," the operator said, as she opened the door.

Pickering was surprised to see that the foyer outside the elevator was full of people. Normally the only thing to be found in it were room service or housekeeping carts. He should have known the old man had more in mind than a lamb chop when he said he wanted Pick to have supper with him before he went.

Someone recognized him and giggled, and then applauded. That seemed like a good idea to the others, and the applause caught on like a brushfire. Pick clasped his hands over his head like a victorious prize fighter. That caused more laughter.

"I believe the Marine Corps has landed," Andrew Foster's voice boomed. "An hour late, and more than likely a dollar short."

"I'm sorry, Grandfather," Pick Pickering said.

"I assume that she was worth it," the old man said. "I can't believe you'd keep your mother and your father, not to mention your guests and me, waiting solely because you were riding around on a horse."

(Three)

Bethlehem, Pennsylvania

21 August 1941

Two cops came to the cell.

"Okay, Joe Louis, on your feet!" one of them said, as the other signaled for the remotely operated door to be opened.

One of the cops came in the cell and stood over Tommy McCoy as he put his feet in his work shoes. When Tommy finally stood up, the cop took handcuffs from a holder on his belt.

"Put your hands behind you," he said.

"Hey, I'm all right now," Tommy said.

"Put your hands behind you," the cop repeated.

As he felt the manacles snap in place around his wrist, Tommy asked, "What happens now?"