"I think there's some ribs in the refrigerator," Matt said.

"There's more ribs in the refrigerator than you know," she said. "I stopped off at Ribs Unlimited-I know how you like their ribs-on my way here and got you some."

"Then take yours home with you or give them to Amy."

"Why don't I heat them all up, and we can have lunch? I haven't had anything to eat, either."

"I've got to get back to the office," Brewster Payne said.

"Can you drop me at Hahneman, Dad?" Amy asked.

He nodded.

At the head of the stairs, Amy turned and pointed her finger at Matt.

"For once in your life, Matt, do what people tell you."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, then, the three of us can eat the ribs," Patricia Payne said with forced cheerfulness.

"Four," Charley McFadden said. "Hay-zus will be back in a couple of minutes."

"The four of us, then," she agreed.

The telephone rang. Matt reached to pick it up, then stopped.

They all watched it wordlessly until, after seven rings, it stopped.

I have the strangest feeling that was Helene, Matt thought.

Charley McFadden suddenly got up from his chair and started down the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"From now on," Charley called, "I think we should keep that door locked."

Matt glanced at his mother. She looked very sad. When she sensed his eyes on her, she smiled.

"He really is large, isn't he?"

Jesus Martinez came back to the apartment almost an hour later, as Matt's mother was cleaning up the kitchen.

"They don't make that model anymore," he said. "I have been in every electronics store in Center City trying to find these."

He held up three tape cassettes.

The telephone had rung twice more while they had been eating. They hadn't answered it.

It rang again almost immediately after Matt had installed a new tape.

"What are we supposed to do?" McFadden asked. "Answer it? Or let the machine answer it?"

"Let the machine do it," Martinez said. "I think the chief wants the recording."

With the machine reconnected, it was possible to hear the caller's message.

It was a variation of the previous calls, no more scatologically obscene than the others, but enough, because of Patricia Payne-whom McFadden thought of as Matt's Mother-to cause McFadden to blush with embarrassment and his face to tighten in anger.

"I can rig that thing so we don't have to listen to that crap-sorry, Mrs. Payne," he said.

"That might be a good idea," she said. "But I'm leaving anyway, if that's what's bothering you."

"I'd like to get my hands on that guy," McFadden said.

"So would I," she said. "But don't you see, Charley, that's what they're trying to do, make us angry?"

"They're succeeding," Charley said.

She put her hat and coat on, and then went and stood before Matt, who was sprawled in an overstuffed leather armchair, his bad leg resting on a pillow sitting on the matching ottoman.

"After I leave, maybe you can get Charley to hang your art work," she said.

"What?" Matt asked, and then understood. "Oh, that. How did it get here?"

"Your dad and I brought it from the hospital," she said.

"Thank you."

"Now, there's plenty of food there for breakfast and sandwiches, and I'll bring more when I come tomorrow. But for dinner, your father called the Rittenhouse Club, and they'll bring you anything you want to eat."

"I don't like Rittenhouse Club food in the Rittenhouse Club," Matt said. "Why should I have them haul it over here?"

He saw the hurt look in her eyes and added, "I'm in a lousy mood, sorry, Mother."

"Are you in pain?"

He shook his head no.

"They do a very nice mixed grill, and you like their London broil, I know you do, and besides, beggars can't be choosers." She leaned over and kissed him.

"Ignore him," Patricia Payne said to Charley and Jesus. "Make him feed you."

"Yes, ma'am," Charley said. "I will."

When he came back up the stairs after locking the door after her, McFadden asked, "What art work is she talking about?"

"There's a great big picture of a naked woman in his bedroom," Jesus said.

"No shit?"

"It was a gift from Mrs. Washington," Matt said. "Mrs. Washington and I think of it as a splendid example of Victorian art."

"I gotta see this," Charley said, and went into the bedroom.

He returned carrying the oil painting.

"Over the fireplace, right?"

"Why not?" Charley said.

McFadden went to the fireplace, leaned the picture against it, and then took something from the mantelpiece. He walked to Matt with a snub-nosed revolver in the palm of each hand.

"Maybe you'd better keep these-one of them, anyway- with you. What are you doing with two?"

"One of them belongs to Wohl. He loaned it to me in the hospital. The shooting team took mine away from me. I just got it back."

McFadden sniffed the barrel of one of the revolvers and then the other.

"This must be yours," he said. "I'll clean it for you, if you have the stuff. Otherwise, you'll fuck up the barrel."

"There's cleaning stuff in one of the drawers in the kitchen," Matt said.

"You got any bullets? There's none in this."

"Cartridges,Charley.Bullets are the little lead things that come out the end. There's a box with the cleaning stuff."

"Fuck you, clean your own pistol," Charley said, laid both pistols beside the answering machine, and returned to the oil painting. He picked it up and held it in place over the fireplace, turning his head for approval.

"Great," Matt said.

"What are you going to do when your mother comes back?"

"Mother will modestly avert her eyes," Matt said.

"You got a brick nail?"

"What's a brick nail?"

"A nail you can drive in bricks. You can't do that with regular nails, asshole, they bend."

"No."

There was a knock at the door at the foot of the stairs.

Jesus erupted from his chair and went to the closet and took the shotgun from it.

"It's probably Wohl or Washington," Matt said.

"Who's there?" Jesus called.

"Telephone company."

Jesus went down the stairs. In a moment, he returned, followed by two telephone company technicians, one of whom was visibly curious and made more than a little uncomfortable by Jesus's shotgun.

"Where do you want your phone?" one of them asked.

"One here and one in the bedroom, please," Matt said.

"Is something going on around here?" the other one asked, curiosity having overwhelmed him.

"Like what?" Charley asked.

"Hey, you're the cop who shot the Liberation Army guy, aren't you?" the first one asked.

"Just put the goddamn phone in," Jesus snapped.

"What the hell is wrong with you? I just asked, is all."

It took forty-five minutes to install the two telephones. The installers refused a drink, but accepted Matt's offer of coffee.

"It's cold as a bitch out there," one said.

When they were gone, Martinez said, "That's not going to work."

"What's not going to work?"

"Having people knock on the door, and we ask who is it, and then go down and open the door."

"Why not?" Charley asked.

"What we need is an intercom," Jesus said. "They ring the bell, we ask the intercom who's there. I saw one in the store where I bought the tapes."

"Who would put it in?" Charley asked.

"I would."

"Do you really think it's necessary?" Matt said. "More to the point, do you think that anybody's really going to try to come up here?"

"They threw the firebomb at Monahan," Charley said.

"Jesus," Matt said.

"Save your money, if you want to," Jesus said. "They cost twenty-four ninety-five."

"You can install it?" Matt asked.