"Wow." It was a rare thing to impress Bug.

"Yeah," I said. "Before you level the block, you might just use that."

52

Regents Bank's main office was on Sixth, at Fifty-third. They owned the entire building. The ground floor brought to mind a futuristic grand ballroom with forty-foot ceilings and crystal walls. The floor was a huge mosaic, a copy of an Australian Aboriginal rock painting depicting their god, the Great Lizard, passing over the Land of Man.

Most of the floor was empty of furniture or partitions. Small groups stood here and there, discussing who knows what. There was a large semicircular desk toward the far end of the vast room where three young women waited to grant or disallow entrance to the higher levels of Regents.

The desk was made from plastic, or maybe glass, with an emerald tint. The young women were Asian, African-American, and Hispanic-all young and, to one degree or another, lovely.

"Yes? Can I help you?" the smiling Asian child asked.

"Leonid Trotter McGill," I said. "For Mr. Oscar Shell."

"What department?"

"He's a special operative in the employ of Sandra Sanderson the Third."

Something like fear entered the young woman's eyes. However, the smile managed to keep a place hold on the lower half of her face.

She turned to her girlfriends and huddled.

A guard with an earphone entered from stage right. I gazed wistfully at the red-and-ochre mosaic tiles at my feet.

All three of the women stood and approached me.

"What is your business?" the black woman asked me.

"Is Mr. Shell here?"

"That's not what I asked you."

"The only thing you need to know is that my business with you is getting to Mr. Shell."

No one there liked me.

"I'm sorry, we, we don't have anybody by that name here," the Hispanic woman said.

"Then I'll leave."

The suited guard took a step toward me.

Evoking my beloved, and favorite, son, I did a single shoulder shrug and made to turn away.

"Excuse me," the Asian woman said.

I noticed then that all three were the same height.

"Yes?"

"Does this business have to do with Regents?"

"No," I said. "I'm pretty sure not. At least I hope not."

"What does that mean?"

Another guard appeared-stage left.

"A woman may have been threatened by Mr. Shell. And we believe that he is known to Ms. Sanderson. I came here to investigate along that line of inquiry."

" 'We'?"

"I represent a consortium that reports to a central body interested in the welfare of this woman and the actions of those connected with said Mr. Shell."

Highbrow language usually gets under the skin of the underlings of power.

One of the guards spoke into his left cuff. I wondered if their earphones were somehow connected to a transmitter at the clear green reception desk.

"But you say that there is no Mr. Shell here?" I said.

"No," the first receptionist I spoke to said.

"Then we've been misinformed." I turned to go.

"Sir?" the black receptionist said. She was holding a small green wireless phone against the left side of her face.

"Yes?"

"Take the elevator through the door behind our desk."

I glanced at the portal and wondered.

"To what floor?" I asked.

"It only goes to one floor."

"Will Oscar Shell be there?"

"I can only tell you what I've been told."

I hesitated a moment more. I hadn't actually expected admission to Regents' inner sanctum. I only wanted to shake things up a bit. But there I was, flanked by two mortal descendants of Cerberus and faced with three modern- day sirens.

Knowing the mythology, I should have walked out.

"Okay," I said.

The Latina raised a section of the round desk as the Asian used an electronic card to open the door.

I walked through into a small cylindrical room that was colored dark red from ceiling to floor. Before me stood an onyx elevator door that slid open, seemingly at my approach.

The black car had two buttons: a green disc over a cream-colored one. I pressed the upper button, and, after a moment, the car began a speedy ascent.

Maybe eighty seconds later, the car came to a stop and the door opened onto a large space that was more like a living room than an office. The floors were white marble and the distant windows looked eastward, toward Long Island. There was a rainstorm passing in the distance.

"Forgive me, sir," a well-built white man in an olive-green suit said.

"For what?"

"I'm going to search you."

He was tall enough, in his forties, I guessed, and bald. Probably pretty strong.

"No," I said.

Mild surprise rippled across his handsome features.

"I'm afraid I'll have to insist."

"You should be-afraid, that is. Because I'm mad as a mothahfuckah and I don't believe you can take me. At the very least you have to prove it before you can see what's in my pockets."

The bodyguard's face had a tan complexion. His intelligent eyes gave the impression of education-both formal and from the street. He had seen a lot of struggle in his life but did not expect it in this rarefied atmosphere.

I noticed a jet in the distant sky, taking off from Kennedy, no doubt.

The bodyguard took a step in my direction.

I smiled invitingly.

"Mr. Corman," a deep feminine voice intoned.

From somewhere to the left a tall and slender woman approached.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Let's forgo the routine this time. I'm sure that Mr. McGill isn't here to make trouble."

"But Ms. Sanderson-"

"Stand aside," she said. She had a voice that was used to being obeyed.

Mr. Corman backed away as the woman strode forward.

At first I couldn't make out her features because of the light from behind. But then, suddenly, the light of the entryway revealed her face.

It was the mask of a forty-year-old woman perfectly molded to a skull that sat atop a fit seventy-year-old body. She had done her Pilates and eaten acres of broccoli but that hadn't stopped the clock, not completely.

"You'll have to forgive Mr. Corman," she said. "He's a new employee and hasn't yet mastered the subtleties of his position."

"Is another one of your employees an Oscar Shell?" I asked.

"Thousands of people work for me. You can't expect that I would know them all by name."

Twelve feet behind her sat two black sofas on a bright pine floor.

"What do you want with this Mr. Shell?" she asked.

Her steel-gray pants suit and lilac blouse were designed for the forty-year-old she was impersonating. But the backs of her hands were discolored and wrinkled.

I glanced to the left to see what Corman was up to. He watched me with the same purpose.

"Mr. McGill?" Sandra Sanderson III prodded.

"I wanted to ask him a question."

"What's that?"

"Who hired him to frighten and harass my client?"

"You're a lawyer?"

"A dick."

"I see. And who is your client?"

"My business."

"And how much is this client paying?"

"She's paying the going rate. The only rate I ever charge."

"I see."

"You don't know him?"

"No."

"Then why am I here?" I asked.

"I wanted to get a look at you." Her words accomplished their sinister intent.

"May I ask you something?"

"If you wish."

"I never heard of a woman, outside of royalty and cruise ships, called 'the Third.' Did your mother go by 'Junior'?"

"I come from a long line of strong women, Mr. McGill. I believe you will discover that fact at some point in your misguided investigation."

"Are you telling me that you don't own the Leontine Building over on Park?" I said.

That did something to the old woman's eyes.

"Come sit with me for a moment, Mr. McGill," she commanded.