“Yes?” He handed me the card. NEXV CENTURY REAL ESTATE, it said in raised gold letters. Below this, in more modest black, was my visitor’s name. “I’m Richard Osgood,” he said as if I couldn’t read, and held out his hand.

The American male’s need to respond to that gesture in kind is deeply ingrained, but that night I resisted it. He held his little pink paw out a moment longer, then lowered it and wiped the palm nervously against his chinos. “I have a message for you. From Mr. Devote.” I waited. “May I come in?”

“No,” I said. He took a step backward, wiped his hand on his pants again, and seemed to gather himself. “I hardly think there’s any need to be rude, Mr. Noonan.” I wasn’t being rude. If I’d wanted to be rude, I would have treated him to a faceful of roach-repellent. “Max Devote and his minder tried to drown me in the lake this evening. If my manners seem a little off to you, that’s probably it.” Osgood’s look of shock was real, I think. “You must be working too hard on your latest project, Mr. Noonan. Max Devore is going to be eighty-six on his next birthday—if he makes it, which now seems to be in some doubt. Poor old fella can hardly even walk from his chair to his bed anymore. As for Rogette—”

“I see your point,” I said. “In fact I saw it twenty minutes ago, without any help from you. I hardly believe it myself, and I was there. Give me whatever it is you have for me.”

“Fine,” he said in a prissy little “all right, be that way” voice. He unzipped a pouch on the front of his leather bag and brought out a white envelope, business-sized and sealed. I took it, hoping Osgood couldn’t sense how hard my heart was thumping. Devore moved pretty damned fast for a man who travelled with an oxygen tank.

The question was, what kind of move was this? “Thanks,” I said, beginning to close the door. “I’d tip you the price of a drink, but I left my wallet on the dresser.”

“Wait! You’re supposed to read it and give me an answer.” I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t know where Devore got the notion that he could order me around, but I have no intention of allowing his ideas to influence my behavior. Buzz off.” His lips turned down, creating deep dimples at the corners of his mouth, and all at once he didn’t look like Woody Allen at all. He looked like a fifty-year-old real-estate broker who had sold his soul to the devil and now couldn’t stand to see anyone yank the boss’s forked tail. “Piece of friendly advice, Mr. Noonan—you want to watch it. Max Devore is no man to fool around with.”

“Luckily for me, I’m not fooling around.” I closed the door and stood in the foyer, holding the envelope and watching Mr. Next Century Real Estate. He looked pissed off and con-fused—no one had given him the bum’s rush just lately, I guessed. Maybe it would do him some good. Lend a little perspective to his life. Remind him that, Max Devore or no Max Devore, Richie Osgood would still never stand more than five-feet-seven. Even in cowboy boots.

“Mr. Devore wants an answer!” he called through the closed door. “I’ll phone,” I called back, then slowly raised my middle fingers in the double eagle I’d hoped to give Max and Rogette earlier. “In the meantime, perhaps you could convey this.” I almost expected him to take off his glasses and rub his eyes. He walked back to his car instead, tossed his case in, then followed it. I watched until he had backed up to the lane and I was sure he was gone. Then I went into the living room and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, faintly scented with the perfume my mother had worn when I was just a kid. White Shoulders, I think it’s called. Across the top—neat, ladylike, printed in slightly raised letters—was ROGETTE Do WHITMORE Below it was this message, written in a slightly shaky feminine hand:

8.’30 P.M. Dear Mr. Noonan, Max wishes me to convey how glad he was to meet you! I must echo that sentiment. You are a very amusing and entertaining jllow! We enjoyed your antics ever so much. Now to business. M. ofrs you a very simple deal.” if you promise to cease asking questions about him, and if you promise to cease all legal maneuvering—if you promise to let him rest in peace, so to speak then Mr. Devore promises to cease erts to gain custody of his granddaughter. If this suits, you need only tell Mr. Osgood “I agree.” He will carry the message! Max hopes to return to Calijrnia by private jet very soon—he has business which can be put off no longer, although he has enjoyed his time here and has J3und you particularly interesting. He wants me to remind you that custody has its responsibilities, and urges you not to J$rget he said so.

Rogette P.S. He reminds me that you didn’t answer his question—does her cunt suck? Max is quite curious on that point.

I read this note over a second time, then a third. I started to put it on the table, then read it a fourth time. It was as if I couldn’t get the sense of it. I had to restrain an urge to fly to the telephone and call Mattie at once. It’s over, Mattie, I’d say. Taking your job and dunking me in the lake were the last two shots of the war. He’s giving up. No. Not until I was absolutely sure. I called Warrington’s instead, where I got my fourth answering machine of the night. Devore and Whitmore hadn’t bothered with anything warm and fuzzy, either; a voice as cold as a motel ice-machine simply told me to leave my message at the sound of the beep. “It’s Noonan,” I said. Before I could go any further there was a click as someone picked up. “Did you enjoy your swim?”

Rogette Whitmore asked in a smoky, mocking voice. if I hadn’t seen her in the flesh, I might have imagined a Barbara Stanwyck type at her most coldly attractive, coiled on a red velvet couch in a peach-silk dressing gown, telephone in one hand, ivory cigarette holder in the other. “If I’d caught up with you, Ms. Whitmore, I would have made you understand my feelings perfectly.”

“Oooo,” she said. “My thighs are a-tingle.”

“Please spare me the image of your thighs.”

“Sticks and stones, Mr. Noonan,” she said. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your call?”

“I sent Mr. Osgood away without a reply.”

“Max thought you might. He said, “Our young whoremaster believes in the value of a personal response. You can tell that just looking at him.’”

“He gets the uglies when he loses, doesn’t he?”

“Mr. Devore doesn’t lose.” Her voice dropped at least forty degrees and all the mocking good humor bailed out on the way down. “He may change his goals, but he doesn’t lose. You were the one who looked like a loser tonight, Mr. Noonan, paddling around and yelling out there in the lake. You were scared, weren’t you?”

“Yes. Badly.”

“You were right to be. I wonder if you know how lucky you are?”

“May I tell you something?”

“Of course, Mike—may I call you Mike?”

“Why don’t you just stick with Mr. Noonan.

Now—are you listening?”

“With bated breath.”

“Your boss is old, he’s nutty, and I suspect he’s past the point where he could effectively manage a Yahtzee scorecard, let alone a custody suit. He was whipped a week ago.”

“Do you have a point?”

“As a matter of fact I do, so get it right: if either of you ever tries anything remotely like that again, I’ll come after that old fuck and jam his snot-smeared oxygen mask so far up his ass he’ll be able to aerate his lungs from the bottom. And if I see you on The Street, Ms. Whitmore, I’ll use you for a shotput. Do you understand me?” I stopped, breathing hard, amazed and also rather disgusted with myself. If you had told me I’d had such a speech in me, I would have scoffed. After a long silence I said: “Ms. Whitmore? Still there?”

“I’m here,” she said. I wanted her to be furious, but she actually sounded amused. “Who has the uglies now, Mr. Noonan?”

“I do,” I said, “and don’t you forget it, you rock-throwing bitch.”

“What is your answer to Mr. Devore?”