The thing is, I love the book business. But I like to do it my way, which is to say in a distinctly casual fashion. Burglary spoils one. When you've grown accustomed to turning a big dollar in a few hours by means of illegal entry, it's hard to work up much enthusiasm for a lot of routine work that won't yield more than the price of a movie ticket.

Still, it was fun reading through the ads and checking off titles. Even if I'd probably never follow it up.

I called Denise around nine. Jared answered, told me Babel-17 was all he'd hoped it would be, then summoned his mother to the phone. We talked for a few minutes about nothing in particular. Carolyn's name came up, I don't remember how, and Denise referred to her as "that lesbian dwarf, the fat little one who always smells of Wet Dog."

"Funny," I said, "she always speaks well of you."

Carolyn called a little later. "I was thinking about what we were talking about," she said. "You're not going to do anything about it, are you?"

"I guess not."

"Because it's impossible, Bern. Remember the conversation we had with Abel? The fire escape's on the front of the building and he's got gates on the window anyway. And the doorman takes his job twice as seriously as Saint Peter, and there are those police locks on the doors-"

"There used to be," I said, "but the cops got a locksmith to open one of them."

"What's the difference? You still can't get into the building."

"I know."

"And it's driving you crazy, isn't it?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Because it's driving me crazy, too. Bernie, if we hadn't already stolen the damned coin once, and all you knew about it was that it was probably somewhere in that apartment, an apartment the police have probably sealed off because someone was killed in it yesterday, and you knew what kind of security they have in the building and all, and you knew that the coin was probably hidden somewhere in the apartment and that you wouldn't even know where to start looking for it, assuming it was there in the first place, which you can't be positive of-"

"I get the picture, Carolyn."

"Well, assuming all that, would you even think twice about stealing the coin?"

"Of course not."

"That's what I mean."

"But we already stole it once."

"I know."

"And that makes me tend to think of it as my coin," I explained. "They say thieves don't respect private property. Well, I have a very strongly developed sense of private property, as long as it's my property we're talking about. And it's not just the money, either. I had a great rarity in my hands and now I've got nothing. Think what a blow that is to the old self-esteem."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing."

"That's good."

"Because there's nothing I can do."

"Right. That's what I wanted to check, Bern. I'm on my way over to the Duchess. Maybe I'll get lucky and meet somebody sensational."

"Good luck."

"I'm so goddamn restless lately. Must be a full moon. Maybe I'll run into Angela. She'll be feeding the jukebox and playing all the Anne Murray records. I guess she must be straight, huh?"

"Anne Murray?"

"Angela. Figure she's straight?"

"Probably."

"If she's straight and Abel was gay they could have raised poodles together."

"And you could have clipped them."

"I could have clipped the poodles, too. Jesus, how do I get out of this conversation?"

"I don't know. Which way did you get in?"

"Bye, Bern."

The eleven o'clock news brought no fresh revelations, and who wants a stale one? I turned the set off as soon as they'd announced who Johnny's guests were, grabbed a jacket and went out. I hiked up West End Avenue, took a left at Eighty-sixth, walked the rest of the way on Riverside Drive.

The air was cooler now, and heavy with impending rain. You couldn't see any stars but you hardly ever can in New York, even on cloudless nights. The pollution's always thick enough to obscure them. I did see a moon, about half full with a haze around it. That means something, either that it's going to rain or it isn't, but I can never remember which.

There were a surprising number of people on the street-joggers plodding around Riverside Park, dog owners walking their pets, other people bringing home a quart of milk and the early edition of the Times. I crossed the street for a better view and looked up at Abel's building, counting floors to find his window. It was dark, naturally enough. I let my eyes travel around the corner and noted the fire escape on the Eighty-ninth Street side. It looked substantial enough, but it was right out there in plain view and you couldn't reach the bottom rungs from the sidewalk unless you had a long ladder.

Pointless anyway. As Carolyn had made quite clear.

I walked toward Ninetieth Street. The building immediately adjacent to Abel's stood three stories taller, which meant I couldn't get from its roof to Abel's unless I was prepared to lower myself on a rope. I wasn't, nor did I have any reason to assume security there would be any less rigid than at its neighbor. I returned to Eighty-ninth Street and walked a few doors past Abel's building. It was bounded on that side by a long row of late-nineteenth-century brownstones, all of them four stories tall. The windows in Abel's building that looked out over the brownstones were too high to be readily accessible from the rooftop, and there were steel guards over them anyway.

I started walking toward West End Avenue again, then doubled back for another look, feeling like an addled criminal drawn irresistibly back to the scene of someone else's crime. The doorman was the same stiff-spined black man who'd been on duty during our previous visit, and he looked as formidable as ever. I watched him from across the street. Waste of time, I told myself. I wasn't accomplishing anything. I was as restless as Carolyn and instead of going to the Duchess I was going through the motions.

I crossed the street, approached the entrance. The building was a massive old pile of brick, safe as a fortress and solid as the Bank of England. Engaged columns of a dull red marble flanked the double entrance doors. Bronze plaques on either side announced the professional tenants within. I noted three shrinks, a dentist, an ophthalmologist, a podiatrist and a pediatrician, a fairly representative Upper West Side mix.

I saw no plaque for Abel Crowe, Receiver of Stolen Goods, and I shook my head at the thought. Give me half a chance and I can become disgustingly maudlin.

The doorman approached, asked if he could help me. I got the feeling he'd lately graduated with honors from an assertiveness-training workshop.

"No," I said sadly. "Too late for that." And I turned away and went home.

The phone rang while I unlocked all of my locks and gave up in mid-ring as I was shoving the door open. If it's important, I told myself, they'll call back.

I took a shower which no one could have called premature, got into bed, dozed off. I was dreaming about a perilous descent-a fire escape, a catwalk, something vague-when the phone rang. I sat up, blinked a few times, answered it.

"I want the coin," a male voice said.

"Huh?"

"The nickel. I want it."

"Who is this?"

"Not important. You have the coin and I want it. Don't dispose of it. I'll contact you."

"But-"

The phone clicked in my ear. I fumbled it back onto the receiver. The bedside clock said it was a quarter to two. I hadn't been sleeping long, just long enough to get into the swing of it. I lay down and reviewed the phone call and tried to decide whether to get up and do something about it.

While I was thinking it over I fell back asleep.