It took Jack an extra second or two to figure out the "visitor" bit.

Yeah, kind of hard to threaten to kill a guy who'd been in the process of offing himself. Not much leverage here.

"How about I not kill you? Like maybe start with a kneecap or two?"

Zeklos paled but shook his head. Undersized and funny looking, yeah, but the little guy had guts.

Which left Jack in a bit of a quandary. He could follow through with his threat but didn't think he had the stomach for it. Wouldn't be the first time he'd kneecapped someone, but that had been a mix of personal with business. This was neither. This was…

What the hell was this?

Jack wasn't sure. He'd wound up here because Zeklos and his buddies hadn't let matters slide after their downtown dance. Jack's curiosity had been piqued before that, but he could have lived without knowing any more about them. Now he was interested. Very much so.

But whatever the situation, Jack decided it wouldn't be a bad thing to have this cashiered yeni-something available as a potential resource.

Rising, Jack grabbed the H-K and stuck it behind his belt. Taking it served a double purpose. It took away Zeklos's suicide tool—of course his backup was somewhere around or he could have a good length of rope stashed anywhere—and gave Jack an excuse for a return visit.

"I'm going to borrow this for a while. Be cool. I'll get it back to you when you're in a better mood."

"Do not come back. You disarm me, you embarrass me, you loose my bowels, and you make fun of my teeth. You are a terrible man and I do not ever wish again to see you."

"Yeah, it's been a rough night, hasn't it," Jack said as he backed toward the door—couldn't see any reason not to take the stairs down to the street. "But we all have those."

He stopped as his fingers closed on the knob.

"At least tell me one thing, okay? Those curlicues that the jerk in the cellar was drawing all over the girl. What did they mean?"

Zeklos stared at him. "Was blueprint."

"Blueprint for what?"

"For cuts they would make."

Jack had been afraid of that.

16

As the credits began to roll, Jack stopped The Big Lebowski disc and turned off the TV. He was about halfway through a chronological Coen brothers festival. He'd seen them all before but had never realized how many of their films featured Steve Buscemi.

He rose, stretched, wandered to the window. He stared down at the still and silent street three stories below his brownstone apartment. Nothing happening down there. Too late and too cold.

But as he was turning away he saw what looked like a puff of smoke drift into the cone of light beneath one of the streetlamps across the street. It dissipated so quickly he wasn't sure he'd really seen it. So he waited. A few seconds later another faint white cloud drifted into the light, and he realized it wasn't smoke. It was breath.

Someone was standing in the shadow of the tree directly across the street from his apartment.

Jack squinted through the window, wishing it were cleaner. He made out a silhouette that looked male. But beyond that…

He couldn't say for sure what the guy was doing there, but Jack sensed he was watching… watching Jack's windows.

One of those guys in the black suits? Had he picked up another transponder at Zeklos's place?

He clenched his teeth. His apartment was his sanctum. Fewer than half a dozen people knew where he lived. If they'd followed him home…

No. Couldn't have. The only physical contact he'd had with Zeklos was a single gut punch. He'd stayed a couple of feet away during the rest of his visit.

And then the figure moved, turning and walking out of the shadow into the cone of light. Jack couldn't see his face but knew by the way he walked—he was using a cane but didn't seem to be leaning on it—and by the slight stoop of his shoulders that he was old. And big. Anything beyond that was hidden by his homburg and bulky overcoat—both dark brown instead of black.

Jack watched until he was out of sight.

What the hell? Jack had never seen that old dude before, but he knew—didn't know how, but sure as hell knew—that he'd been watching these windows.

SATURDAY

1

Jack felt pretty decent as he stepped through the Isher Sports Shop's front door. Livelier physically and lighter mentally than he had in weeks. The clear, bright morning sky and brisk air didn't hurt, but he had to give the credit to yesterday. It had been a tonic. Cost him a few thou, but well worth it.

Back in the game.

He wended his way through Isher's towering, overstuffed shelves where dust collected like snow on a glacier. Probably because the stock rarely moved and never turned over. Abe's real business was conducted from the basement, so he didn't spend much time prettying up the teetering farrago of objects to be struck and objects with which to strike them and protective equipment to protect the strikers from being struck.

He found Abe in his usual spot behind the rear counter.

"Brought you a surprise," he said as he approached.

With a flourish he placed a bag of chips on the scarred wooden counter.

"iVu?" Abe said. "Doritos? What for?"

Abe wore his unfailing attire: black pants and a bulging white half-sleeve shirt. Jack was waiting for the day when one of the buttons popped off. Be cool if a chicken materialized and gobbled it in midair.

"Breakfast."

Abe's eyebrows lifted toward the bare expanse of his upper scalp. His expression shifted between shocked and offended as he placed a pudgy, short-fingered hand over his heart.

"Doritos you call breakfast?"

Jack hid a smile. Time for their ritualistic dance.

"Sure. Breakfast is just the first meal of the day. Break… fast. You break your fast." Jack nodded toward Abe's belly. "Although in your case, fasting might be an alien concept."

Abe shook a finger. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. French toast is breakfast. An Entenmann's Brownie Crumb Ring is breakfast. A bagel and a schmear is breakfast. Doritos are not breakfast."

"Never know till you try."

Jack held the bag out to him. Abe stared as if it contained decayed human body parts.

"It's open already. A half-eaten bag you bring me?"

Jack had bought it with the intention of opening it here, but he'd started sampling on the way over.

"Not half. Only a quarter or so." He shook the bag. "Come on. One."

Abe took it and read the logo as he pulled out a chip.

"Nu? A 'Wow' Dorito? I've heard of these."

He held the yellow-orange chip between thumb and forefinger, examining it like a philatelist contemplating an addition to his collection.

"They've been around for years," Jack said as he grabbed a couple and crunched them. He reached for the morning's Post. He wanted to check for any news about last night's goings-on downtown.

"Really, Abe, they taste surprisingly like the real thing. I mean, considering they're fat free and all."

Abe made a face. "Fat free, shmat free. Always with the no fat."

"For you, not for me. I don't worry about fat, but we've got to watch out for that sputtering ticker of yours."

"It's not sputtering!" He looked offended again. "It never sputters."

"Yeah, but it will be." Jack reached across the counter and patted the ample belly. "And maybe fat free can shrink this."

Abe looked down at the vast expanse of his white shirt and pointed to the orange smear of Dorito dust left by Jack's fingers.

"Oy, now look what you've done."

"First of the day," Jack said. Abe tended to keep a record of his daily food intake on his shirt. "It'll have company soon enough."