He got on the elevator and rode it to the third floor and got off. The narrow corridor between the elevator and the stairs to his apartment was crowded with people.

A woman he could never remember having seen before in his life rushed over to him, stuck something to his lapel, cried, "Oh, I'm so glad you could come!" and handed him a glass of champagne.

"Thank you," Matt said. The champagne glass, he noticed, was plastic.

"We're circulatingdownward tonight," the woman said.

"Are we?"

"Yes, isn't that clever?"

"Mind-boggling," Matt replied.

The woman walked away.

Nice ass for an old woman; I wonder if there's anybody here under, say, thirty?

"Hello, Mr. Payne."

It was one of the Holmes Security rent-a-cops. Matt knew he was a retired police sergeant, and it made him a little uncomfortable to be called "Mr." by a sergeant.

"I bet you know what's going on here," Matt said, smiling at him.

The retired cop chuckled. "I saw the look on your face. This is a party for the people who worked on the Cancer Society Ball."

"I have no idea what that means, but thanks anyway."

"You know, the ones who sold tickets, did all the work. And, of course, gave money."

"Oh," Matt said.

He saw a very pretty face, surrounded by blond hair in a pageboy. She was looking at him with unabashed curiosity. All he could see was the head and shoulders. The lady was on her way down the narrow stairway to the second floor.

Oh, that's what she meant by "circulating downward. "

"I just came from the FOP," Matt said. "I wondered where everybody had come from."

"This is better than the FOP," the Holmes man said. "Here the booze is free. There's a bar in the lobby."

"But I don't belong."

"They don't know that. That lady gave you a badge, and you got by me. I keep the riffraff out."

The pretty face in the blond pageboy was no longer in sight.

"Well, maybe Ishould do my part for the noble cause," Matt said.

You're wasting your time. But on the other hand, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

The blonde was not on the second floor. He went down to the lobby and saw the bar.

What I will do is get a drink, and then go upstairs.

There was a small wait in line, and then he found himself facing the bartender.

"Scotch, please. Water."

"Any preference?"

Matt looked and saw that whatever else it did, the Opera Ball Club or whatever the hell it was really served fine booze.

"Famous Grouse, please. Easy on the water."

He became aware, in less time than it takes to tell, first of an exotic perfume, then of an expanse of white flesh that swelled with exquisite grace before disappearing beneath a delicate brassiere, and then of warm breath on his ear.

"I hope you won't be offended by my saying so, but your gun is showing," the voice behind the warm breath on his ear said in almost a whisper.

It was the blonde in the pageboy.

For the first time he noticed that she was wearing a hat.

If half an ounce of black silk and silk netting can be called a hat, he thought.

What the hell did she say about a gun? God, I bet she has nice teats!

"I beg your pardon?"

She smiled, and laughed softly, and tugged on his arm, pulling his head down.

"Your gun," she said. "It's showing."

This time when he smelled her breath, he picked up the smell of alcohol. Gin, he thought. He looked down at his leg and saw that his trouser leg was hiked up, caught by the butt of the pistol in his ankle holster.

Shit!

When I had to climb out of the goddamn car because of that asshole in the Cadillac in both my parking places, that's when it happened.

He squatted and rearranged his trouser leg.

"Thank you."

"I don't think anybody else noticed," she said. "It was only because I was going downstairs that I saw it. You know what I mean?"

"Thank you for telling me."

"Could I ask you a question? Out of pure idle-there being not much else to think about around here-curiosity?"

"Sure?"

"How many of you are there here tonight?"

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

"How many do you see?"

"That's why I'm asking," she said, laughing. "I'm curious."

Matt held up three fingers.

"Let's start with the easy things. How many fingers?"

"Three, wise guy," she said. "And I only see one of you. That's why I'm asking how many others there are of you. Just out of idle curiosity."

"As far as I know, I am the only one like me here tonight."

"The only one in regular clothes, you mean."

"What?"

"I mean not counting him," she said, pointing to a Holmes Security man taking invitations by the door, "and the one I saw you talking to upstairs."

"Oh. I'm not a rent-a-cop. I had no idea what you were talking about."

"Then what are you doing walking around with a gun strapped to your leg? Yourankle? "

"I'm a cop!"

"Are you really?"

He nodded.

"A detective, you mean? There are police here, too, in addition towhat did you say, the rent-a-cops?"

"No. Not a detective. A cop. Off duty."

"You're pulling my leg. Aren't you?"

"Boy Scout's honor," Matt said, holding up three fingers.

"And you're active in, a sponsor, of the Cancer Society Ball?"

"Regretfully, no."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"You mean,here?" Matt said, and nodded his head to take in the lobby.

"Yes."

"I got off the elevator and a lady told me she was so glad I could come, pinned this thing on me, and handed me a glass of champagne."

She laughed and took his arm, which caused contact between his elbow and her bosom.

"All right, wise guy," she said. "What were you doing getting off the elevator?"

"I live here," Matt said.

"You live here?"

He nodded. "In what Charles Dickens would call the 'garret.'"

She let go of his arm and stepped in front of him and looked at him intently.

"And your name is Matt-Matthew-Payne, right?"

"Guilty," Matt said. "You have the advantage, mademoiselle, on me."

"Don't go away," she said, and then asked. "What is that?"

"Famous Grouse."

He watched as she went to the bar and returned with another drink for him, and what, to judge by the gin on her breath, was a martini on the rocks.

She handed him the Scotch and took a swallow of her martini.

"I needed that," she said. "The way they were talking about you-'Poor Patricia'sBoy'-I thought you'd have acne and wear short pants."

"Who was talking about me?"

"It was the only interesting conversation I heard here tonight. You' ll never guess who lives upstairs: Poor Patricia Payne's Boy, they sent him to UP and he paid them back by joining the cops right after he graduated. He's the one who shot the serial rapist in the head."

"Oh."

"And it's madam, not mademoiselle, by the way. I'm sort of married."

"What does 'sort of married' mean?"

"Among other things, that he's not here tonight," she said. "Can we let it go at that?"

"Sure."

"Did you really?"

"Did I really what?"

"Shoot that man in the head?"

"Jesus!"

"I'll take that as a yes," she said, and took another sip of her martini. "Is that the gun you did it with?"

"Does it matter?"

"Answer the question."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Can we change the subject to something more pleasant, like cancer, for example?"

"So you live upstairs, do you? In what Charles Dickens would call the 'garret'?"

"That's right."

"Are you going to ask me if I want to go to your apartment and look at your etchings, Matthew Payne?"

"I don't have any etchings," he said.

"I'll settle for a look at your gun," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," she said. "You show me what I want to see, and I will show you what you-judging by the way you've been looking down my front-want to see."