"Christ."

    "He's not part of this equation."

    Dawn had to laugh, and looked to see if Henry was smiling. But no. Deadpan as ever.

    She rushed back to her room for something a little more modest.

    Jack stood in a doorway of the Wyeth building near the western end of Spring Street, catty-corner from the Ear Inn's block, just a couple of hundred yards from where SoHo morphed into TriBeCa. He held a lit cigarette and pretended to be an exiled smoker—a ubiquitous fixture around the city—as he watched the entrance to the Ear.

    Not the easiest place to find. It sat—quite literally—over the eastern end of the Holland Tunnel. The unlit neon sign jutting over the sidewalk was no help during the day. If you squinted you could see that the tubing said BAR and nothing else. A different story at night when it was lit: They'd blacked out the right half of the "B," enabling the sign to proclaim the place's name.

    But in daylight you had to be standing before the front window to see the discreet EAR INN on the glass. Used to be a fisherman's hang back in the nineteenth century, right on the waterfront—not much west of the Ear back then but the Hudson River. Now the Hudson lay on the far side of the concrete lanes of the West Side Highway.

    Midafternoon was a traditionally slow time for bars—the lunchers gone, the happy-hour crowd yet to arrive—and the Ear was no exception. Though only a couple of blocks from Hudson Street, this dead-end warehouse area, dominated by a huge UPS depot, was about as far in spirit from touristy as imaginable. No weary shoppers passing by and stopping in for a cold one. You had to know about the Ear and come looking for it.

    At a few minutes to three a taxi pulled to a stop before the door and out stepped a slim Asian in a black suit, white shirt, striped tie, and fedora. Could have been Kurosawa's undertaker.

    He stood looking at the Ear's front window, then turned back to the taxi and said something to the driver. Jack figured he was asking if this was really the place. Finally he forked over some cash and stepped toward the door. After a few seconds' hesitation, he pushed inside.

    Jack waited a few more minutes to see if anyone followed him in, but the street remained clear. He crushed out his cigarette and headed for the Ear.

    Inside he found the guy standing alone near the front end of the half-occupied bar, looking around with a confused expression. He stood out among this half hipster, half middle-manager crowd like a Hasid at a Taliban wedding.

    Jack tapped him on the shoulder. He spun, a startled look in his face.

    "You the fellow who lost something and wants it back?"

    "Yes-yes. You are Repairman Jack?"

    "Just Jack will do. Let's get a table."

    As if on cue, a smiling, strawberry-blond waitress with an Irish accent appeared and asked if they wanted a table for two. Jack pointed to an empty one in the far corner of the front room with a good view of the entrance and easy access to the door to the kitchen.

    She led them past the warped and scarred bar with its old-fashioned, four-legged, vinyl-topped stools. Two old-wood gables hung over the bottle racks on the wall, separated by a high shelf jammed with old empty bottles of all imaginable shapes and sizes. The front window said the place had been established in 1817. That might have been the last time those bottles had been dusted.

    Jack seated himself in the corner near the huge ear mounted on the wall. He put his back against a three-sheet poster offering a graphic, organ-by-organ lesson on the ruinous effects of alcohol on the human body. The wall to his left sported portholes with either seascapes or stern-looking portrait faces gazing into the room.

    Once they were seated, the guy removed his hat and placed it in his lap, revealing jet-black hair combed down over the left side of the forehead, all the way to the eyebrow. He appeared to be somewhere in his forties and had an ascetic look—hollow cheeks and intense dark eyes peering from deep orbits. Eyes that never quite made contact with Jack's. Before he adjusted his jacket cuffs, Jack caught a glimpse of a black tattoo above his right wrist—some sort of polygon.

    "You know my name," Jack said. "Time to hear yours."

    He dipped his head in a quick bow. "Nakanaori Okumo Slater."

    "Whoa."

    A quick smile. "I am called Naka."

    "Naka it is. But Slater doesn't sound very Japanese."

    "My father was American."

    Jack couldn't detect any Caucasian in Naka's looks, so he either favored his mother's side—a lot—or his father was Japanese-American.

    The strawberry-blond waitress came over, pad in hand, and handed them menus. When Jack ordered a pint draft Hoegaarden, she smiled.

    "Hey, you pronounced it right. Don't hear that too often. You Belgian?"

    Jack smiled back. "No, Jerseyan."

    When Naka ordered water, he found Jack and the waitress giving him looks.

    "I do not drink spirits."

    As the waitress sighed and walked away, W. C. Fields's warning wafted through Jack's brain: Never trust a man who doesn't drink.

    Jack picked up a menu. "The burgers here are outstanding."

    "I do not eat flesh."

    Jack looked at him. "I bet you don't get invited to too many parties, either."

    "Parties?" He looked puzzled. "No."

    "Yeah, well, neither do I. The Ear burger is really good."

    The guy made a face. "You devour something's ear?"

    "Only kidding."

    But he wished someone in the place would find the cojones to list their big, eight-ounce sirloin burger as an Ear Burger. That would be too cool.

    "I did not come here to eat. I came here to talk."

    "I can do both—I'm a multitasker." Jack dropped the menu. No contest. He'd decided on the burger. "So tell me again how you found me—and name names this time."

    "When an object was stolen—"

    "From your home on Maui, I assume."

    He nodded. "Yes. I own a plantation."

    "What do you grow?"

    He looked flustered. "Why do you wish to know?"

    "Call me curious."

    "Papaya, sugar cane, macadamia—"

    "Okay. So the 'object' was stolen from your Maui plantation. What then?"

    "I… I hired detective."

    "Why not go to the cops?"

    "I wish to be discreet."

    "Because…?"

    Naka hesitated, then sighed. "Because ownership would be, how shall I say, called into question if existence of object become public."

    Knew it.

    Couldn't report the theft of a stolen object.

    "And your detective blew it, I assume."

    He nodded. "He discover name of thief but thief escape on plane to New York."

    Now the pieces were fitting.

    Naka's water and Jack's Hoegaarden arrived. The brew had a thin half-slice of lemon floating in the foam. He was not a fan of witbieren, but Hoegaarden was a treat if found on tap. Jack ordered the burger with cheese, bacon, and sautéed onions. Naka broke down and chose a salad.

    As the waitress bustled off, Jack sipped his brew. Good. A light lemony flavor, great for summer or when he didn't want to feel logged down. Not on tap in many places around the city. Another reason to seek out the Ear.

    He noticed another Asian—this one too looked Japanese—come in and sit two tables away. He glanced at them once, then studied the menu.

    Jack turned to Naka. "So, with the thief in New York you needed someone local."

    Naka nodded. "Yes, but I have no idea where to turn. I was discussing my problem with artist I know—I buy his sculpture and we become friends. He say his consort used to live in New York and might be able to help."