“So why do they call this clown Barbie?” Stan asked.

“He collects them. Barbies. Got hundreds of them, they say. All sorts of rare ones, plus accessories.”

“His key chain,” I said. “It was a like a mini-Barbie. I figured it was his wife’s or something. Doesn’t a guy who collects Barbies run the risk of being made fun of?”

Colby paused. “Last guy who made fun of Barbie Bullock had his face shoved into the running propeller of an Evinrude. You doing something on Bullock?” Colby eyed me warily, like I was trying to work his side of the street.

Stan spoke up. “He just happened to be in the picture. We were there doing something else, Dick, so chill out.”

Colby snorted, and I shifted in case any of it landed on me. After he walked away, I said to Stan, “So, don’t you feel special? Pissing off an important underworld character?”

Stan shrugged. “Listen, when you’ve pissed off the Taliban, everything else kind of pales in comparison.”

I BANGED OFF THE AUCTION STORY in under an hour, let the desk know it had been handed in, and popped into Sarah’s office. She was at her desk, reading stories on her screen.

“I’m outa here,” I said.

“Okay,” she said.

“Cheese Dick came by to see me.”

Sarah closed her eyes. “And?”

“He strutted about, then left. Could you put him on some sort of beat that requires bathing? Maybe send him to fashion, writing about skin care.”

“See ya at home. And don’t forget to see the managing editor before you leave.”

I hadn’t forgotten, but I had been considering pretending to have forgotten. I wandered over to his office, where his secretary was posted outside the door.

“Mr. Magnuson wanted to see me?” I said.

His secretary said, “And you are?”

This is always encouraging, when the secretary to the guy who runs the newsroom where you are employed has no idea who you are.

“Zack Walker?” I said. “I work here?”

She buzzed him, spoke so quietly into her phone that I could not make out what she was saying, and when she was done, said to me, “He’ll be with you in a moment.”

I cooled my heels for about five minutes, standing around Magnuson’s closed door like a kid waiting to see the principal. Finally, it opened, and Magnuson himself gestured for me to come in.

He was a slight man, a bit round-shouldered, thinning gray hair atop his head, immaculately dressed, even with his suit jacket off and hanging over the back of the leather chair behind his broad oak desk.

“Mr. Walker, what a pleasure,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve actually spoken since you joined us.”

“No, Mr. Magnuson, I don’t think we have.”

“Have a seat.”

I took a chair in front of his desk as he got back into his behind it. He tossed a red binder across the desk at me. There was a sticker on the front that read “Editorial Policy Manual.”

“Did you get one of these when you were hired?” Magnuson asked.

“Uh, I believe I did.”

“I’m going to have to rewrite it,” he said.

“Really? Why is that, Mr. Magnuson?”

“I left something out. I should have thought of this before I had it drafted. I can’t believe how neglectful I was.”

I didn’t want to ask, but felt it was expected of me. “What, uh, did you leave out?”

“The part that says Metropolitan staffers are not supposed to be involved in shootouts.”

“Mr. Magnuson, that’s not exactly correct. I was in a car with someone who was doing the shooting, but the only thing I was doing was holding the steering wheel so he could get off a few shots.”

“Oh, I see,” Magnuson said. I didn’t get the impression that this made everything okay. “You used to work for the competition, didn’t you?”

“Several years ago, yes. I worked at The Leader.”

Magnuson nodded thoughtfully. “Did the reporters over at The Leader get involved in shootouts, Mr. Walker?”

“Not regularly, sir, although there was one night when two guys from sports who’d had a bit too much to drink started shooting at each other over a Leafs-Sabres game. I don’t know where they got the guns, exactly.”

Magnuson cocked his head, squinted at me. “Is that an attempt at humor, Mr. Walker?”

I swallowed. “If it was, sir, it was evidently a very weak one.”

Magnuson eased back in his chair. “I’ve asked around a bit about you. You know what I hear back?”

“I’m somewhat hesitant to ask, sir.”

“People say you’re annoying.”

“You should talk to more people than my wife, Mr. Magnuson.” I was hoping that might spark a smile, even a small one. It did not.

“When you were hired there, at The Leader, did they give you a notepad, a pen, a tape recorder, and a.45?”

“No, sir, they didn’t.”

“Because I was thinking, if it was okay for reporters there to do that kind of thing, to ride around in cars shooting off guns, that might explain why you thought it was okay when you got hired here. Maybe no one told you.”

“You see,” I said, swallowing, “what happened last night was kind of an unusual set of circumstances because-”

“Mr. Walker,” Magnuson said, leaning closer to me and pointing his finger, “we write the news. We try not to create it. It’s nice when we can be there as it’s happening, but as a rule we don’t hold the steering wheel so that others can fire wildly into the night. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good. Because if you do, maybe I won’t have to rewrite this manual.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Excellent.” He leaned back in his chair. “Good day, Mr. Walker.”

I understood what that meant, too, so I got up and walked out of the office, and as I headed for the elevator, thought I’d rather take my chances with those guys in the Annihilator than have another run-in with Bertrand Magnuson. The guys in the Annihilator didn’t have control over my paycheck, and with a new car and a daughter in college, it was the Magnusons of the world who could really put the screws to you.

I’D PICKED A BAD TIME to leave the office. It was rush hour, and it took me the better part of half an hour to get uptown to our place on Crandall.

As I was approaching our house from the south, I saw a blue Jag coming from the north. I scooted into our driveway, pulling far enough ahead to allow Lawrence to pull in behind me.

“Nice timing,” I said, walking up to his car as he got out.

“I wants ma money,” he said. He was leaving the car running, which I took as a signal that he didn’t have a lot of time to chat.

“Hang on,” I said, running up the porch steps to the front door. I noticed, sitting in one of the wicker chairs we keep on the porch, a backpack I didn’t recognize. I unlocked the door, ran upstairs to my study, where I keep the checks for our line-of-credit account, and went back outside.

“How’s the car?” Lawrence asked as I used the hood of his Jag to write him out a check for $8,900.

“So far so good,” I said.

Lawrence was casting his eye across the house and garage. “Nice place. You’ve only been here a year or so, right?”

“That’s right. We lived on this street once before, then flirted with a house in the suburbs for a couple of years, then moved back.We used to live up there.” I pointed up the street.

As I handed him the check I noticed his eyes narrowing, focusing on something at the far end of the driveway.

“You got a visitor,” he said.

“What?” I said, whirling around.

“Someone’s hiding out behind your garage. I just saw somebody sneak in there.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded. We both began walking the length of the drive, past the Virtue, toward the single-door garage. Lawrence pointed for me to go down the right side of the garage while he went down the left. There were only a couple of feet between the back of the garage and a six-foot fence, so there wasn’t going to be anyplace for our mysterious stranger to go.