“So you probably don’t want them on the sweet potatoes, either.”

Kelp said, “Tell me you’re joking, Anne Marie.”

Anne Marie said, “What about oranges?”

“For breakfast, sometimes,” Kelp told her. “If you get up feeling extra strong and you wanna rassle with something, an orange is good.”

“I’m glad I asked you,” Anne Marie said. “I don’t want to get this wrong.”

“You could check with May, maybe,” Kelp advised.

“Oh, I’m going to,” Anne Marie said, and she went away to make lists, the food list and the seating arrangement list and the beverage list and the phone call list. She also, over the next week and a half, kept reminding Kelp, just about every time she saw him, about Thanksgiving coming up on that Thursday, and about May and John and J.C. and Tiny all being invited to dinner, and the sheer mass of reminders had their effect, because at five minutes past four on that Thursday afternoon, when the apartment doorbell rang, Kelp, in a clean shirt, crossed the living room and pulled open the door.

Tiny and J.C. were the first arrivals. J.C. (for Josephine Carol) Taylor is a pleasure to describe. A statuesque, pale-skinned, dark-eyed brunette, she’d trained herself to look hard and efficient in her dealings with the world of business, where she ran a number of iffy mail-order outfits and had her own country, Maylohda, somewhere in the Pacific, a place that came in for its share of Third World developmental seed money. Only when around Tiny did the stony surface crumble and another person appear, hardly scary at all.

Tiny Bulcher is another matter. A man mountain, with a body like an oil truck and a head like an unexploded bomb, he mostly looked like a fairy tale character that eats villages. “Hello, there, Kelp,” this creature rumbled.

“Whadaya say, Tiny?” Kelp greeted him.

“I say,” Tiny rumbled, “you got some rude cabdrivers in New York.”

Kelp raised an eyebrow at J.C., who grinned and shook her head and said, “He’ll be okay. A couple days’ bed rest, he’ll be right back in the cab.”

“Good,” Kelp said, and shut the door.

Tiny looked around at the empty living room. “We ain’t early, are we?”

“As a matter of fact,” Kelp told him, “you’re a few minutes late.”

Anne Marie, coming in from the kitchen, wearing the apron that Kelp liked when that was all she wore, but also wearing her party slacks and blouse, which was probably just as well, said, “Andy, people are supposed to be a few minutes late, it’s polite.”

“Oh,” Kelp said, and the doorbell rang. “Here comes more politeness,” he said, and went over to let in May and Dortmunder, while Anne Marie took Tiny’s and J.C.’s coats. “Hey, there,” Kelp said.

Dortmunder said, “May wouldn’t let me pick the lock.”

“Not on Thanksgiving,” May said.

“Feel free,” Kelp told him.

May went farther into the room to greet the others, while Dortmunder said, “We’d of been here before, but May made me walk around the block.”

“For politeness, I know about that,” Kelp told him. Then, as Dortmunder would have joined the others, Kelp detained him with a hand on his forearm and leaned close to murmur, “Tell me something. Am I getting civilized?”

Dortmunder looked him up and down, contemplating this idea, then shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“Good.”

“I don’t think you oughta worry about it,” Dortmunder told him, and they started toward the others, and a bell rang.

For just a second, Kelp thought this was more politeness at the door, but then he realized it was the phone, and he said, loudly enough for Anne Marie to hear, “I’ll get it, I’ll take it in the bedroom,” and hurried into the bedroom. The phone there was cordless, so he picked it up and walked around with it while saying, “Hello?”

“Andy Kelp?”

The voice was familiar, but Kelp couldn’t quite place it. “Yeah?”

“Formerly Andy Kelly?”

Whoop. What blast from the past was this? A number of potentials crossed his mind. He stopped pacing to hunker over the phone and say, “Possibly.”

“This is Fitzroy Guilderpost,” said the voice, and then Kelp recognized it, and yes, that was the voice of Fitzroy Guilderpost.

It had been five weeks now since the night of the switcheroo in the graveyard. Kelp, being the one who’d gotten them involved in this thing in the first place, had been in charge of the van with the coffin in it, taking a train north once a week to move it from one commuter railroad station to another, where they all had free parking, and a vehicle that didn’t stay more than a week would never attract any official body’s attention. So far, the van had been in Dover Plains and Croton Harmon and Poughkeepsie and Peekskill and Pawling, and Kelp had begun to wonder just how much longer he was going to be prepared to go on doing this. There would come a time when he and Dortmunder would have to agree that they were unlikely ever to hear from Guilderpost, and decide it was time to park the van in front of a police station somewhere and the hell with it.

But here was Guilderpost now, and the man had apparently been a busy little beaver these past five weeks. He knows Kelp’s real name, and he calls him at home. This is not something Kelp found enjoyable; he liked this apartment, especially now that Anne Marie had it all fixed up, and he didn’t want to move. And he also didn’t want to have to explain to Anne Marie why a move would be a good idea. Therefore, all cheerful amiability, he said, “Well, hello there, Fitzroy, I’ve been wondering about you.”

“I believe we’ve been wondering about each other.”

“And here it is Thanksgiving,” Kelp said.

“I wanted to be sure to catch you at home,” Guilderpost told him. “And it was just two days ago I learned how to reach you.”

“Yeah, I’d love to know how you did that.”

“The Internet,” Guilderpost explained. “We all leave trails, Andy. I admit yours was fainter than most, but still. It’s no longer really possible to hide, you know.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Which means, more than ever,” Guilderpost said, “we should all strive to compromise, to come to agreements, not to let hostility and bad feelings fester and grow. Not now, when anybody can find anybody.”

“So I could find you, too,” Kelp pointed out.

“Of course you could! I’m not exempt, I know that. But Andy, would you have any reason to pursue me?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“No. So I’m comfortable, here in my little home. And how about you, Andy? Can you think of any reason I might have to pursue you?”

“Not if we come to an agreement,” Kelp said. “By the way, did you find John, too?”

“Not yet. Of course, I know less about him. Does John have an E-mail address?”

Kelp laughed. “John barely has a snail mail address.”

“Not an enthusiast of the new technologies, I take it.”

“John’s still dubious about the internal combustion engine.”

“That’s here to stay,” Guilderpost assured him.

“That’s why he’s dubious. You want to include him in the conversation now? He’s here.”

“Oh, really?”

Kelp said, “Well, it’s Thanksgiving. We thought we’d get together, cut up old jackpots, count our blessings. We were wondering if—Hold on.”

Kelp walked back into the living room, where Dortmunder and May and J.C. and Tiny were now seated on most of the chairs, with Tiny on most of the sofa, talking away about something or other. Anne Marie must be in the kitchen with the turkey and all that. To Dortmunder, very up and cheerful, Kelp said, “Guess what, John? It’s Fitzroy Guilderpost!”

“No kidding,” Dortmunder said. “Tell him I said hello.”

“John says hello,” Kelp told the phone, “and about these blessings we were counting, you know, as a matter of fact, we were just wondering if you were one of those blessings, or if you were the other thing.”

“I’m prepared to pay—”

“No, Fitzroy, wait.” To Dortmunder, Kelp said, “I think he wants to talk money, like a payoff.”