Barbara was waiting for me at the end of the hallway where it angled off toward the back of the house. “Your car’s in the garage, Vic.”

I smiled at her gratefully. How could she have grown up so sane and cheerful with such a mother? “How much do I owe you? Twenty-five?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I-I’m sorry Mother’s so rude to you.”

“So you’re making up for it by towing my car?” I took out my billfold. “You don’t have to do that, Barbara. What your mother says to me doesn’t affect how I feel about you.” I pushed the money into her hand.

She smiled with embarrassment. “It was only twenty.”

I took the extra five back.

“Do you mind if I ask you something? Were you and Agnes, like Mother keeps saying-” she broke off, blushing furiously.

“Were your sister and I lovers? No. And while I love many women dearly, I’ve never had women lovers. It makes your mother happier, though, to think that Agnes couldn’t make her own decisions.”

“I see. I hope you’re not angry, that you don’t mind

“Nope. Don’t worry about it. Phone me sometime if you want to talk about your sister. She was a good lady. Or give Phyllis Lording a call. She’d appreciate it very much.”

IT WAS SO late when I got home that I didn’t check with my answering service until the next morning. They told me then that Roger had called several times, and Murray Ryerson had also left a message. I tried Murray first.

“I think I found your friend Walter. A man calling himself Wallace Smith was treated last Thursday at St Vincent’s for a broken jaw. He paid cash for the visit, which astounded the staff because he was there overnight and the bill came to more than a thousand dollars. Still, you know what they say-the best medical care today costs no more than the cheapest nuclear submarine.”

“His address a fake?”

“I’m afraid so. Turned out to be a vacant lot in New Town. But we got a good description from the night nurse in the emergency room. Big surly guy with black curly hair, bald in front. No beard. I gave it to my gofer at the police. He said it sounded like Walter Novick. He’s a stevedore and usually uses a knife. Might explain why he didn’t do so well with acid.”

I didn’t say anything and Murray added penitently, “Sorry. Not funny, I guess. Anyway, he’s a free lance, but he’s done a lot of work for Annunzio Pasquale.”

I felt an unaccustomed surge of fear. Annunzio Pasquale. Local mob figure. Murder, torture, you name it: yours for the asking. What could I possibly have done to arouse the interest of such a man?

“You there, Vic?”

“Yes. For a few more hours, anyway. Send irises to my funeral; I’ve never cared much for lilies.”

“Sure, kid. You be careful who you open doors to. Look both ways before you cross Halsted… Maybe I’ll run a little story on this-might make the mean streets a bit safer for you.,’

“Thanks, Murray,” I said mechanically, and hung up. Pasquale. It had to be the forgeries. Had to be. If you wanted to create money and push it into circulation, who’s the first person you’d hire? A Mafia man. Ditto for securities.

I don’t frighten easily. But I’m not the Avenger-I can’t take on organized crime with my own bare hands. If Pasquale really was involved with the forgeries I’d graciously concede the round. Except for one thing. My life had been threatened gratuitously. Not just my life-my eyesight, my livelihood. If I gave in to that, I’d never have a moment’s peace with myself again.

I frowned at a stack of newspapers on the coffee table. There might be a way. If I could talk to Pasquale. Explain where our interests diverged. Explain that the matter of the securities would blow up in his face and just to leave that alone. I’d turn the other cheek if he would withdraw his protection from Novick.

I wondered how I could best get this message to the don. An ad in the Herald-Star would do the trick, but might bring the law down on me hard and heavy, too. Hatfield would love to be able to hold me on an obstructing federal justice charge.

I called a woman I know in the D.A.’s office. “Maggie- V. I. Warshawski. I need a favor.”

“I’m on my way to court, V.1. Can it wait?”

“This won’t take long-I just want to know some of Don Pasquale’s fronts-restaurants, laundries, anyplace I might be able to get discreetly in touch with him.”

A long silence at the other end. “You’re not so hard up you’d work for him, are you?”

“No way, Maggie-I don’t think I could stand up in court to an interrogation by you.”

Another pause, then she said, “I guess I’m happier not knowing why you want to know. I’ll call you when I’m free-maybe about three this afternoon.”

I wandered restlessly around the apartment. I was sure it wasn’t Pasquale who’d been on the phone to me. I’d seen him in the Federal Building once or twice, heard him speak in a thick Italian accent. Besides, say Pasquale was ultimately responsible for the forged stocks, responsible for creating them, he couldn’t be the one who got them into the priory safe. Maybe he lived in Melrose Park, maybe he went to church at the priory. Even so, he’d have to have bought off a lot of people there to get at the safe. Boniface Carroll or Augustine Pelly as front men for the Mafia? Ludicrous.

Of course, there was always Rosa. I snorted with laughter at the image of Rosa as a Mafia moll. She’d keep Annunzio in line good and proper-yes, no pasta for you tonight, Annunzio, unless you burn my niece with acid.

I suddenly thought of my cousin Albert. I hadn’t even included him in the picture before; he was so much in Rosa’s shadow. But… he was a CPA and the mob could always use good CPAs. And here he was, fat, forty, unmarried, dominated by this truly awful mother. Maybe that would rouse some antisocial spirit in him-it would in me. What if Rosa had called me without his knowing it? Then afterward he talked her into sending me away. For some bizarre reason he had stolen St. Albert’s stocks and replaced them with counterfeits, but when the investigation heated up he replaced them. He could have gotten the combination to the safe at any time from Rosa.

I continued to work up a case against Albert while cooking curried eggs with peas and tomatoes for lunch. I didn’t know my cousin very well. Almost anything could go on behind that bloated, amorphous exterior.

Roger Ferrant called again while I was halfway through the curried eggs. I greeted him cheerfully.

“Vic. You’re sounding more like yourself again. I want to talk to you.”

“Sure. Have you learned something new about your Ajax takeover?”

“No, but there’s something else I want to discuss with you. Can we have dinner tonight?”

On an impulse, still preoccupied with Albert, I not only agreed but even offered to cook. After hanging up I cursed myself-that meant cleaning up the damned kitchen.

Feeling slightly aggrieved, I scrubbed out a collection of stale pots and plates. Made the bed. Trudged through unshoveled sidewalks to the grocery, where I bought a pot roast and cooked it like beef Bourguignon, with onions, mushrooms, salt pork, and of course, Burgundy. To show Roger I didn’t suspect him anymore-or at least not at the moment-I decided to serve dinner wine in the red Venetian glasses my mother had brought from Italy. She had originally carried out eight, carefully wrapped in her underwear, but one of them broke several years ago when my apartment was ransacked. I now keep them in a locked cupboard in the back of my clothes closet.

When Maggie called at four-thirty, I realized one side benefit of heavy housework-it definitely keeps your mind off your troubles. I’d been too busy to think about Don Pasquale all afternoon.

Her voice on the phone brought the clutch of fear back to my stomach.