"Whistle that chair closer, and face me. Uh, a glass of sherry? Doctor says I may have it—and I find that I need it. That Spanish cocktail sherry, dry as your wit. Will you do me the honor of pouring for us?"

Joan waited until the lawyer had filled their glasses, and had seated himself. She raised her glass and at the same time raised her chest, letting those "wicked" panels do their best. "A toast, Jake—no, don't get up. The same toast, Jake—always the same toast from now on whenever you and I drink together... but silently." She took a sip and put her glass down. "Jake—"

"Yes... Johann?"

"‘Joan,' please—I can't be ‘Johann' any longer. Jake, you know that I never expected to live through any such operation? It was a—device. A legal device."

"Yes, Joha— Yes, Joan, I knew. That's why I helped."

"I knew. The most generous act of friendship I have ever known. What is it the Japanese name it?—the friend who helps, when it is necessary to die. Never mind. Jake, look me in the eye. Do you know, deep in your heart, that I would rather be dead... than to have lived through it by this incredible circumstance? Be alive... at her expense? Do you know that, Jake? Or must I live still another life, hating myself?"

Salomon raised his eyes, met hers firmly. "Yes—Joan. I know it. It was no fault of yours... you must not hate yourself. Uh... Eunice wouldn't want you to!"

"I know. Weep, dear Jake; don't hold back your tears—see, I am not holding back mine. Just try not to go to pieces, or I will, too. Jake, each of us would happily have died rather than let this happen. I am as certain of it about you as I hope you are about me. I don't think I could stand it if you had not reassured me. Look at me, a lovely body and young—yet I am almost ninety-five years old and have not one friend left alive... but you."

"You'll make more friends."

"I wonder if I can. The span is great, perhaps too great. I feel as the Wandering Jew must have felt, alive beyond his allotted time. His name—Aha—something. My memory is not as good as this young body. But I can't forget one question which I must ask. Jake, is there any possibility that Eunice's husband had something to do with her death? That prize I put up, that blood money—did it tempt him?"

(Boss, Boss, you're way off base. I know!) (Sorry, beloved, more sorry than I can say. But I must have proof.)

"Jake? Did 1 entice a murder?"

The lawyer shook his head. "I'm astounded. But of course you don't know the circumstances. You enticed nothing. I wrote that offer most carefully. Were there any guilt I would share it. There was none."

"How do you know?" (Drop it, Boss. Please!)

"Mr. Branca was in Philadelphia, visiting his mother." (You see, Boss?) "I had to find him to get the post-death ratification. Took three days, while both of you were kept ready for surgery. Joe Branca didn't know she was dead. Hell of a job even to find him. Three long days."

"‘Three days.' Why wasn't I told!"

"And waste Eunice's death? Are you crazy? You were unconscious; Garcia put you under as soon as I notified him that a body was going to be ready. Then that dreadful wait. I need your forgiveness, too, for—Joan—no, ‘Johann!' I hated you... for being alive when she was dead. But I pushed on—for her sake. Oh, I got over it, it was a sick hate. I knew better."

"Do you hate me now?"

"Eh?" Salomon looked at her, in sorrow. "No. You are not only my old friend, who has always been honest and decent under his crusty exterior—whose virtues outweighed his faults." Salomon managed to smile. "Though sometimes just barely. But also you are the only tie I have left to her."

"Yes. You may find me better tempered now, Jake. It's easier to smile, easier to be patient, then it was in that old wreck of a body I had. But, Jake, about Joe Branca. All right, he was in Philadelphia. But could he have arranged it?"

"No."

"You're certain?"

"Certain. Joha—Joan, it's that million dollars that worries you, fear that it might have started a chain of events. When they located Joe Branca, I had to jet there and get that piece of paper. He was dazed. Couldn't believe it. But accepted the fact. But not the money. I couldn't get him to sign the post-death authorization without first preparing another document, waiving the money. The escrow trustee—Chase Manhattan—was instructed by Joe to pay it to the Rare Blood Club—his idea—as a memorial to Eunice Evans Branca." (Oh, Boss! I'm crying.) (We all are.) (But, Boss—Joe must be starving.) (We'll take care of it.)

She sighed: "I'll be damned."

"Perhaps. And perhaps myself. But I don't think Joe Branca will be. He's an unworldly man—Joan. From a slum family. A flower in the muck. I couldn't even get him to accept a lesser sum. He insisted on paying for witnessing and notarizing his mark, and the tax stamp on the assignment—and it took almost every dime he could dig up. He just shook his head and said, ‘Broke don't scare me.'

"Jake, we must take care of him."

"I don't think you can, Joan. In his own odd way he is as proud as she was. But I did one thing. In searching for him I had to get a court order to open their studio—indispensable it turned out, as an old letter from his mother gave us the clue that located him. But I learned that the rent was almost due... the corporation's rent agent wanted to know how soon the lease was going to ­lapse—he assumed that, with her dead, the rent would not be paid. So I covered the matter for the moment; then when I got back, I bought the lease. As long as Joe chooses to stay, he won't be asked for rent. Then I checked around and located her bank account and arranged with a friendly judge to let me guarantee the matter and had it assigned to Joe without bothering him with legal formalities. The little dear was smart about money—a nice sum, enough to keep him eating a couple of years, I think." (All gone in a couple of months, I think. Boss, Joe doesn't understand money. A bank account isn't real, to him.) (Don't worry, darling. Jake and I will handle it.)

She sighed. "I feel reassured, Jake. But distressed about her husband. We must look into it. If he's that unworldly, then there must be some way to subsidize him without his knowing it."

"All right, Joan, we will try. But Joe Branca taught me—at my age!—that there are things money cannot buy. Not if the prospective seller is indifferent to money."

"Will you have more sherry? And may I have another drop? If you can't stay, I think I'll ask to be put to bed and right to sleep. Skip dinner."

"Oh, but you must eat, Joan. For your strength. Look, if I stay, will you eat?"

She gave him Eunice's best sun-coming-up smile. "Yes! Yes, Jake dear! Thank you."

Dinner was informal, service only by Cunningham and two assistants. Joan did her best to simulate a charming, gracious hostess—while trying not to appear greedy; everything tasted so wonderful! But she waited until coffee had been served and Jake had refused a perfecto and accepted a glass of port, and she then could say, "Thank you, Cunningham, that will be all," before returning to personal matters.

Once they were alone she said, "Jake, when will I be up for a competency hearing?"

"Eh? Any time you feel well enough. Are you in a hurry?"

"No. I would be utterly content to be your ward the rest of my life."

Her lawyer smiled slightly. "Joan, by the actuarial tables you now have a life expectancy of about sixty years; mine is more like ten or twelve."

"Well... that's hard to answer. But will you go on as before as my de-facto manager? Or am I asking too much?"

Salomon studied his glass. "Joan... once the court dissolves this guardian-and-ward relationship, there is no reason why you should not manage your affairs."