It's a pity Dortmunder watched the wrong channel. At six-oh-three, while Jack Mackenzie was describing Dortmunder's most recent exploit (anonymously) to several hundred thousand more or less indifferent viewers, his potentially most rapt audience was a bare few clicks away along the dial, watching something called "file film" of people in white dresses running around a sunny broad tree-lined street amid the pop-chatter of small arms fire, as a voice-over announcer stated that fighting between government troops and rebels had broken out yet again. Where this fighting had broken out Dortmunder wasn't sure, not having paid that close attention to the voice-over voice. On the other hand, he didn't much care, either; if a lot of people in white dresses wanted to run around a sunny broad tree-lined street while being shot at, that was up to them. Dortmunder was mostly brooding about his own problems: drinking beer, paying minimal attention to the six o'clock news, and brooding.

May came home while the sports news was being given its usual exhaustive airing, a subject in which Dortmunder's lack of interest was so profound that he hadn't waited until the commercial to go get another beer. Returning to the living room with the new beer, he saw May walk in the front door and switched off the TV set just as the post-sports commercial was starting. Which was also unfortunate, because right after that commercial the hot news about the Byzantine Fire was going to be broadcast by the (helplessly furious at both Mackenzie and Mologna) police beat reporter for this channel, a man blamelessly suffering because his Irish name—Costello—sounded Italian.

"Let me take one of those," Dortmunder said, and took her left-hand grocery sack.

"Thanks." The cigarette bobbled in the corner of her mouth.

It was May's belief that her activities as a cashier down at the Safeway made her in a way a member of the Safeway family, and how could the family begrudge her a little for herself? So every day she came home with a couple of full grocery sacks, which was very helpful for their domestic economy.

They carried today's groceries to the kitchen, with May saying along the way, "Somebody's passing fake food stamps."

"Counterfeit?"

"It's the noncash economy you read about," May said. "Credit cards, checks, food stamps. People don't deal in money any more."

"Um" said Dortmunder. The noncash economy was one of his major career problems. No cash payrolls, no cash deliveries, no cash anywhere.

"They're nice, too," May said. "Very good plates. The only trouble is, the paper's different. Thinner. You can feel the difference."

"Not smart," Dortmunder said.

"That's right. Does a cashier look at all that paper? No. But you touch every piece that comes by."

"Food stamps." Dortmunder leaned against the sink, slurping at his beer while May put the groceries away. "You wouldn't think it'd be worth it."

"Oh, no? With prices the way they are? You just don't know, John."

"I guess not."

"If I didn't have the job at the Safeway, I wouldn't mind some queer food stamps myself."

"Big operation," Dortmunder mused. "You've got your printer, you've got your salesmen on the street."

"I was thinking," May said. "I could maybe be a salesman. Right there at the register."

Dortmunder frowned at her. "I don't know, May. I wouldn't like you to take chances."

"Just to deal with customers I know. I'll think about it, anyway."

"It'd be an easy pinch, is all."

"I won't do it unless things get really tight around here. How'd you do with Arnie?"

"Um," Dortmunder said.

May was putting two plastic-wrapped trays of chicken parts in the refrigerator. She gave Dortmunder a questioning look, closed the refrigerator door, and while folding up the grocery sacks said, "Something went wrong."

"Arnie got arrested. While I was there."

"They didn't take you with?"

"They didn't see me."

"That's good. Wha'd they take him for?"

"It's a sweep. There was some big jewel robbery out at Kennedy last night."

"I saw something about it in the paper."

"So the law's busting everybody," Dortmunder said, "looking for it."

"The poor guy."

"That took it?" Dortmunder shook his head. "He deserves what he gets, making all this trouble. It's the guys like Arnie I feel sorry for. Arnie and me."

"Won't they have to let him go after a while?"

"Arnie's probably out already," Dortmunder said, "but he won't be buying for a while. And I heard about another possible guy and went there, and the cops were grabbing him, too. I guess they're hitting particular on the fences because it's a jewel."

"So you've still got the goods?"

"In the bedroom."

May would know he meant the hiding place in the back of the dresser. "Never mind," she said. "You'll have better luck tomorrow." Fishing out a new cigarette, she lit it from the final coal of the old one, then flipped the ember into the sink, where it briefly sizzled.

"I'm sorry, May," Dortmunder said.

"It's not your fault," she said. "Besides, you never know what's going to happen in this life. That's why I brought home the chicken. We'll eat out tomorrow."

"Sure." As much to encourage himself as her, he said, "Stan Murch called. He's got something, he says. Needs a planner."

"Well, that's you."

"I'm seeing him tonight."

"What's the score?"

"I don't know yet," Dortmunder said. "I hope it isn't jewelry again."

"The noncash economy," May said, smiling.

"Maybe it's food stamps," Dortmunder said.

When Malcolm Zachary got mad, he got mad like an FBI man. His jaw clenched so four-square and rock-hard he looked like Dick Tracy. His shoulders became absolutely straight and right-angled and level with the floor, as though he were wearing a cardboard box from the liquor store under his coat. His eyes became very intense, like Superman looking through walls. And when he spoke, little muscle bunches in his cheeks did tangos beneath the skin: " Mo-log-na," he said, slowly and deliberately. " Mo-log-na, Mo-log-na, Mo-log-na."

"I couldn't agree more, Mac," said Freedly, whose manner when enraged was exactly the reverse. Freedly's eyebrows and moustache and shoulders became all slumped and rounded, as though gravity were overcoming him, and he got the look in his eye of a man trying to figure out how to get even. Which he was.

Zachary and Freedly had also failed to watch the right TV news at six o'clock, or in fact any news at all, because they were in conference at that time with Harry Cabot, their liaison from the CIA, a smooth fiftyish man with a distinguished handsomeness and an air of knowing more than he was saying. Fresh from suborning an overly enlightened Central American government, Cabot had been rewarded for a dirty job well done by being given this soft assignment in New York: funneling to the FBI some of the CIA's data on various foreign insurgent groups potentially involved with the Byzantine Fire. He was, in fact, just speaking about the Armenians, in an amused and dismissive but not entirely comprehensible manner, when the phone rang in Zachary and Freedly's small office here on East 69th Street, and the blow fell: Chief Inspector Mologna had given a statement to the press.

"Harry, we're going to have to look at this," Zachary said. He had white spots beside his nose and the general air of a man whose parachute doesn't seem to be opening.

"I'll come with you," Cabot said.

So the three of them went down to the monitor room, where news programs were watched and taped, and the tape of the Mackenzie-Mologna interview was run for them, and that's when Zachary's jaw became very square and Freedly's moustache became very drooped.