"Well, we take it away," Benjy said, with unconvincing bravado. "And we give the ruby to the cops, and they lay off."

"And the guy who copped it," Tiny said, "him you give to me."

"Whatever," said Benjy. "The point is, the heat's off."

Winslow said, "There's something in that idea. That's possibly a very good idea. I think I like it."

O'Hara said dubiously, "I don't know, Ralph. It kinda goes against the grain, you know? Turning somebody over to the cops."

"Somebody that made all this trouble?" Tiny flexed his fingers. "I'll turn him inside out and then I'll turn him over."

"Besides," Winslow said, "let's face it, Jim, people turn people over every day. That's what plea bargaining is, right? I give them you, you give them somebody else, right on down the line."

"Also," Benjy said, "there's regular stoolies. I mean, we all know guys that make a part of their living with their mouth, right? You got a mad against somebody, you go to this fella, that fella, you tell him a secret, and right away the cops know it and the guy you're mad at is on his way upstate. And the rest of the time, you watch what you tell this fella."

Tiny said, "Which fella?" He sounded as though he might be on the way to bad temper.

"The stoolie," Benjy explained, blinking. "The guy you know's a stoolie."

"Like you," Tiny told him.

"Aw, come on, Tiny," Benjy said.

"The stoolie could find out what clues the cops have," Winslow said.

Tiny brooded at him. "You mean really do it," he said.

Winslow said, "Tiny, it sounds weird, but I think we could. We got the manpower, we got the access, we got the interest."

"We'd need a center," Tiny said. "A headquarters, like. And somebody in charge."

Winslow said, "There's a phone in this room here, over there with those liquor cases. Rollo wouldn't mind. We could start calling around from here, give this number to call back for anybody has news. Different people man the phone."

"It's possible," Tiny said.

Getting to his feet, Winslow said, "I'll talk to Rollo about it." And he left the room.

O'Hara said, "I could stay here a while. Reminds me of my cell, except for no window. And it's better'n the room I got now."

Benjy was as happy as a puppy playing fetch-the-stick. Wagging his tail, he said, "It's a good idea, huh? Isn't it? Huh?"

"Benjy," Tiny said, "you go ask the cops what clues they got."

Benjy looked terribly hurt. "Aw, come on, Tiny."

"Okay," Tiny said. "Go ask a fella to go ask the cops what clues they got."

"Sure, Tiny," Benjy said. Happy again, he knocked back the last of his vermouth and bounced to his feet.

"And don't take all night."

"Sure, Tiny."

Benjy scampered from the room, and Tiny turned his heavy-browed gaze on O'Hara, saying, "What were you up for?"

"Armed robbery," O'Hara said. "My partner had a fight with his woman and she turned us in."

"A woman talked to somebody about me one time," Tiny said. "I hung her off a cornice by her pantyhose." He shook his head. "She shouldn'ta bought such cheap pantyhose," he said.

"And the ring," said the desk sergeant.

Dortmunder looked at his left hand. "I can't," he said. "It's stuck, I never take it off." Gazing hopelessly at the desk sergeant across the little heap of his possessions on the counter—wallet, keys, belt—he said, "It's a wedding ring."

The arresting officer on his left said, "The woman you're living with doesn't have any wedding ring."

"I'm not married to her," Dortmunder said.

The arresting officer on his right said, "What a scamp." Both arresting officers laughed.

"Okay," the desk sergeant said, and extended a form and a pen across the counter. "This is the list of your property. Read it, sign it, you'll get everything back on release."

Dortmunder had to steady the form with his left hand. The ruby tucked in among his fingers felt as big as a potato. He had to keep his hand partially closed at all times, which felt awkward and undoubtedly looked awkward. John A. Dortmunder, he wrote, in a rather shaky hand, and pushed the form back across the counter. His left hand eased down to his side, fingers curled.

"Come along, John," said the arresting officer on his left. He walked with them across the big room and through a door with a frosted-glass window, into a long cream corridor with pale green plastic benches lined along the left wall. At least thirty men, none of them well-dressed, sat on these benches, looking glum, or bored, or outraged, or frightened, or fatalistic, or bewildered—but never happy. Down at the far end, two blank-faced cops leaned against the wall. One of them had blue suspenders. "Sit down there, John," said one of the arresting officers, and Dortmunder took his place on the plastic bench. The arresting officers, without a farewell, departed.

Dortmunder was on line now. A door at the far end of the corridor, where the two cops leaned, would open every once in a while, and the next person on the bench would get up and go in. Nobody ever came out, though, which meant either another exit or the minotaur was inside there, eating everybody.

Dortmunder sat with his hands in his lap, fingers curled, the ruby burning a slow inexorable hole in his hand, like a laser beam. Every time the person at the end of the line went away to see the minotaur, everybody else moved leftward, wriggling their asses along the plastic benches. From time to time newer fish would arrive and be seated to Dortmunder's right. Whenever anyone spoke to his neighbor, the cops at the far end said, "Shut up, down there." The silence was heavy, muggy, discontented.

And what was the point in dragging this out? Dortmunder knew that if he simply got to his feet and showed his left hand, palm up, the suspense would be over and done with. All these semi-innocent people could go on home, and Dortmunder himself could stop worrying about when the ax would fall. Everybody would be better off—even he would.

And yet he couldn't do it. There was no hope, and yet he hoped.

Well, no. He didn't so much hope as merely refuse to assist Destiny in its fell designs. Every lawman in the northeast was looking for the Byzantine Fire, and Dortmunder was seated in his local precinct wearing it. Disaster would arrive when it would arrive; it wasn't up to John A. Dortmunder to rush it along.

Three hours then passed, one moss-covered second at a time. Dortmunder came to know that opposite wall; he was familiar with every crack, every blemish. That particular color of cream was permanently fixed in his brain, like a mosaic tile. The knees of his neighbors were also well known to him; he could probably pick them out in a lineup of hundreds of knees. Thousands.

There were a few familiar profiles to left and right along the line, but since nobody was permitted to talk (and since who knew what trouble you might inherit by acknowledging in front of the cops that you did know this person or that person), Dortmunder did no socializing. He just sat there, and from time to time he wriggled his ass leftward on the plastic seat, and very very slowly time passed. The cops at the end of the hall were replaced by identical cops—neither better nor worse—and more time grudgingly slipped through the needle's eye of the present into the camel's stomach of the past, until at last there was no one at all to Dortmunder's left, which meant he was next on line. And which also meant his left hand was extremely visible to the two cops.

Who didn't look at it. They didn't actually look at anything at all, these cops. All they did was stand there, and from time to time murmur to one another about beer and hot dogs, and from time to time tell somebody to shut up, and from time to time send the next victim through the door—but they never did look at anything, or show curiosity about anything, or give vent to a facial expression, or in any way produce at all what you could call true vital signs. They were like a memory of cops rather than the actual cops themselves.