"Wha'd he do? John?" Kelp was bouncing up and down in his eagerness and frustration, slopping beer out of the can onto his knees. "Tell me, John!"

"Benjy," Dortmunder said. "The little guy the cops wired."

"What about him?"

"He's the guy Mologna says boosted the ring."

"Benjy Klopzik?" Kelp was astonished. "That little jerk couldn't steal a paper bag in a supermarket."

"Nevertheless," Dortmunder said. "Everybody's after him now, right? Because of being wired."

"They want him almost as bad as they want you," Kelp agreed.

"So the cops announce he's the guy lifted the ruby ring. He won't come back and say no, it wasn't me. So that's the end of it."

"But where is he?"

"Who cares?" Dortmunder said. "The Middle East, maybe. The Cuban part of Miami, maybe. Maybe the cops killed him and buried him under Headquarters. Wherever he is, Mologna's pretty damn sure nobody's gonna find him. And that's good enough for me." Reaching for the phone, grinning from ear to ear, Dortmunder said, "That's plenty good enough for me."

Life is unfair, as Tony Costello well knew. He was on the very brink of losing his job as police-beat reporter on the six o'clock news, and it was all because nobody knew he was Irish. It was bad enough that "Costello," though Irish, sounded Italian; but then his mother had had to go and compound the problem by naming him Anthony. Sure there were lots of micks named Anthony, but you go ahead and combine «Anthony» with «Costello» and you might just as well forget the wearin' o' the green altogether.

Plus, Tony Costello's additional misfortune was that he was a black Irishman, with thick black hair all over his head, and a lumpy prominent nose, and a short and chunky body. Oh, he was doomed right enough, that he was.

If only it were possible to bring it out into the open, to talk about it, go up to some of these dumb micks—Chief Inspector Francis X. Mologna, for instance, there was a tub of dolphin shit for you—and say to these fellas, "God damn it to hell and back, I'm Irish!" But he couldn't do that—the prejudice, the old boys' club, the whole Irish Mafia that runs the Police Department and always has would have to be acknowledged that way, which of course was out of the question—and as a result all the best scoops, the inside dope, the advance words-to-the-wise all went to that son of a bitch Scotsman, that Jack Mackenzie, because the dumb micks all thought he was Irish.

"Looks like spring today!" said a pretty girl in the elevator at noon on Saturday, but Tony Costello didn't give a shit. His days as police-beat reporter were numbered, the numbers were getting smaller, and there was nothing he could do about it. A month, six weeks, two months at the outside, and he'd be shipped bag and baggage to Duluth or some damn place, some network affiliate where the police beat was automobile accidents and Veterans' Day parades. Maybe it looked like spring today, maybe last night's drenching rain had been winter's valedictory, maybe this morning's soft breezes and watery sun heralded the new season of hope, but if there was no hope in Tony Costello's heart—and there was none—what could it matter to him? So he snubbed the pretty girl in the elevator, who spent the rest of the day looking rather bewildered, and he stamped down the corridor past all the other busy-busy network employees into his own cubicle, where he asked Dolores, the secretary he shared (for as long as he was still here) with five other reporters, "Any messages?"

"Sorry, Tony."

"Sure," Costello said. "Sure not. No messages. Who would call Tony Costello?"

"Buck up, Tony," Dolores said. She was slender, but motherly. "It's a beautiful day. Look out the window."

"I may jump out the window," Costello said, and his phone rang.

"Well, well," Dolores said.

"Wrong number," Costello suggested.

But Dolores answered it anyway: "Mister Costello's line." Costello watched her listen, nod, raise her eyebrows; then she said, "If this is some sort of prank, Mister Costello's far too busy—"

"Huh," said Costello.

Dolores was listening again. She seemed interested, then intrigued, then amused: "I think maybe you ought to talk to Mister Costello himself," she said, and pressed the hold button.

"It's Judge Crater," Costello suggested. "He was captured by Martians, he's spent all these years in a flying saucer."

"Close," Dolores said. "It's the man who burgled Skoukakis Credit Jewelers."

"Skoukakis…" The name rang a bell, then exploded: "Holy shit, that's where the Byzantine Fire was grabbed!"

"Exactly."

"He says—he says he's, uh, uh, Whatsisname?" (Not being on the inside track with the boys at Headquarters, Costello mostly got his police news from the radio and had heard Mologna's announcement in the car on the way downtown. Oh, it was an uphill fight for Tony Costello every inch of the way.)

"Benjamin Arthur Klopzik," Dolores reminded him. "And what he says is, he robbed the place. To prove his point, he described the store."

"Accurately?"

"How would I know? I've never been there. Anyway, he wants to talk to you about the Byzantine Fire."

"Maybe to set up a return." A rare smile lightly touched Costello's features, making him look a bit less like an Irish bog (or an Italian swamp). "Through me," he said, in wonderment. "Is that possible? Through me!"

"Talk to the man."

"Yes. Yes, I will." Seating himself at his desk, switching on the tape that would record the call, he lifted his phone and said, "Tony Costello here."

The voice was low in volume and with a faint echo, as though the speaker were in a tunnel or something. "I'm the guy," it said, "that robbed Skoukakis Credit Jewelers."

"So I understand. Klop, uhh…"

"Klopzik," said the voice. "Benjamin Arthur—I mean, Benjy Klopzik."

"And you have the Byzantine Fire."

"No, I don't."

Costello sighed; hope dashed, yet again. "Okay," he said. "Nice talking to you."

"Wait a minute," Klopzik said. "I know where it is."

Costello hesitated. This had all the characteristics of a prank or crank phone call, except for one thing: Klopzik's voice. It was a gruff voice, with a weariness, a many-battles-lost quality that reminded Costello of himself. This voice would not pull pranks, would not do dumb stunts for fun. Therefore Costello stayed on the line, saying, "Where is it?"

But then Klopzik had to go and say, "It's still in the jewelry store."

"So long," Costello said.

"God damn it." Klopzik's voice sounded really annoyed. "What's the matter with you? Where you going? Don't you want the goddam story?"

Which stung Costello: "If there is a story," he said, "naturally I want it."

"Then stop saying good-bye. The reason I picked you, I seen you on the TV and I don't think you're in the cops' pocket like that guy Mackenzie. You know the one I mean?"

Costello's heart warmed to this stranger: "I do indeed," he said.

"If I give this to Mackenzie he'll give it very quiet to the cops, and they'll do it very quiet, and I'll still be in a jam."

"I don't follow."

"Everybody's on my tail," Klopzik explained. "They're looking for the guy hit the jewelry store because they think I got the ruby, too. But I don't. So what I want, I want a lot of publicity when you get the ruby, so everybody knows I never had it, so they'll get off my back."

"I am beginning," Costello said, "to believe you, Mr. Klopzik. Tell me more."

"I broke in there that night," Klopzik said. "Must of been just after they put the ruby there. I didn't see them or anything, I'm not a witness. I just went in, I opened the safe, I took what I wanted, I saw this big red stone on a gold-looking ring, I figured it had to be fake. So I left it."