Next there came a cut back to the bandaged Costello at his desk, saying, "Naturally, we informed both the police and the FBI the instant we'd verified Klopzik's story. The result was, to this reporter at least, something of an astonishment."

More film: official cars slamming to a stop in front of the jeweler's, uniformed and plainclothes cops milling around. And then the astonishment: film showing a man identified by the voice-over as FBI Agent Malcolm Zachary, on the sidewalk in front of the store, in the process of punching Tony Costello in the face. Costello went down and, while the camera ground on, the stout form of Chief Inspector Francis X. Mologna came running into the scene and started kicking the fallen journalist.

"Holy cow," Dortmunder said.

Another cut back to Costello at his desk, now looking serious and judicious and just a teeny bit sly. "This unfortunate incident," he told the viewers at home, "merely shows how tempers can fray when the heat is really on. This network has already accepted the apologies of both the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Mayor of the City of New York, and I personally have accepted the apologies of Agent Zachary and Chief Inspector Mologna, both of whom have been granted leaves of absence for reasons of health. In all of this, only one minor element truly pains me, and that was Chief Inspector Mologna's reference to this reporter, in the heat of the moment, as a 'dirty Wop. Now, it happens that I am one hundred percent Irish extraction, though of course that doesn't matter one way or the other, but even if I weren't Irish, even if I were Italian which I am not, or if I were a Scotsman, such as Jack Mackenzie, my opposite number on another network, no matter what ethnic group I might belong to, I would still have to be saddened and distressed at this suggestion of ethnic stereotyping. Even though I'm Irish, I must say I would be proud to be called a Wop or a Dago or anything else such misguided people might choose to say. Some of my best friends are Italian. Back to you, Sal."

"Right on," said Andy Kelp, as Dortmunder switched off the set.

"Okay," Stan Murch said. "Enough of the past. We ready to talk about the future?"

Kelp said, "Sure we are. You got a caper, Stan?"

"Something very nice," Stan said. "I'll drive, of course. Ralph, there's some very tough locks to get through."

"I'm your man," Ralph Winslow said.

"Jim, Andy, there'll be climbing and carrying."

"Sure thing," Kelp said, and Jim O'Hara, his prison gray already receding, said, "I'm ready to get back into action. Believe me."

"And, John," Stan said, turning to Dortmunder, "we're gonna need a detailed plan. You feel good?"

"I feel very good," Dortmunder said. It was too bad he couldn't tell the world about his greatest triumph, but since his greatest triumph had turned out to be no more than a circle in which he wound up putting his most magnificent haul back where he'd found it, maybe it was just as well to keep it to himself. Still, a triumph is a triumph is a triumph. "In fact," he said, "I would say I'm at the beginning of a lucky streak."