When he had assembled his fake job resume out on Long Island, he'd thought he was being brilliant, and in a way he was, though not in the manner he'd thought.

No wonder J. C. had caught on so immediately. When Judson, with his eyes freshly opened, studied J. C. Taylor's businesses, she had done exactly the same thing for references. The police chiefs and district attorneys who'd endorsed the detective course, all dead or retired or otherwise unavailable. And the same for the music publishers, disc jockeys, and songwriters boosting Super Star, and likewise the psychiatrists, "medical professionals," and marriage counselors urging the purchase of Intertherapeutic's book of dirty pictures. (Was that J. C. herself in some of those pictures? Couldn't be.)

Ultimately, though, what made the routine in office 712 of the Avalon State Bank tower so much better than an actual job was that the job hadn't existed until he'd come along. J. C. had planned to shut down all three of these operations and had changed her mind only when she'd seen his brilliant résumé — seen through his brilliant resume, in a New York minute — and realized he was the perfect person to pick up the torch.

He would not fail her. She has faith in me as a con artist and a crook, he told himself, and I will not let her down.

At just after ten in the morning on the second day of his illicit employment, he was at his desk, busy with labels and Pitney Bowes, when the hall door opened. This was the first such occurrence, but he'd already been told what to say in such a circumstance — J. C. Taylor isn't here, did you make an appointment, leave your name, go away — so he was already opening his mouth before the door was fully open, but then it turned out to be the man improbably called Tiny, who was presumably J. C.'s boyfriend, though the word had never seemed more inadequate.

"Oh, hello," Judson said, since his mouth was open anyway.

"That's a better getup, kid," Tiny said, closing the door and waving a hand at Judson's polo shirt and slacks, which were, in fact, a much better getup than the costume he'd worn while job hunting.

"Thank you," Judson said, pleased. "Am I supposed to tell J. C. you're here?"

"I'll tell her myself." Tiny seemed to consider for a minute, then said, "You got a credit card?"

Surprised, Judson said, "Sure. A couple."

"One will do. This afternoon, rent a car. A full-size one, you know?"

"For you, you mean."

"That's right. Two o'clock, meet me at Lex and Seventy-second, northwest corner. When you get your credit card bill, I'll pay you back in cash."

"Oh, sure. No problem."

"Don't be too trusting, kid," Tiny advised him. "I'll square your absence with Josey. Two o'clock."

"Seventy-second and Lex. I'll be there."

"So will I," Tiny said, and advanced into the inner office, closing the door behind himself.

Whatever it is that's happening, Judson thought, I'm getting in deeper. The thought made him smile.

SILENT AS THE tomb. When Dortmunder and Kelp walked into the O.J. a little before two that afternoon, even the floor didn't creak. There seemed to be fewer regulars than usual, huddled together at the left end of the bar, as silent and miserable as kittens in a sack with the bridge getting close. The two watchful guys in the booth on the right were not the same as the two from last night, but they weren't that different, either. Rollo had a newspaper folded open on the bar at the right end, far from the immobile regulars, and was bent over it with a red Flair pen in his hand.

Approaching the bar, Dortmunder felt the eyes of the guys in the booth on him, but ignored them. Then he saw that Rollo was not reading the Daily News, like a regular person, but the larger paper, the New York Times. And then he saw that what Rollo was reading in the New York Times was the want ads.

Rollo didn't raise his eyes from the columns of jobs awaiting the qualified when Dortmunder and Kelp bellied up to the bar in front of him, but he was not unmindful of their presence. "Sorry, fellas," he said, eyes down, pen poised. "Still no go."

"Rollo," Dortmunder said, "all's we want's a beer."

"Two beers, in fact," Kelp said.

Now Rollo did look up. He seemed wary. "Nothing else in mind?"

"What else?" Kelp asked him. "It's a hot August day, the time seems right for a nice beer."

Rollo shrugged. "Coming up," he said, and went away to draw two.

While they waited, Kelp said, "I think it's my round, John."

Dortmunder looked at him. "What are you up to?"

"What up to? I feel like I wanna buy you a beer. It happens, we have another one, then you buy for me. That's how it works, John."

Dortmunder said, "What if we only have the one?"

"My feeling is," Kelp said, whipping out his wallet and putting cash money on the bar next to the glasses Rollo was putting down in front of them, "some day we'll be in a bar again."

Dortmunder could only agree with that. "You'll keep track, I guess," he said, as Rollo took Kelp's money away to his open cash register and rummaged around in there a while.

"No problem," Kelp assured him, and lifted his glass. "To crime."

"Without punishment," Dortmunder amended, and they both drank.

Rollo came back to put crumpled bills on the bar in front of Kelp, who took a few, left one, and said, "Thanks, Rollo."

Rollo leaned close over the bar. Very softly he said, "I just wanna say, this isn't the best place right now."

"We noticed that, Rollo," Kelp said, and nodded, and smiled in an amiable way, inviting confidences.

"The thing is," Rollo said, more sotto voce than ever, "there are people around here right now, what they are, they're criminals."

Dortmunder leaned very close to Rollo over the bar. "Rollo," he murmured, "we're criminals."

"Yeah, John, I know," Rollo said. "But they're organized. Take care of yourselves."

"Everything okay, Rollo?" demanded a nasty voice.

It was one of today's organized men, come from his booth to stand at the bar in front of Rollo's Times. His strange shirt was off-puce.

"Everything's jake," Rollo assured him. Scooping the loose dollar from the bar, he went back to his newspaper, while the puce, after one quick, dismissive look at Dortmunder and Kelp, headed back to his booth.

Dortmunder said, "You think everything's okay in life, and then something different happens."

Kelp gave him a look. "John? On one beer you're turning philosophical?"

"It's the environment," Dortmunder told him.

Meanwhile, returning to his want ads, Rollo called toward the entrance, "Just put 'em in back," and when Dortmunder turned to look, a blue-uniformed deliveryman was wheeling in a dolly piled five-high with liquor cartons.

"Right," the deliveryman said, and wheeled the dolly on by. The regulars didn't even turn to watch.

Dortmunder and Kelp exchanged a silent glance as they sipped their beer. Soon the deliveryman returned, pushing his empty dolly, and Dortmunder stepped back from the bar to say, in a normal volume of voice, "I gotta hit the gents."

"I'll watch your beer," Kelp offered.

"Thank you."

Dortmunder circled the clustered regulars and went around the end of the bar and down the hall past pointers and setters, noticing that beneath setters was a thumb-tacked handwritten OUT OF ORDER notice, and past the entry-to-the-universe phone booth, and stopped at the open green door at the very end of the hall.

And there was the back room, where so often they had met in the past, and which was now transformed. It was so jam-packed full of stuff you couldn't even see the round table in the middle of it any more, let alone the chairs around it. The bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling was partially blocked by all the materiel that had been introduced into the place. Liquor cartons were stacked everywhere, along with new barstools with their plastic wrapping still on them, at least half a dozen cash registers, a complete mini pool table, and boxes and boxes of pretzels and Slim Jims.