He also declined to offer an opinion about when an arrest could be expected, and when asked by a reporter from the Easton Express to identify the FBI agents with him, stated that it was FBI policy not to do so.

The FBI agents with Mr. Young were known to this reporter as John D. Matthews, Lamar F. Greene, and Paul C. Lomar.

He stopped typing, pushed the Page Up key, and read what he had written. He tapped his fingertips together for a moment, then pushed the Send key on his keyboard. This caused as much of the slug of the story as would fit-it came out as (O'Hara) "Really Ugly" Woman Robs B-to appear on the computer monitor on Mr. Schwartz's desk.

Schwartz immediately called the whole story up on his monitor screen.

He read it, chuckling several times, and then pushed a key that caused a printed version of the story to emerge from a printer on a credenza behind him. He snatched it from the printer and walked across the city room to O'Hara's office.

"Very funny," he said. "A bank robber dressed up like a woman."

"It was a Chinese fire drill, from start to finish," Mickey said. "I was going up Route 611 when the FBI, two cars, goes around me, lights flashing, sirens screaming, as if I was standing still. Then they got lost, I guess, because I got to the bank ten minutes before they did."

Schwartz smiled.

"The first thing Young did, when he finally showed up, was to order one of his underlings to throw me out of the bank," O'Hara went on.

"I noticed you had your knife out for him," Schwartz said. "This is what is known as Time For Second Thoughts."

"Fuck him," Mickey said. "Let it run."

"Your call."

"Sy, that constable was really something," O'Hara said, laughing at the memory. "He told me the reason he ran into his boss's car was because he had just remembered he had left his gun home, and was wondering if he should go get it before going to the bank."

"You really want to say his truck was 'rendered hors de combat'?"

"Why not? I love that phrase. It calls up pictures of horny naked women in foxholes."

Schwartz laughed.

"Who do you think did it?"

"That state cop was pretty clever. I had a chance to talk to him before Young showed up and threw me out of the bank. The state cop thinks it was probably some guy from the coal regions, out of work for a long time, maybe in deep to some loan shark. You know, really desperate. If he is an amateur, and gets smart and quits now, he's probably home free. Despite what that pompous asshole from the FBI declared, they catch damned few bank robbers."

"Maybe this one will be easy to find. Hairy legs. Too much lipstick."

"I think that description-the 'really ugly' part, too-may not be all that reliable."

"Tell me?" Schwartz asked, smiling.

"I had the feeling after talking to Dailey that he was more than a little disappointed that once the broad had him all tied up she didn't do all sorts of wicked sexual things to him. Hell hath no fury, et cetera."

"Jesus, Mickey!"

"There's probably going to be surveillance-camera pictures of him-or, for all we really know, her-you can judge for yourself."

"There's pictures? When do we get them?"

"So far as Young is concerned, after I told him off, I'll get them the day after hell freezes over," O'Hara said. "But the state cop said he'd send me a copy when he gets his."

"We can lean on the FBI, if you think we should."

"I don't think it would be worth the effort. They're generally pretty lousy pictures, even if the camera was working, and I wouldn't bet on that. I asked the state cop for a copy just to satisfy my curiosity."

"Okay, Mickey. Nice little yarn. Would you be heart-broken if I ran it on the first page of the second section?"

"I'm surprised that you're going to run it at all," O'Hara said. "It's not much of a story."

"I like it," Schwartz said, meaning it. "A little droll humor to brighten people's dull days."

Without taking her eyes from the inch-thick, bound-together -with-metal-fastener sheaf of papers lying open on her cluttered desk, Susan Reynolds reached for the ringing telephone and put it to her ear.

"Appeals, Reynolds," she announced.

"Miss Susan Reynolds?" an operator's voice asked.

"Right," Susan said.

"Deposit fifty-five cents, please," the operator ordered.

Susan could hear the melodic bonging of two quarters and a nickel.

She felt sure she knew who was calling. She seldom got long-distance calls made from a pay phone in the office.

Confirmation came immediately.

"Susie?" Jennie asked.

Jennie was Jennifer Ollwood.

"Hi," Susan said.

"Could you call me back?" Jennie asked. "I'm in a phone booth and I don't have any change."

"Give me the number," Susan said, reaching for a pencil, then adding, "It'll be a minute or two. They don't let me make personal toll calls."

Jennie gave her the number. Susan repeated it back to her.

"I have to go down to the lobby," Susan said. "There's no pay phone on this floor."

"Thank you," Jennie said in her soft voice.

Susan hung up and then stood.

Susan Reynolds was listed on the manning chart of the Department of Social Services of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania as an "Appeals Officer, Grade III." She was single, twenty-six years old, naturally blond, blue-eyed, with a fair complexion, and, at five feet five and 130 pounds, was five pounds heavier than she wanted to be.

She occupied a third-floor office in the Department of Social Services Building in Harrisburg. Through its one window, she had a view of the golden dome of the state-house. Her office was just barely large enough to hold her desk and chair, her bookcase, her three filing cabinets, and the three straight-backed chairs intended for use by visitors.

On half of one shelf of her bookcase, Susan kept a small vase, sometimes holding a fresh flower; a photograph of her parents, and a photograph of herself standing in the snow with half a dozen other young women taken while they were all students at Bennington College in Vermont.

The other five shelves of the ceiling-high bookcase were filled with books, notebooks, binders, and manila folders all containing laws, regulations, interpretations, and court decisions having to do with providing social services to those entitled to it.

Just who was entitled to what social services under what conditions was frequently a subject of bitter disagreement between those who believed in their entitlement to one social service or another, and those employees of one governmental agency or another who didn't think so.

It was often difficult, for example, for someone who had been a recipient of a monthly check from Harrisburg intended for the support of his or her minor children to understand why, simply because one of the children had turned nineteen, the amount of the check had been reduced.

The laws-and there were several hundred of them-generally provided that support-and there were forty or fifty different types of support-for dependent children terminated when the child reached his or her nineteenth birthday. Or was no longer resident in the home. Or had been incarcerated or become resident in a mental institution. Or joined the Army.

Ordinarily, the situation could be explained to the recipient at the local Social Services office. But not always. If he or she wanted to appeal, the initial appeal was handled locally. If the local social services functionary upheld the decision of the social worker, the recipient could appeal yet again.

At that point, the case moved to Harrisburg, where it was adjudicated by one of twelve appeals officers, one of whom was Miss Susan Reynolds.

When she had first come on the job three years before, Miss Reynolds had been deeply moved by the poverty and hopeless situations of those whose appeals reached her desk.