Well, I'd find somebody. There was no rush, because for the time being I didn't have anything to hide.

I picked up another stack of books, and resumed the task of stowing them on the shelves. As important as putting my place in order, I thought, was dealing with the people who'd done this. Because it was pretty clear that they'd come looking for something, and my eight thousand dollars wasn't it. It had been worth taking, but it wasn't worth breaking in for, not to those bastards.

Because they had to be the same gang that broke into the Rogovins the night before.

I mean, who else could it be? No professional burglar for profit would single me out, and no snatch-and-grab junkie opportunist, looking to grab something he could turn into smack or crack, would wend his wobbly way into a doorman building, and-

Ohmigod.

I rushed out into the hall, rang for the elevator, then turned around and darted back into my apartment. My tools were in the ruins of my hidey-hole, where my visitors had left them, and I snatched them up and hurried back to the elevator, which had come and gone while I was getting my tools. Rather than wait for it I took the stairs, hurtling down them, terrified of what I was going to find.

The doorman at 34th and Park had suffocated. It was presumably an accident, tape meant for his mouth covering his nose as well, but maybe someone had decided that an extra piece of tape on the nose would avoid leaving a witness as a loose end. And even if it had been an accident, who was to say they wouldn't make the same mistake again?

I went to the parcel room, tried the door. It was locked. I put an ear to it and listened, and couldn't hear a thing but my own heartbeat.

I got out my tools and went to work.

Whoever they were, I guess they must have stocked up on duct tape when some genius in Washington suggested you could seal your windows with it in the event of a terrorist attack. They'd evidently got to Kmart before the supply ran out, so they had plenty, and they weren't stingy with it when it came time to immobilize Edgardo, who was unfortunate enough to be on duty when they came calling.

They'd taped his wrists behind his back, and then they'd sat him down in a straight-backed wooden chair and taped each of his ankles to the chair's front legs. Then they'd wound tape around his middle, fastening him to the back of the chair, and somewhere along the way they'd slapped a piece of tape over his mouth. But they'd left his nose uncovered, thank heavens, and he was still alive.

But that was about as much as you could say for him. He'd made a valiant effort to free himself, rocking to and fro on the chair until he managed to tip it over, but all that did was make his position that much more uncomfortable. He'd wound up more or less on his side, with his feet in the air and his head tilted downward. That way the blood could rush to his head, but it didn't have to rush, it could take its time, because Edgardo wasn't going anywhere.

He was so positioned that he could see a patch of floor and not much else, and when I opened the door he had no way of knowing who it was-someone come to rescue him, or the same guys coming back to finish the job. But it was somebody, so he made as much noise as he could, issuing a string of nasal grunts that were eloquent enough in their own way. If nothing else they let me know he was alive, and I matched his eloquence with a sigh of relief and rolled him over so we could get a look at each other, and so that I could set about getting him loose.

I picked at a corner of the tape covering his mouth, got enough of it free to get a grip on it, and told him to brace himself. "This is going to hurt," I said, and I was right about that. I gave a yank and got the tape off, and I swear the poor bastard's eyes popped halfway out of his head, but he didn't make a sound.

I don't know how he held it in. He's short and slim, with a boyish face, and I suppose he grew the mustache to make himself look older. It was a sparse and tentative mustache, and thus had the opposite effect, making him look like somebody who was trying to look older. And now it was all at once considerably sparser and more tentative, because a substantial percentage of it had come off along with the duct tape, and how he kept from screaming in agony is beyond me.

What he did do, when he had the chance, was rattle off a long frenzied speech as fast as he could talk. It was in Spanish, so I didn't understand a word of it, but I could tell it was heartfelt.

"Easy," I said. "You're okay. They're not coming back. You'll be all right now, Edgardo."

"Edgar."

"I thought your name was Edgardo."

He shook his head. "No more. Now is Edgar. Is more American."

"Fair enough. Hold still and I'll cut you loose."

There was far too much tape to try ripping it off, and I'd thought I would have to run upstairs for my Swiss Army knife, but I remembered that we were in the parcel room, and of course there was a box-cutter on the desk. It gave me a turn to see it there, as box-cutters don't seem nearly as innocent as they did a few years ago, but it was just what the job demanded, and I managed to cut the tape without cutting Edgardo-I'm sorry, make that Edgar-and before too long I had the chair standing up and him sitting in it.

"Now," I said, "just sit tight, okay?"

"Tight? How I sit tight?"

"It's an expression," I said. "Un idioma. Never mind. Just stay here, and I'll get you a glass of water. You want a glass of water?"

"Hokay."

"I'll be right back with it. I'll get the water and I'll call the cops, and-"

"No!"

"No? Look, Edgar, you could have been killed, and the guys who did this to you already killed three other people, and one of them was a doorman just like you. Of course I'm going to call the police."

He looked on the point of tears.

"Why not?"

"You want me to call the INS?"

"Ay,Cristo! No!"

"Oh," I said. "You don't want me to call the INS. And you don't want me to call the police because you're afraid they'll call the INS." He was nodding enthusiastically, clearly pleased that he'd finally made himself understood by this gringo idiot. "But you're not illegal, are you? How could you get hired here without a Green Card?"

It took a few minutes, but he got the point across. There were, it turned out, Green Cards and Green Cards. Some of them were issued by the Immigration and Naturalization Service, while others were the product of private enterprise. The latter would serve to placate a prospective employer, but someone from the INS would be able to tell the difference, and one more hardworking and productive New Yorker would be out on hisculo.

I started to tell him the police had better things to do than run interference for the INS, and that all they'd want from him was whatever he could tell them about the men who'd wrapped him up like a Christmas present. But halfway through I changed direction, because I wasn't convinced of the truth of what I was saying.

To paraphrase the song fromMy Fair Lady, when a cop's not near the suspect he suspects, he suspects the suspect he's near. A lyric like that's not ever going to make the charts, but it's sadly true all the same. Edgar was clearly the victim in this case, but when they couldn't get anywhere else with what they had, some bright-eyed cop would decide they ought to take a harder look at the doorman, on the chance that he might have been in on it all the time.

And, when his Green Card turned out to be a little gray around the edges, making them even more suspicious of its holder, they'd have no choice but to inform the Immigration and Naturalization bozos, who'd pick up Edgar the minute the cops came to their senses and cleared him. And away he'd go, back to Nicaragua or Colombia or the Dominican Republic, wherever he'd lived back in the good old days when his name was still Edgardo and he earned three dollars a month cutting sugarcane.