‘What’s eating him?’ said Billy.

The two men went inside and Charles Stein told his son everything that Max Breslow had said. Billy walked round the large sitting room, restlessly fingering the notes of the grand piano and helping himself to one of his father’s favourite coconut cakes. At the end of the long story, Charles Stein waited for his son’s reaction.

‘I sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to Mary,’ said Billy Stein.

His father sighed noisily. ‘It’s Mary now, is it? You only met her at lunchtime. What’s hit you? Love at first sight?’ he inquired. ‘Or are you writing a new musical for Streisand? Are you going to keep circling the carpet, mooing like a lovesick cow?’

Billy smiled anxiously. ‘I knew you were going to blow your top,’ he said. ‘I told Mary that you had this hang-up about Germans, and that you would be certain to hit the ceiling.’

Billy noticed that his father was blinking very rapidly. In spite of the stillness of his father’s large frame and his inscrutable face, Billy recognized this as a danger signal. ‘You been discussing me, eh? You cruised along in the little old T-bird, with Mantovani oozing out of the stereo, and talked about your dad’s shortcomings. Tell me, Billy. Did she exchange confidences? I mean, did she tell you a few of good old Daddy Max’s little passions and preoccupations?’

Billy was smiling with amused exasperation, waving his hands in an effort to still his father’s wrath. ‘All I said was… if you were listening to me, dad… you’d know that all I said was that I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her. Right? You don’t have to throw some kind of one-man race riot.’

‘Now my kid is lecturing me on intolerance. Listen, Billy, did I ever tell you about some years of my life I gave up to fight the Nazis?’

‘Did you ever tell me anything else?’

The argument had settled into its usual style, and neither of them took it too seriously. Charles Stein muttered something inaudible and ate the last of the coconut cakes.

‘You didn’t tell me about how lucky I was having a fancy education and the Cessna and the T-bird and the boat and everything.’

‘Don’t press your luck, Billy,’ said Stein, and his son was careful enough to accept the warning.

Charles Stein went over to the red house-phone and pressed the button to connect him with the phone in his housekeeper’s apartment. ‘I’m going out now,’ he told her. ‘Could be I’ll be back very late tonight. Don’t open the door for anyone. Make sure you double-lock the doors and check the window catches. I hear there were more break-ins up the hill last week. And it’s Friday, the 13th, Mrs Svenson.’ He hung up without waiting for his housekeeper to reply.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Billy.

‘Visiting a pal,’ said Stein, and Billy knew that he would get no more from his father.

Charles Stein was not the kind of man commonly seen in the entrance lobby of the Gnu Club. His unkempt appearance and off-hand manner deceived the staff into believing that he was a tourist or a drunk looking for a small beer and some go-go dancers. The receptionist was a slim young man with rimless spectacles, who had committed to memory the faces of most of the big-spending clients and was able to recollect the names too. He exchanged a glance with a large man sitting inconspicuously behind the coat-check hatch. Silently, the man put on his peaked cap, stepped out on to the soft carpeting and stood where the spotlight that was directed upon the long-stemmed roses illuminated his ‘security guard’ arm badge and the big biceps muscles too. ‘Good evening, sir.’ The guard employed that veneer of exaggerated politeness which is unmistakably an intimidation.

Stein blinked at him but did not answer.

‘I said, good evening, pal.’

‘I am not your pal,’ said Stein, ‘and if you will step aside I’m going upstairs.’

‘Oh, that’s what it’s all about,’ said the guard wearily. ‘You came in to use the John?’ Over Stein’s shoulder he made a pained face at the young receptionist.

‘No,’ said Stein.

‘Try the Alcove Club, just a short walk down the block,’ advised the guard. ‘This is just for rich kids.’

‘I’m the father of a rich kid,’ said Stein.

‘Hey, he’s a joker,’ said the guard to the receptionist ‘OK, fats, you’ve had your fun. Now hit the street and keep walking. You need a tuxedo to come in here. And a clean shirt.’ He grinned at the receptionist. The guard had moved farther into the light now. It shone on the brightly polished leather belt and cross strap and the bright chromium badge on his blue shirt.

‘How would you like to move aside?’ said Stein quietly.

The guard clasped one large hand in the other, and began to pull at his finger joints one by one, as if trying to count ‘And how would you like to learn how to fly, fatso?’ he said. He pushed at Stein’s belly forcefully enough to halt him.

The receptionist was craning his neck to be sure that no important clients were about to enter the outer doors and so witness a would-be client being manhandled. For this reason he did not see what happened next. He expressed his regret about that many times over the ensuing weeks. He heard a grunt of pain, a strangled yell and the resounding thud of a heavy weight hitting the floor. The vase of roses toppled too and broke on the floor.

‘Flying is just for the birds,’ Stein was saying softly to the prostrate guard while removing a set of brass knuckles from his fist. Delicately, with the toe of his two-toned oxford, he moved the groaning security guard over until he could see his face. The long-stemmed roses were twisted round the guard’s body and his uniform was wet with water from the vase.

The petrified receptionist pressed appropriate buttons on the telephone and said, ‘Reception. There’s a guy tearing the place apart down here.’ A pause. ‘No, Mr Delaney, I can’t get the security man, he’s crippled the security man already.’ He put down the phone. ‘Mr Delaney is coming,’ said the receptionist, more to himself than to Stein or the guard.

Stein put the brass knuckles back into his pocket and waited for something to happen. Behind a door marked ‘Private’ there was the sound of feet hurrying down stairs. Two men came through it, close together. One was holding a short baton, while behind him a much older man had a pistol carried low and pointing to the ground. It was an old gun, its blue finish now worn shiny.

‘OK!’ said the man with the baton. He was a young man in an expensive silk suit and frilly blue evening shirt. His face was pinched and his hairline prematurely receding, but he had the broad shoulders and biceps that come only to the truly dedicated weightlifter. ‘Where is he?’

The security guard was still lying on the floor, both hands clasping his belly. He groaned. A rose was entwined in his legs.

‘Who did it, Murray?’ said the young man. The guard groaned again. ‘I did it,’ said Stein simply.

‘You hit him?’ The young man was outraged. He said, ‘Murray and me work out together at the gym.’

‘Well, I didn’t know that,’ said Stein apologetically.

‘You’re going to have to get out of here, mister,’ said the younger Delaney, taking care not to hold the baton in any way that might be interpreted as a threat.

‘You want to be laid out cold, kid? This is Chuck Stein. He don’t take no lip from anyone except me.’ The elder Delaney was a big man, taller than Stein, with the smooth cat-like movements that come with physical fitness. He was tanned and had that sort of naturally wavy hair that responds well to a perm every week.

By now they were all looking down at the guard who, finding he was the centre of attention, tried to sit up.

‘Now I have to get myself a new guard, you son of a bitch,’ said Delaney to Stein. He put his foot on the guard’s shoulder and pressed him roughly back to the floor. ‘You’re fired, buddy boy,’ he told him. He picked up the guard’s uniform cap and placed it carefully on the side table.