They dumped the rest of the purse’s contents out onto a tabletop. Not even a dollar in cash. The rich lived large and traveled light.

Craig opened a drawer and drew out a paste bracelet that was a duplicate of the real Cardell bracelet they had stolen. He dropped it in the Hoffermuth bitch’s purse then scooped all the other contents in on top of it. Before closing the drawer, Craig got out another paste duplicate of the bracelet and laid it on the table away from the genuine one. The fake bracelet in the purse was for fooling Alexis Hoffermuth for at least a little while. That was the second duplicate Cardell bracelet. A third one, the one Craig placed on the table, was for fooling someone else.

They held hands as they went into the living room. Craig poured them each a flute of champagne.

They toasted each other.

“You’d better get rid of the purse with that cell phone soon,” Ida said, placing her glass on a paper napkin.

Craig agreed, but he wasn’t worried. It would be a little while before Alexis Hoffermuth noticed the leather of her purse wasn’t its usual softness, and the brassware was a bit bright and tacky looking. And the clasp didn’t quite hold.

Then, with a plunging heart, she would realize that it wasn’t her purse.

But it was exactly like her purse.

She would open the purse and see that it contained only wadded white tissue.

And it would dawn on her like a nuclear sunrise—the Cardell bracelet, for which she’d just paid $490,000 at Sotheby’s Auction—was gone.

Spirited away by a thief!

Or had it been?

She would try to recall the features of the woman who looked and acted like a flustered young Lucille Ball. Alexis would realize the woman had switched purses and left her with nothing but wadded tissue.

But there’d be something else in the purse . . . Alexis Hoffermuth’s fingers would jab and dance through the tissue, then close on a familiar object and draw it out.

The bracelet!

Relief would course through her. But not without some reservations.

Craig Clairmont smiled. Alexis Hoffermuth wouldn’t understand. The bracelet somehow had been removed from her purse and then found its way into the substitute bag. Had the thief made some sort of mistake? She certainly was the type to do so.

Alexis might wonder that again, when her real purse was recovered with the bracelet still in it. A bracelet like it, anyway. It might be a long time, and a lot of wishful and confused thinking, before it occurred to her that the recovered bracelet was yet another not-so-cheap imitation. That the thieves were simply playing for time.

The very clever thieves.

Ida and Craig each took another sip of champagne.

That was when Ida’s eight-year-old daughter, Eloise, flounced into the room.

May 6, 4:35 p.m.

They thought at first he’d been struck by the sanitation department truck, one of those behemoths with the huge crusher in back.

But the man in the alley seemed unhurt except for the fact that he was bending over, holding one hand folded in the other.

When the trash truck had left the narrow passageway and turned a corner, Otto Berger and Arthur Shoulders exchanged glances. They were both bulky men in cheap brown suits. Otto was slightly the taller of the two. Arthur was slightly wider. Otto made a motion with his head, and the two professional thugs swaggered toward the lone figure in the shadows. The man looked up at them, and Otto smiled, not parting his lips. This was who they were expecting.

“Bingo, bango,” Arthur said.

“Gee, what happened to your hand?” Otto asked.

The man, whose name was Jack Clairmont, grimaced. “I got it caught in the trash truck’s mechanism when they used that damn grinder.”

“That’s a lotta blood you’re losing,” Arthur said.

“I’m goddam afraid to look.”

“What was you doing,” Otto asked, “tossing something into the truck?”

“Didn’t I see you get something from one of them guys who sling the trash bags?” Arthur asked.

“Like making an exchange,” Otto said.

The injured man squinted painfully at them.

Otto, though huge, was quick. He stepped forward and kicked Jack Clairmont hard in the side of the knee. Clairmont yelped and dropped to his elbows and knees on the concrete.

“Don’t make no noise now,” Otto said

Arthur was holding a knife. “He makes noise and it’ll be the last time,” he said.

Otto gave Jack Clairmont a wide grin. His teeth were in need of thousands of dollars worth of dental work. “Very good, Arthur. This gentleman can’t make noise if his vocal chords are flapping around.”

“If vocal chords do that,” Arthur said.

Otto kicked Jack in the buttocks, not hard this time. “Crawl over there into them shadows,” he said.

Jack Clairmont craned his neck and stared up at them. He looked as if he were about to cry. “Who are you guys?”

“I’m Mr. Pain,” Otto said.

Arthur’s turn to smile. Perfect teeth. “And I’m Mr. Suffering.”

“And you better become Mister Crawl,” Otto said. “Right now would be a good time to start—What the hell was that?

“Only a cat,” Arthur said.

“Thing was jet propelled. And black.”

“Bad luck.”

“Not for us, Arthur.”

“What’d it have in its mouth?”

“Who gives a shit? We got business here, Arthur.”

“Then business it is.” Arthur looked down at the injured man and grinned. Sometimes he loved his job.

Otto stared hard at Jack Clairmont and motioned with his head, as he had earlier to Arthur, indicating direction.

Jack Clairmont began to crawl.

Then he stopped. “Oh, my God! My hand!”

Otto sighed. What the hell was this about? He remembered the black cat.

“I’m missing a finger!” Clairmont moaned. “That goddam crusher on the trash truck cut off my finger! My finger.”

Otto shrugged. “It ain’t as if anybody’s gonna be asking you for directions.” He kicked the man again and pointed with his finger.

Moaning, sobbing, Clairmont resumed his crawl toward the shadows, favoring his right hand.

Still holding the knife, Arthur stood with his beefy arms crossed and stared at him. “He ain’t very fast.”

“Yeah,” Otto said. “That missing finger, maybe.”

“You think it could affect his balance? Like when you lose your little toe?”

“I never lost a little toe, Arthur.”

Arthur said, “Hey, that cat! You don’t suppose . . .”

“We ain’t got time to look and find out,” Otto said. He glanced around. “This is far enough,” he said to the crawling Clairmont.

“Yeah,” Arthur said. “Time for you to rest in pieces.” He laughed. No one else did. “I was referring to the separated finger,” Arthur explained. But a joke never worked once you deconstructed it.

“This guy’s kind of a wet blanket,” Otto said, shoving Jack with his foot so he turned and was leaning with his back against the wall. “We been here too long already. Stick him, Arthur, so we can leave this place before somebody happens by.”

“Happens by? You must watch the BBC.”

“Pip, pip. Do stick him, Arthur.”

Arthur stuck him.

May 6, 4:58 p.m.

Ida and Craig were sitting in the living room, watching cable news on the TV with the sound muted. There was no news yet about the Cardell bracelet theft.

“Where’s Boomerang?” Eloise asked.

Craig looked at her, this annoying child that came with Ida as part of a set, half of which Craig loved. Loved enough to use, anyway.

“Who’s Boomerang?” Craig asked, without real interest.

“Her cat,” Ida said. “You know Boomerang.”

“Only in the way you can know a cat,” Craig said.

“I think he ran away again,” Ida said.

Eloise shrugged. “He doesn’t run away. He always comes back. Like a real boomerang.”