“Was he Geraldine’s brother?”

“ ‘The very rich are different from you and me,’ Well, so are the very greedy. When he thought I was a poor but honest bookseller, all Stoppelgard wanted to do was get me out of his building. As soon as he found out I was a convicted felon, he was in a rush to be friends. Because he figures he can use me.”

“Can he?”

“I hope so,” I said. “Because what I want is to save the store, and for the first time in weeks I have hope.”

I also had Perrier. We were at the Bum Rap, and I didn’t want to drink anything that might slow my reflexes or blur my already questionable judgment. “It’s not that I have anything planned beyond a quiet evening at home,” I explained, “but I want to keep my options open.”

“I understand, Bern.”

“There’s something about spending a night in a cell,” I said, “that throws off your timing. When Patience phoned me at the store, I called her Doll. I got away with it. She thought I was being breezily affectionate.”

“It never would have worked if you’d called her Gwendolyn.”

“No.”

“Bern? How come you thought it was Doll?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were you thinking about her?”

“Not consciously. I was in the middle of a conversation with Borden Stoppelgard. If I was thinking of anybody, it was probably Ted Williams.”

“You don’t suppose—”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“You didn’t let me finish the question.”

“ ‘You don’t suppose they’re both the same person?’ That was the question, wasn’t it? And the answer is no, I don’t.”

“Think about it, Bern.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” I said, “because it’s out of the question. They’re two different women.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I saw them, Carolyn.”

“Yeah, but did you ever see them both at the same time?”

“No,” I said, “and I probably never will, but if I ever do it won’t be hard to tell them apart. For starters, Doll’s a brunette and Patience is a dishwater blonde.”

“Ever hear of wigs, Bern?”

“Patience is a good four inches taller than Doll.”

“High heels, Bern.”

“Cut it out, will you? Patience looks as though she could have stepped out of a painting by Grant Wood or Harvey Dunn. She’s tall and slender and she has a long O, Pioneers! face and angular features. Doll has a heart-shaped face and very regular features and—”

“Hey, it was just a thought, Bern.”

“They’re two different women.”

“Whatever you say. Just don’t jump down my throat, okay? I had a rough day.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was up half the night worrying about you, and then I had to give a wash and set to a puli with dreadlocks. Do you know what a challenge that is? Pulis and komondors, the Rastafarians of the dog world.” She picked up her glass, found it empty, and gave it a look. “It’s either have another of these or go home. I think I’ll go home.”

I rode uptown on the subway. I didn’t pick up the paper, and nobody picked me up, either. I looked around, sort of hoping I’d see Doll Cooper lurking in a doorway somewhere, but I didn’t. I walked home and nodded to my doorman, who nodded right back at me. Was he the same nodding acquaintance who’d reported my movements to the cops? I decided he was, and I decided his Christmas envelope was going to be a little light this year.

My apartment was as I’d left it. I’d been hoping that elves might have come in and cleaned during my absence, and they hadn’t, but neither had Ray Kirschmann come to give the place another toss. I put the TV on, and during the second set of commercials I called the Hunan Miracle and ordered dinner. In no time at all the kid was at my door with a bag full of sesame noodles and moo shu pork. After I’d paid and tipped him he smiled hugely and rushed off to shove menus under all my neighbors’ doors.

I settled in for a quiet evening at home.

It was almost eleven when the phone rang.

I answered it. A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Rhodenbarr?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not even sure you’ll remember me, but you did me a huge favor the night before last.”

“It wasn’t such a huge favor. All I did was walk you home.”

“You remember.”

“You’d be hard to forget, Doll.”

“That’s right, you created a new name for me. I’d forgotten, because nobody’s called me that since. When you said it just now it came out sounding like a line from Mickey Spillane. ‘You’d be hard to forget, Doll.’ You should be smoking an unfiltered cigarette and wearing a slouch hat, and there should be something bluesy playing in the background.”

“A girl singer,” I said, “working her way through ‘Stormy Weather.’ ”

“Or ‘Easy to Love.’ Just as you’re saying, ‘You’d be…hard to forget,’ you hear her in the background, singing, ‘You’d be…so easy to love.’ Nice touch, don’t you think?”

“Very nice.”

“I’m sorry. You know what I’m doing? I’m stalling. I have to ask you for another favor and I’m afraid you’ll say no. Could I talk with you?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“I mean face to face. I’m at the coffee shop at West End and Seventy-second. If you come down I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Or I could come up to your place.”

I glanced around. The elves hadn’t come, nor had I done their work for them. “I’ll be right down,” I said. “How will I recognize you?”

“Well, I still look basically the same,” she said. “I haven’t aged that much in the past two days. My outfit’s different. I’m wearing—”

“Red vinyl hot pants and a Grateful Dead T-shirt.”

“I’ll be in a booth in the back,” she said. “Come see for yourself.”

Faded jeans, a cocoa-brown turtleneck, and a black leather bikers jacket with zipper pockets. No polish on her nails, no rings on her ringers. I slid in opposite her and told the waiter I’d have a cup of coffee. He brought it, and refilled Doll’s cup without being asked.

“I have a few questions,” I said. “How did you know my number?”

“I looked in the book.”

“How did you know my name?”

“You told me, Bernie. Remember?”

“Oh.”

“You told me your name was Bernie Rhodenbarr and you owned a used-book store in the Village. I couldn’t call you there because I didn’t know the name or address of the store, but you’re the only B Rhodenbarr in the Manhattan phone book, and anyway I knew you lived at Seventy-first and West End, because you told me.”

“Oh.”

“You did me a favor,” she said, “and you were totally sweet about it, and I figured maybe I’d give you a call sometime if I didn’t happen to run into you in the neighborhood. And then when Marty told me about you—”

“Marty.”

“Marty Gilmartin,” she said. “You must know who that is. You stole his baseball cards.”

“Wait a minute,” I said.

“All right.”

“I know who Martin Gilmartin is. And I didn’t steal his baseball cards. Wait a minute.”

“I’m waiting, Bernie.”

“Good,” I said, and closed my eyes. When I opened them she was still there, patiently waiting. “This is very confusing,” I said.

“It is?”

“How do you know him?”

“He’s a friend.”

“Well, that clears it up.”

“Sort of a special friend.”

“Oh,” I said.

Archly, I guess, because she colored. “I don’t know how much you know about Marty,” she said.

“Not a whole lot. I know where he lives, and I know what his building looks like because I went over and had a look at it, although I swear I never set a foot inside it. I never met him. I saw his wife once, but I never met her, either. I met her brother because it turns out he’s my landlord, which made it a small world. It got a lot smaller when you mentioned his name.”

She took a sip of her coffee. “Marty’s crazy about the theater,” she said. “He sees everything, and not just on Broadway. He’s a member of the Pretenders, the actors’ club on Gramercy Park. The playbills for half the off-Broadway theaters in town have him listed as a patron or supporter. He’s extremely generous.”