“Including the baseball cards.”

“They were in his office,” she said, “in a polished rosewood chest lined with cedar. Marty used to keep cigars in it back when he still smoked, and when you opened it there was still a faint trace of the aroma of a good Havana cigar. The box wasn’t even locked, and he kept it right on top of his desk. It was still there Thursday, Bernie, but when he lifted the lid it was empty.”

“Somebody took the cards and left the box.”

“I’m sure it was Luke. He got a lot more excited hearing about the baseball cards than when I told him about the bridges you could see from the living room window. He started talking about how valuable baseball cards were, and how easy it was to sell them. It seems he used to collect them as a kid, and—”

“Everybody did.”

“Well, I didn’t. Anyway, Marty’s collection stirred up feelings of greed and nostalgia both at once. And when he had a chance to lash out at me and Marty, and make himself a bundle in the process—”

“He jumped at it.”

“Right.”

I thought about it. “All right,” I said. “That’s how you fit in, and Marty, and Luke. At least I’ve got a scorecard now, and everybody knows you can’t tell the players without a scorecard. The thing is, there’s no mirror handy. If I can’t look in the mirror, how can I tell what number I’m wearing?”

“You lost me, Bernie.”

“I’m the one who’s lost. Why am I here? Why did you call me? What am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” she said. “You’re going to help me get Marty’s cards back.”

“I know what they say about coincidence,” I said. “It’s just God’s way of remaining anonymous. But I can only swallow so much of it. Let’s go back to Thursday night, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Marty Gilmartin and his wife and Borden Stoppelgard and his wife—what’s she like, by the way?”

“Nothing special. I just met her that one time, and I barely noticed her. I don’t think she opened her mouth all evening.”

“Anyway, the four of them went off to see If Wishes Were Horses. Did they like the play, incidentally? I asked Marty, but I might as well have asked Mary Lincoln what she thought of Our American Cousin.” I shrugged. “Never mind. They went to the play, and they finally came home, and I made an ill-considered phone call to the Gilmartin residence. That was just after midnight.”

“Where does the coincidence come in?”

“It comes in about the time I get off the IRT a block from here and stop to buy a paper. And an extremely attractive young woman in corporate drag and a red beret singles me out and asks me to walk her home.”

“That sort of thing must happen to you all the time, Bernie.”

“It never happens,” I said. “I’ve been buying the Times on the way home for years, and it never once happened in the past.”

“I guess you were overdue.”

“This woman,” I went on, “just happens to be Martin Gilmartin’s girlfriend. And, in her free time, she’s also the girlfriend of the fellow who seems to have stolen Marty’s baseball cards.”

“I see what you mean about coincidence.”

“If God really wants to keep his name out of it,” I said, “he ought to wear gloves, because this one’s got fingerprints all over it. But here’s what I can’t understand. How did you find out about the cards in time to pick me up at the corner newsstand? And how did you even know it was me, considering that nobody knew that until the cops checked the NYNEX records and found out the call had come from my friend Carolyn’s apartment? And how could you know I’d be coming home by subway? I’d have taken a cab if a couple of rubes hadn’t beaten me to it. How would you even recognize me? I don’t get it. I don’t get any of it, and…wait a minute, Doll. Where are you going?”

She was halfway out of the booth. “To get the check,” she said. “I told you I’d buy the coffee, remember?” She put her hand on mine. “You’ll see,” she said. “I can explain everything.”

Outside, we walked a long crosstown block to Broadway and stood on the corner watching people buy newspapers. “I didn’t know about the baseball cards when I saw you,” she told me. “And I didn’t know who you were, and I didn’t particularly care. All I knew was that you didn’t look like an ax murderer. And I gave you a character test. I waited to see what paper you bought.”

“Suppose I’d taken the Post instead?”

“If you’d picked up the Post,” she said, “I’d have picked up somebody else. But I was perfectly sure you’d turn out to be a Times kind of guy. What I told you that night was the truth. I’d been to an acting class, I’d just gotten off a bus, and I didn’t like the way it felt on the street. I never feel comfortable on the West Side, anyway. I know it’s as safe as anywhere else but it just doesn’t feel safe to me.”

“Then why do you live over here?”

“I don’t. I live on Seventy-eighth Street between First and Second.”

“Who lives at 304 West End?”

“Lucas Santangelo.”

“Alias Luke the boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend.”

“You wanted a New York Times kind of guy to walk you to Luke’s place. Why? To make him jealous?”

“I told you. I was scared to walk by myself.”

“And out of all the guys around—”

“Bernie,” she said, “look around, will you? And bear in mind that it was an hour later and in the middle of the week. There were fewer people out and most of them looked like…well, like that panhandler over there, and those two creeps in army jackets, and—”

“I see what you mean.”

“I left some clothes at Luke’s,” she said, “and I’d been calling him for a couple of days, trying to make arrangements to get my stuff back. But all I ever got was his machine. That didn’t necessarily mean he was out, because sometimes he’ll let the machine pick up and wait until he knows who it is before answering. So I finally decided to go over there. If he was home, maybe he’d be enough of a gentleman to let me have my things.”

“And if he wasn’t home?”

“Maybe I could get in anyway. Most of the time he doesn’t bother to double-lock his door. I thought I might be able to open it with a credit card.”

“That’s not always as easy as they make it look on television.”

“Now he tells me,” she said, clapping her hand theatrically to her forehead. “It turned out to be impossible. I tried all three of my credit cards, and then I tried my ATM card, and that was a mistake because I must have crimped it a little. When I tried to get cash yesterday morning, the machine ate my card.”

“Bummer.”

“They gave me a new card. It was an inconvenience, that’s all. Believe me, it was more frustrating standing in front of Luke’s door with no way to get in. Why did I have to throw the keys? Why couldn’t I have thrown an ashtray instead?”

“Or a tantrum. After you gave up trying to open the door, then what did you do?”

“I went home.”

“Straight home?”

“Absolutely. I said good night to Eddie and off I went.”

“Who walked you to the bus stop?”

“Nobody. I took a cab.”

“Why didn’t you take one in the first place?”

“I did.”

“I thought you said you took a bus.”

“I telescoped things a little. I took a bus home from acting class, and I tried Luke’s number and got his machine again, and then I changed clothes to look ultrarespectable and took a cab from my apartment right through the park. I got off right in front of Luke’s building and had the doorman ring his apartment. There was no answer. ‘Well, I’ll just go on up,’ I said, but he wouldn’t let me.”

“Eddie stopped you? I’m surprised he even noticed you were there.”

“He wasn’t there. I got there a few minutes after midnight because that’s when his shift starts, but he was running late. The fellow on duty was a young Haitian who’s a real stickler for the rules. And I don’t think he was too happy about having to stay late. He wouldn’t let me in the building, so I walked over to Broadway to get a cup of coffee—the other coffee shop closes at midnight—”