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“That TV set in the back along with the phone makes ’em think that the cat who owns this machine would just get a ticket fixed anyhow,” Mush said. “It’s good as diplomatic plates.”

We turned up Seventeenth Street to Massachusetts, went around Scott Circle, and took Rhode Island to Georgia Avenue. The traffic at four-thirty in the afternoon wasn’t heavy, and Mush made good time, driving the Buick hard with a lot of skillful use of its power brakes.

“If a man wanted to defend himself in this town,” Padillo asked, “what kind of gun could he lay his hands on?”

Mush turned his head to look at Padillo. “You wanna grease gun?”

“Pistol.”

“Fancy shooting or close up?”

“Close up.”

“Get you a Smith and Wesson .38 belly-gun.”

“Can you get two?”

“No trouble.”

“How much?”

“Hundred each?”

“They’re sold. Now if I wanted to get a knife, what would I do?”

“Switchblade or shakeout?”

“Switchblade.”

“You wanna throw it?”

“No.”

“I’ll get one. Be fifteen dollars.”

“You want a switchblade, Mac?” Padillo asked.

“Just make sure it’s got a pearl handle,” I said. “I’ve always wanted a pearl-handled one.”

“Might not be real pearl,” Mush said.

“Do the best you can,” Padillo said.

Mush let us out in front of the apartment and sped off, presumably in search of our arsenal. We walked up the steps, found Betty’s apartment again, and Padillo knocked while I knelt down to unlace my shoes.

“The white rug,” I said.

Hardman answered the door in his stocking feet and Padillo knelt down to take off his shoes. “Mush wasn’t too early?” Hardman asked.

“Just right,” I said.

“They’s a good one tonight at Shenandoah Downs in the fourth,” he said. “They runnin Trueblue Sue at nine to two.”

“With a rhyme like that you can put me down for ten.”

“Ten to win,” he said and wrote it down in a small blue book.

“You ever win?” Padillo asked.

“I did last spring — or was it winter?”

“You big winner, Mac,” Hardman said.

“That means I don’t owe him any money.”

Betty came in from the bedroom, said hello, glanced at our feet to make sure that the shoes were off, and sailed on into the kitchen.

“I’m sending her to the pictures,” Hardman said. “You want me to stick around or disappear?”

“We’d like you to stay,” Padillo said.

“Who’s comin?”

“Three friends of mine — a Pole, a Hungarian-Syrian, and an Englishman.”

“You’re not much on matched pairs.”

“They were handy and they owe me a favor or two.”

Betty marched through again and disappeared into the bedroom. She came out almost immediately wearing a mink stole that looked as if it might still be breathing.

“I need fifty dollars,” she told Hardman, planting herself in front of him, her right hand extended. She carried her shoes in her left.

“You just goin to the movies, woman!”

“I might do some shopping.”

“Uh-huh,” Hardman said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a roll of bills. “You better not do your shoppin in the store that fancy coat’s from. Folks there might like to have it back.”

“This coat hot?” she said, her voice going from a low contralto to a searing soprano.

“You know it is.”

She drew the fur around her and rubbed her chin against the collar. “I’m going to wear it anyhow.”

“Here’s fifty dollars. You can come on home about nine.”

She took the fifty and tucked it in her purse. It seemed to be an easy, practiced gesture. She moved to the door and opened it. “You gonna be here?” she asked Hardman. This time she used a little girl’s voice.

“I don’t know yet.”

“I’d sure like you to, Hard,” she said, using the small voice again.

The big man preened a little in front of his male friends. I didn’t blame him.

“We’ll see,” he said. “You just run along now.”

“There’s a pot of coffee on the stove,” she said and left.

We all decided to have coffee and Hardman served it with quick, efficient movements. “You never knew I used to work the dinin cars on the B&O, did you?”

“I thought you had to be over sixty,” Padillo said.

The front door chimes rang before Hardman could tell us about his railroad career. He opened it and a man asked if Mr. Padillo was there. Hardman said yes and the man came in.

“Hello, Dymec,” Padillo said. He didn’t offer to shake hands.

“Padillo.”

“This is Hardman. This is McCorkle.”

He nodded at us and glanced around the room. “You mind takin off your shoes?” Hardman said.

The man looked at him without expression. He was about thirty-four or thirty-five, with a face that looked as hard as concrete and had about the same texture and color, except for two patches of red on the high cheekbones. The patches could have been caused by either weather or tuberculosis. I voted for weather; Dymec looked as if he had never been sick in his life.

“Why?” he asked Hardman. The way he said it sounded as if he had been asking why all his life and nobody had ever given him a very good answer.

“The rug, baby. The lady of the house don’t want it messed up.”

Dymec looked around at the rest of us, saw that our shoes were off, and sat down on a chair and took his off. He wasn’t breathing hard when he straightened up.

“How’ve you been, Dymec?” Padillo asked.

“I heard you were dead.”

“Like some coffee?”

Dymec nodded his head, which seemed to have no curves, only corners and planes and lines. He had mouse-colored hair that was cropped close and big ears and small grey eyes. “Cream,” he said and his lips barely moved when he spoke.

Hardman served him a cup of coffee and he balanced it on the arm of the chair.

“What do you have going, Padillo?”

“We’re waiting for two others. I’m just going to explain it once.”

“You’ve got two too many now.”

“Your English is damned near perfect.”

“You can call me in this time,” Dymec said. “I wouldn’t try it again.”

Padillo shrugged and leaned back in his chair and pressed his hand against his side. He was due for a change of bandages.

The door chimes sounded again. Hardman was up quickly, moving his weight without effort.

“Mr. Padillo, I believe, is expecting me,” another man’s voice said.

“Uh-huh. Come on in.”

“This is Philip Price,” Padillo said when the man was in. “At the door is Hardman. On that chair is Dymec and this is McCorkle. How are you, Price?”

“Well,” the man said. “Quite well.”

“Do you mind takin off your shoes?” Hardman said. “We’re trying to keep the rug nice.”

“Hello, Dymec,” Price said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“The shoes, baby,” Hardman said.

“I took mine off, Price,” Dymec said. “It’s as the gentleman said: We’re trying to keep the rug nice.”

Price knelt and took off his right shoe and put it carefully by a chair. He looked up at Dymec. “Where was the last place we ran into each other? Paris, wasn’t it? Something to do with NATO, I believe.” He changed his position and knelt on his right leg and took off his left shoe. “The name wasn’t Dymec then, was it?”

“And yours wasn’t Price.”

“True. Well, Padillo, now that you’re back from the dead how have you been?”

“Fine. Would you like some coffee?”