I got the call a little after four in the morning. Trouble. At that time it had to be trouble, I thought groggily as I reached out to stop the damned cell phone beeping. I remembered I was on vacation, so the call couldn’t be coming from the station. No, at this time it had to be family. Sondra, my wife, was muttering something in her sleep. Ashley and Jason, our two kids just pushing into their teens, were in their rooms down the hall. My mother, then. Or one of my sisters. Or... and I picked it up to hear that familiar scratchy voice rasping, “Gilbert, I need to see you.”

“Now?” I said, hearing in my own voice the whiny kid she always managed to bring out in me.

“Of course now! You think I’d call you this early in the morning if I didn’t want to see you now?”

“But, Vo, it’s four o’clock.”

“Young people sleep too much, Gilbert. You get to be my age, you begin to see what a waste of time all that sleeping is.”

“And you live fifty miles away.”

“I know where I live, Gilbert Souza. And I certainly wouldn’t have called such a big-deal Boston police detective if it wasn’t important.”

“Okay, Vo,” I said with a sigh that I didn’t much try to hide. And I’d learned a long time ago that it was no use correcting her about my job. Putnam, where I live and work on the force, is a suburb of Boston, but not a big city, not by a long shot. “What’s so important?”

“It’s the Blessed Mother statue,” she said. Then she added cryptically, “Somebody’s going to die.”

Knowing she had me about as hooked as any trout in the stream, my grandmother hung up.

I called back, of course, and since she was the woman she was, and had caller ID, she didn’t answer the phone, although I filled about two minutes on her answering machine asking her to pick up. Which left me with no alternative but to dress as quickly and quietly as I could in the dark, leave a note on the kitchen table for Sondra, and drive the fifty miles down to Fall River wondering all the way what the hell my vo was up to now.

Vo isn’t actually my grandmother’s name. It’s the diminutive form of the Portuguese word for grandmother, avo, which is about right since my vo is the diminutive form of a grandmother. Barely five feet tall, even in her thick-soled sneakers, my vo was the only grownup I could look down on by the time I was thirteen. But no one, child or adult, priest or policeman, ever dared look down on my vo.

My grandmother never treated me with the adult condescension that all kids learn to hate early on, but she also didn’t realize that she could embarrass a grandchild, who knew that when you stood out from the crowd, you only became a better target. Much of the embarrassment she caused me came out of her attachment to that Blessed Mother statue she had mentioned in her call, the bane of my youth, the Bathtub Mary.

As common as backyard gardens or pastel-sided triple-deckers in the Portuguese-dominated city of Fall River, the Bathtub Mary is what irreverent Catholic kids called those small shrines people placed in their yards. The shrines celebrate the appearance of the Blessed Mother to three shepherd children in Fatima, Portugal, in 1917.

As I’d always heard it, the Bathtub Mary actually began life decades ago as an old porcelain claw foot bathtub tossed out during an apartment renovation. Someone got the idea of burying the tub upended half in the ground, then placing a statue of the Blessed Mother in the resulting niche, so it sort of looked like a grotto. Landscape the back and sides of the tub and plant flowers in the front, and you’ve got yourself a shrine.

They became so popular that later innovators came up with precast cement grottos, which still managed to look pretty much like upended bathtubs. They later added statues of the kneeling shepherd children, resulting in a kind of year-round creche.

But that wasn’t good enough for my grandmother, whose own triple-decker was two streets away from her second home, Our Lady of Fatima Church. My vo’s statue of the Blessed Mary was life-sized — well, life-sized if Christ’s mother had been the size of my grandmother. But back when I was eleven, she couldn’t find any life-sized statues of the three kids to go in front of it. She solved that problem by inviting the family, her three sons and two daughters and all of her grandkids, over for her semiannual meal of a sopa, which my cousins and I called “swamp soup” because it was full of spearmint and soggy bread. Since I was the only grandchild with guts enough to admit I hated this sopa, she told my parents, “Oh, and tell Gilbert I’ll have lots of chourico pizza for him. And I’ve baked raisin squares for dessert.”

She had the pizza, all right, covered with slices of chourico, the hot sausage I liked so much. And the raisin squares that I’d do almost anything for. Almost anything did not, however, include what she had in mind, a surprise for me and two of my cousins, Natalie and Norbina Oliveira. She had sewn costumes for us so we’d look like the three kids from Fatima. Now these were shepherd kids. From 1917. In the newspaper pictures taken of them, the two girls have these huge, dark scarves that fall halfway down their backs. The boy is wearing some kind of weird, overblown turban-like affair that hangs off the back of his head like a sack that he’s using to steal a watermelon. Besides the headwear, my grandmother had been historically accurate with the girls’ ballooning dresses and the boy’s dark little jacket. Slick maybe for shepherd kids in Portugal in 1917, but not the fashion statement for an eleven year old in the early ’80s who wanted to dye his black hair blond so he could pass for a midget version of Sting.

My mom, Vo’s daughter, gave me up like a Spartan mother sending her son off to the army, and she didn’t even flinch when I came out of Vo’s spare bedroom practically radioactive with embarrassment. My grandmother, followed by the obedient herd of everyone else in the family, marched me and my cousins out to her back yard and had the three of us kneel in front of the statue. Then my chubby, tech-crazy cousin, Victor Medeiros, seventeen and safely out of the running for shepherd boy, stood off to the side braying like a mule. Over and over he asked me to throw in a prayer for him while he took our pictures with his brand new Nikon F3 35 millimeter.

But my mortification didn’t end there. My vo decided one of Victor’s pictures was so nice that she sent it in to the local Portuguese weekly, where in what must have been a very slow news week it ended up on the front page.

For months after that it seemed to me that every kid in Our Lady of Fatima school came up with variations on Victor’s tired “Pray for me, Gilbert” line, and since they all knew that the Blessed Mother had supposedly told the three children of Fatima predictions about the course of events in the world, they kept asking me if Mary had told me anything worthwhile.

“Hey, Gilbert, any chances I’m gonna get a ColecoVision for Christmas?”

“How ’bout the Red Sox, Gilbert? Was one of her miracles the Sox finally winning the World Series?”

You get the picture. I got the picture, all right. I got the picture taped to my desk and my locker, taped to the back of my coat, taped to any schoolbook I happened to leave lying around.

It could’ve been worse, I suppose. If I’d been older, my classmates would probably have come up with more creative forms of torture. But this was bad enough, and though I knew most of the attacks were stupid, that still didn’t keep them from bothering me.

In fact, as I drove down to Fall River in the early morning darkness, I could still remember them clearly, still feel that sharp sense of unfairness that kids never let go of. As for worrying about my vo saying that someone was going to die — well, considering the source, I didn’t really take it too seriously.

On the other hand, almost every light in the third floor apartment of the triple-decker my grandmother owned seemed to be on. She insisted on staying on the third floor despite her age because she said she got extra heat coming up from the people below. And climbing the stairs was good exercise.

I could see her silhouette at the curtains of the front parlor, the only semidarkened room in the apartment, and she appeared to be cradling something that looked ominously familiar in her arms.

So I hustled up the two flights of stairs but was careful to stand off to the side as I rapped on the door.

“Who is it?”

“You know who it is, Vo. I saw you at the window.”

“You alone, Gilbert?”

“Yes, of course I am. So will you please carefully put down Vo’s shotgun and open the door?”

I heard the thunk as the stock of my late grandfather’s old Remington .32 over-and-under hit the floor, then the slow turning of her lock.

“Took you long enough,” she muttered, closing and locking the door behind me.

She was dressed in gray sweats, top and bottom. With her fly-away white hair and dark eyes, the only touch of color on my grandmother was the gold bracelet she always wore. It had cameos and the date of birth for each of her fourteen grandchildren, and we all jangled from her wrist with every move. Kind of like life. I was number eight.

“Sorry, I was slowed down by all that five A.M. traffic.”

“This is no joking matter, Gilbert. No joke at all.”

“Right. You said someone’s going to die, and it’s connected to the statue?”

“Did you see it?” she said, dark eyes blazing. “Did you see what they did to it? To the shrine of the Mother of God?”

“Uh, no, Vo. The statue’s in the back yard. It’s... well, it’s still pretty dark out.”

“They destroyed the boy, Gilbert! They knocked his head off, smashed him all to smithereens.”

“You mean the statue of the boy in your shrine?”

“Yes, of course. The one you dressed up as.”

My grandmother usually knows what buttons to push, but this wasn’t one of those times. I had spent too much of my youth daydreaming about taking a baseball bat to that statue myself.

“It was probably kids that did it, Vo,” I said, trying to hide my concern that she had called me out for what seemed to be simple vandalism. My grandmother wasn’t the kind of person who thought that way.

“No, it wasn’t no kids, Gilbert,” she said, her lips a thin, determined line. “It was that good-for-nothing, Tiago D. Costa.”

Whoa, now that slowed me down. Tiago D. Costa was a name I’d been hearing ever since I was a kid. Always the full name, his middle initial as permanent a placement as George C. Scott’s or James T. Kirk’s. Tiago D. Costa. Although he was only seven years older than I was, graduating from Our Lady of Fatima with my cousin Victor’s class, Tiago D. Costa quickly became a legend for his run-ins with authority. He had the fastest car in the city, the fastest fists. Soon he had the fastest rise to ownership of triple-deckers and small stores in the north end of the city. He was also rumored to have a piece of every illegal transaction that passed through the city, so much so that his name was mentioned three times in a Boston newspaper story about crime in New England.

“Tiago D. Costa broke your statue, Vo?”

“Damned straight, Gilbert. Either him or one of his flunkies.”

“Why would he do that?”

My grandmother had a sudden flash of caution streak across her dark eyes. It was a look I’d seen too many times, even in a small town like Putnam, on people trying to hide some guilt from me.

“Vo?” I said. “Why would Tiago D. Costa break your statue?”

“I don’t know, Gilbert. How would I know why anybody does anything? Especially an animal like him.”

But she knew, I had no doubt about that. I also knew she wasn’t about to tell me.

“You have to go talk to him, Gilbert,” she said, her dark eyes worried, even a little frightened. I’d never seen her frightened, except maybe that night in the hospital when my aunt Lucy had been in an accident and...

“Who is it, Vo?”

“Who’s what? I told you, that animal, Tiago D. Costa,” she said, going over to her stove to get a frying pan.

“No, I mean who are you worried for? Who’s really in trouble with Tiago here?”

She frowned, stared down at the frying pan where she was putting in slices of sweetbread she’d cut from a fat round loaf. I’d guessed right, no doubt about that. My grandmother only worried about two things: the potential closing of Our Lady of Fatima Church and bad things happening to people in the family.

“I need to know, Vo. If I’m gonna speak to him, I need to know.”

She sighed, began toasting the bread in the frying pan as she muttered, “Maybe Victor. He could be in a little trouble.”

“Victor? What’s Victor got to do with Tiago D. attacking the Bath... uh, the shrine to Mary?”

“Talk to Tiago D.,” she said, cracking a couple of eggs into the frying pan to go along with my sweetbread. “Just talk to him, Gilbert, that’s all, that’s all I’m asking you to do.”

Victor. It figures. My cousin had turned his love of technology into a career as a private investigator. I’d heard that he’d recently begun to take ads on local cable, speaking both English and Portuguese and selling himself to the community with the label, “The Portuguese P.I.”

My grandmother shuffled slowly to her refrigerator, suddenly looking very old. She had always looked old to me, but old like some ancient, tough tree planted so firmly in the ground that no wind could knock it over. Now she just looked old.

Five thirty. Okay, if Victor was responsible for my being awakened at four, I could get him up now.

“What’s Victor’s number, Vo?” I said, holding up my cell phone and hoping she wouldn’t know that my phone could store all the numbers I needed. Victor’s had never been one of them.

“Don’t call him, Gilbert. I don’t want him to know I called you. All I want you to do is talk to Tiago D. Costa.”

“Well, if you’re not gonna tell me what you know, I have to ask Victor. I mean, I can’t just go in and face down Tiago without knowing what I’m talking about.”

“You’ll be talking about the destruction of part of my shrine to the Blessed Mother, Gilbert. And don’t you have a badge that will put the shakes even in a crumb like Tiago?”

No point in telling her that that wasn’t the way it worked. Tiago would know my Putnam shield would have no real weight down here. Also no point in telling her that Tiago D. Costa had always been the shadow at the end of the dark street of my mind, half hero, half bogeyman, all intimidating legend of my childhood.

“I don’t suppose you’d know where I could find Tiago?”

Her smile was a small one that flickered off quickly, but I still felt as if she’d just mentally whispered, “Checkmate.”

“He’s usually down at that lousy club of his around the corner by eleven or so,” she said, and to reward me she took a length of chourico that she must have fried earlier out of her refrigerator and began chopping off big slices to toss in the pan with the eggs and sweetbread.

Tiago’s “club” was actually a bar called the Ace, and my grandmother had always hated the place, even before Tiago owned it. She also had always described it as “around the corner.” The front of it was, but its back entrance and rear parking lot were snugged up against my vo’s back yard, just on the other side of her chain-link fence.

When I was little and used to sleep over here some weekends with my sisters, we liked to sneak out of bed late at night and peek out the kitchen window, giggling at the drunks reeling through the parking lot down there.

My vo had caught us doing it once. The next morning at breakfast she had kept hinting to my vô about “that thing we talked about,” and from the way my grandfather kept glancing over at us, we knew she’d ratted us out.

When we came back the next weekend, we found out the “thing” they had talked about was planting a row of arborvitae along this side of their backyard fence. The shrubs were only about two feet high, and it would be a few years before they’d actually block the view of the Ace’s back lot from the third floor window. My poor grandfather, torn between being economical and protecting his netos from the evils of the world, had really done neither.

I walked to that back window now. The line of arborvitae had long outlived my vô; the trees had grown tall while he had faded, and had finally succeeded in keeping the view of the back door and back lot from the prying eyes of his grandson.

Over in the far corner of the yard, just past the end of the line of arborvitae, I could see the shrine. The Blessed Mother still had her hands held open and out, the two girls still prayed to her. But the boy lay shattered, his hands clasped together on the lawn, his head smashed, as my grandmother had said, to smithereens.

To the left and two streets over I could see the cross on the top of Our Lady of Fatima Church, which like so many other churches around here was barely hanging on. Already the diocese had closed a number of churches, consolidating them, sometimes crunching as many as three parishes into one.

It was the topic everyone tried to avoid at family get-togethers because it always upset my grandmother, who had been baptized, confirmed, and married in that church, and, we all knew, planned to be buried out of it as well.

She scooped the sweetbread, eggs, and chourico onto a plate and brought the plate over to the table. Now that I had agreed to talk to Tiago D., she suddenly didn’t look so old any more.

She smiled as she watched me eat. Food was love for her, brought up as she was during the Depression when sometimes there wasn’t much food around. The food was good too, but I think I would have enjoyed it a little more if the shadow of Tiago D. Costa wasn’t hovering over every bite I took.

There was nothing else to do after I ate, and it was still too early to call home. My grandmother caught my second yawn and nagged me into taking a nap in her spare bedroom. I thought I was just humoring her, but I was asleep in that old bed I used to love within five minutes.

The winter storms had ended and two days before the beginning of the Great Dionysian Theatre Festival, Tysander, in his barbershop in the agora near the law court, was doing a brisk business.

I watched closely how his sharp razor was moving round the neck of Sophides, an old fellow whose exploits against the Persian fleet at the Eurymedon River twenty-three years ago still gave him somewhat of a hero status, at least among those like myself, who although only eight years of age at the time remembered those heady, victorious, and glorious days.

Sophides’ old head bobbed up and down, but his neck remained unnicked by Tysander’s razor. Tysander was in good form, having apparently, in anticipation of the day’s business, stayed away from cheap wine yesterday evening at one of the preliminary celebrations of the theatre festival. I was glad to see this, as I’d on occasion received a few nicks from Tysander, especially when he got steamed over some topic like the price of eels in the agora.

“Done, Sophides,” Tysander said, and looked at me. “You next, Kleides.” He grinned. “I always enjoy you Sophists. Any late theories on what the earth is made of? I hear this fellow — what’s his name? Anaxagoras, the one they call ‘Brains’ — says that everything is made up of little bits of stuff: seeds or something.”

“That’s right, Tysander,” I said. “Atoms. Even you might be made of them.”

The crowd laughed heartily, except for young Euripides, who looked at me and smiled knowingly. Euripides wasn’t a particular friend of mine, but I did admire him. He had courage. His plays went against standard Athenian beliefs in the gods and in prophecies. I wondered what the subject of his play would be in the current festival. I knew that he had been chosen to compete with Sophocles and Ion of Chios. A festival with three such great playwrights, each presenting three tragedies, some of them bound to promote heated controversy, promised much excitement.

I didn’t know then that the festival would incite murder, nor did I know whom it would strike.

“Well, Sophides,” Tysander asked, “do you think the Persians were made of little bits?”

“They were when we got through with them.” Sophides grinned a toothless grin. “Thanks to Athena. Now, may the great Poseidon of the sea rot their ships and send them all to the bottom of the Ionian Sea.”

“And deprive us all of Persian beer, spices, and cloths?” a tall, thin man said. “The war ended over twenty-five years ago. Or do you think we should kill every damn Persian till not one is left?” It was Nicias, the actor. Nicias jumped up and began slashing about as if he wielded a sword. “By Zeus, once an enemy, always an enemy.” He sat down, laughing loudly, his upper lip almost meeting his nose, long and sharp, rather like a weasel’s.

I regarded this performance as overdone, like most of his performances. To his acting faults, I added the personal fault of insincerity when he walked over to Sophides and slapped him on the back.

“Times have changed, Sophides,” Nicias said. “Even Pericles said that the Peace of Callias with the Persians meant that we no longer had to keep the oath never to rebuild the temples they burned.”

Sophides brushed Nicias’ hand off his shoulder as he might a troublesome gnat.

Nicias shrugged. “Look, Nike Athena gave you fellows at Marathon a victory. She was top deity then, but times have changed. Now it’s Hermes’ turn. That right, Kleides?”

I hated to agree with the likes of Nicias, but I admit that I did think that Hermes’ attributes of compromise, persuasive talk, and even tricky bargaining were far more useful in our Athenian democracy, thriving with building projects, commerce, and marketing of goods, than the uncompromising strength and fierce sense of honor useful and necessary in a time of war. But, aloud, I reminded Nicias that Athena’s wisdom was always a desirable quality.

“Look, you’re a Sophist, Kleides, you and your friend Socrates. Don’t you philosopher types agree that what’s wise on one day might not be wise on another? We don’t all admire stubborn killer heroes like Homer’s Achilles any more, do we? These days a strong voice is worth a lot more than a heavy sword. Of course, some of us have stronger voices than others. Heavy swords are Spartan trash, the tools of the dumb.”

I would have had to agree again, but I noticed that three of Tysander’s waiting customers were looking angry.

Sophides’ eyes flared. “Those heavy swords once saved your worthless hide from Persian treachery,” he said, then stomped out.

Another man mumbled something about prancing, shouting fish dealers, which I took as a metaphor for actors of whom he appeared to have a jaundiced opinion. Another, an old fellow with silver hair and a nose as majestic as the cliffs of Delphi, rose from his webbed stool, his back straight as a temple column. He cast at Nicias a look that bespoke of contempt and followed Sophides out of Tysander’s shop.

Nicias began to laugh again, but Tysander, angry at having lost a customer, cut off any comments by remarking loudly that I always waited too long to get my hair cut, making his job as difficult as engaging a Spartan in conversation.

I have to admit that Tysander was right. I get involved in reading my scrolls, in arguing with Socrates, or discussing atoms with Anaxagoras and Pericles, and forget about my appearance. On the other hand, Pericles’ lovely new mistress Aspasia never seems to mind, and since I am really in love with her, despite my own young mistress, Selkine, who perhaps not coincidentally resembles Aspasia, I don’t worry too much.

Tysander grumbled and sheared away. I sat sheeplike answering his questions about whether or not Pericles would be at the theatre and about whether Sophocles would ever act again, now that he’d gained such fame as a playwright. Finally, Tysander declared he’d done the best he could so that I’d look at least presentable for the theatre festival.

I paid him a full obol instead of the usual half. Tysander is a fountain of information when one needs it, and since Pericles often asks me to solve knotty crimes, I like to keep on Tysander’s good side.

I left and decided to wander round the agora to see if I could get a cheap lamp, as mine was turning rather black from my burning so much olive oil well into dusk to read the latest piece of Herodotus’ scrolls. His material on Egypt is fascinating. I have promised myself to hook a ride on one of my half brother’s merchant ships to see the pyramids.

I passed a group of rather scruffy-looking peasants betting on a quail-baiting game. They had drawn a circle in the dust and were about to rap the quail on the head, half of them betting that the quail would back out of the circle, the other half betting that the creature would stand its ground. I hoped the quail had enough brains to back out. It’s a good strategy when your enemies are numerous and larger than you are, but I guessed that Sophides and his friend, part of the nine thousand Athenians who defeated the massive twenty thousand-man army of Persia at Marathon, would have disagreed. The quail held his ground.

I walked down the Panathenaic Way toward the Acropolis, checked out a few lamps from a dealer, then decided to walk over to the tent of Aphorus. He deals in flute girls, and one of them, a pretty girl named Phryne, had once been of some help to me in solving the murder of a lovely young woman. I wanted to see how she was.

I threaded my way past the tanners and cobblers, but before I reached Aphorus’ tent, I saw some friends by the street of the blacksmiths and forgers. It was Phidias, our great sculptor; Sophocles; and Tidius, the actor who was working with Sophocles for the festival.

“By Zeus,” Phidias said, “Kleides with a fresh haircut. Must be intending to worship Aphrodite tonight. Hardly recognizable, right, Sophocles?”

“Hardly, except for the glint of wisdom in the sophistic eye.”

Sophocles was always as charming and kind as Phidias was satiric and irreverent.

“Looking for the lovely young Selkine?” Phidias asked. “I thought I saw her and a servant heading for the fountain house at the South Stoa. Or, let me see, was it Aspasia you were looking for?”

“But,” I said, “why do you assume I was looking for either of them? Perhaps they heard about my handsome new haircut and were looking for me. Socrates and I have warned you again and again to watch your assumptions.”

Phidias laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “I assume you’ll go to the theatre with Pericles and myself tomorrow. Sophocles will, of course, be driving poor Tidius mad with frantic last-minute instructions on how he wants his plays presented.”

Phidias turned to Sophocles and Tidius. “Are you really going to shock us all by presenting a suicide enactment on stage?”

Tidius shook his great graying head and glared at Phidias. “I hope you aren’t telling everyone about this. The audience, of course, will know the story of Ajax going mad and killing sheep he thought were his enemies because he lost the honor to Odysseus of being declared the most valuable warrior in the Trojan War. Everyone knows the story of Ajax committing suicide over his disgrace, but how Sophocles and I will present that suicide should remain unknown until we actually perform it at the theatre.”

Phidias clapped his hand over his mouth in mock horror. “May the god of theatre and wine, great Dionysus, forgive me for this trespass.” He waved his hand about. “But if everyone in the agora knew exactly what you were going to do on stage, Tidius, they’d come eagerly anyway. We all remember your great performance, many years ago, in Aeschylus’ play about the Persians. We’ll never see its like again.”

I noticed Tidius stiffen and his head pull back. I was sure that Phidias had meant to mollify Tidius, but instead he had offended the great actor. Tidius’ age, I suspected, had become a sore spot. Our open-air theatres where actors had to project their voices to over fifteen thousand people required stamina and good, strong lungs.

“I count myself blessed by the gods indeed to have Tidius assigned to my play,” Sophocles said. “We shall, I think, Phidias, see a performance as great as Tidius gave in The Persians. And now that our actors are also given prizes in competition, Tidius shall receive his just recognition.”

“Persians? More talk of Persians?” Nicias came up behind Phidias and myself. He slipped between us and sidled up to Sophocles. “I do not understand this obsession some people have with our former enemies. After all, those days are over. Most of us have no further interest in the Persians or even in plays about them. The performances of old Aeschylus are gone too,” he said, turning to Phidias. “We have young and imaginative playwrights like Sophocles here. With the help of young actors, Sophocles will climb to glory. I myself think it is inevitable.”

Sophocles blanched.

Phidias made a choking sound. “Do pardon me,” he said. “I seem to have something stuck in my throat. Perhaps a bit of bad bread oversweetened with honey.”

I thought for a moment that Nicias might swing at Phidias, but the actor was too clever for that. He wouldn’t want to offend either Sophocles or Pericles by attacking their friend. “Well perhaps,” Nicias sneered, “the honey will help. They say it has curative powers for that which is sour.”

I laid a restraining hand on Phidias’ arm. “Well there you are,” I said, looking Nicias in the eye, “even drones with their honey are good for something then.” I considered ducking behind Phidias then but, like the quail, decided to hold my ground. Of course, I was more broad-shouldered than Nicias, so I can’t claim the honor, as the quail could, for standing up to an enemy larger than myself.

Phidias grinned at me, then announced that he had come to the agora in search of some talented artists to help with the sculpture for the Parthenon. “Since the only talents I see here,” he said, “are Kleides’ sophistic wisdom, Sophocles’ writing, and Tidius’ acting, I shall have to seek elsewhere. Unless, my dear Nicias...” He paused. “Unless you know some talented men among your Persian friends?”

Phidias turned and strode off.

I thought I heard Nicias mumble something about the taste of rotten eels. He turned to Sophocles. “You’ve been in the public eye ever since you were chosen to lead the dance of victory after we defeated the Persian navy at Salamis. You’ve been chosen for public offices in the democracy and are likely to be chosen for more. You know, as well as I do, the importance of forging ties to achieve victories. It is hardly a crime to see the Persians as possible allies, perhaps against Corinth. Why, we all know that one of the judges for the play and actor competitions is quite friendly with one of the Persian ambassadors.”

“You indeed have more knowledge than I have,” Sophocles said.

“Yes, well I believe that you know several of the judges just as I do,” Nicias said, “and Kleides here knows how important knowledge is.”

I considered decking the sniveling boar for his nasty implication about Sophocles. While I was debating the wisdom of that action, Nicias reached out to put an arm round my shoulder, but I sidestepped away rather neatly.

This didn’t bother Nicias at all. He went on smoothly. “I would certainly like to act in one of your plays soon, Sophocles. I think we could be successful together. You know the plays of Ion, even though I am acting in one this year, are increasingly dull.”

Sophocles had had enough. “I doubt that we could work together at all. Our principles are entirely different. Perhaps you might appeal to the Persians. I know that they do not practice our Greek invention of theatre, but they do have spectacles into which you might fit.”

I smiled. This was very sharp talk for the normally polite and charming Sophocles. Phidias would have been pleased.

“You will pardon me now,” Sophocles said to me. “Tidius and I must go the forgers’ area to secure a sword for the play.”

I was still thinking about leveling Nicias for his insidious implication about Sophocles. Sophocles was thoroughly honest and his talent too great to need influence with the judges. Reluctant to risk a black eye or bruised chin, since I intended spending the night with the nubile Selkine, I settled for a comment. “Cheer up, Nicias, perhaps at the next Great Dionysian Theatre Festival you can serve as Sophocles’ prop man. A man of talent like Sophocles shouldn’t have to waste his time securing props.”

Nicias glared. “Well, I must go now to the animal vendors in the agora to purchase a weasel. There are too many mice about in Athens, and I’d like to have the weasel get rid of a few.”

I stepped up to Nicias. “Waste of a drachma for you to buy a weasel. You could just catch the mice yourself.” It wasn’t that clever, but I was angry.

His long, sharp nose quivered. I figured that I’d have to deal with a bruised chin after all. But I’d be able to inflict some pretty good damage myself.

Nicias stepped back. His weasel nose twitched.

I smiled.

Behind Nicias, I saw Sophides and the man who’d left Tysander’s with him walk by, glaring at the two of us. I was in bad company.

“Kleides,” someone to our right said. We both turned. It was my friend Phryne, the flute girl, looking rather pretty, her full breasts nicely outlined by her light white chiton, the flowing dress draped fetchingly over her body. Nicias promptly forgot about me.

“I need an escort over to Aris’ villa. Accompany me, please.”

“Aris?” I said. “A handsome aristocrat. You are moving up in the world, Phryne.”

“Not as handsome as Alcaon, but wealthy. That’ll do for now.”

I took her arm. “Give Alcaon time,” I said. I knew she was in love with the young man who had been the lover of the beautiful flute girl who had been murdered a year ago. We walked away, leaving Nicias staring.

“What are you doing with that weasel, Kleides?”

I laughed.

“Kleides, Nicias is unprincipled. He goes about disparaging everyone’s reputation, thinking it is the way to win. Someday, somebody is going to drown him like the rat he is.”

“Weasel,” I said, thinking that our Greek penchant for competition in everything could be dangerous.

As we walked away, I saw Sophides and his companion still staring at Nicias’ back.

The elegant museum in Sarasota glittered with Christmas lights, but in one of the galleries, something different glittered...

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Simon Judson, his mind a million miles away, “the museum will close in fifteen minutes. This is the last room on your tour. As you leave, kindly take the stairs in the hall, which lead to the parking lot. Now,” he dragged his mind back to the job, “if you will observe the painting on the wall behind me...”

Simon went on, looking unseeingly at the faces in the group before him. He was thinking that seven o’clock would be too early. There were bright gleams in the Florida night sky at that hour, and the area blazed with Christmas lights. If he was even seen on the museum grounds after hours it would be all over before it began. He could hear his boss saying, “That’s what I get for hiring a black kid.”

He continued, glancing back at the painting, “This is the portrait in oils of Dorothea Fox-Nugent, founder of the museum. It was commissioned by her husband, a wealthy businessman, for the opening of the museum in 1935. That opening, which was held on Mrs. Fox-Nugent’s fortieth birthday, was the event of the year in Sarasota and was attended by this city’s most distinguished society.”

Even eight o’clock would be risky, he thought, and if there was a moon... He went on, “Mrs. Fox-Nugent is wearing a sky blue satin evening gown designed for her in Paris especially for the occasion.” Here Simon smiled a little, as he had learned to do. “Some members of proper Sarasota society of that day considered the gown a bit daring and décolleté.”

A little girl in the group said, “What’s decol — decol — what?” and everybody laughed.

Simon smiled at her. “It means very low cut. However, Mrs. Fox-Nugent was noted for her daring — and for her diamonds. Observe that she is wearing a tiara, rings, necklace, and earrings of these jewels. She was considered striking rather than beautiful, with dark brown hair and a diminutive figure.”

“What’s dimin—” the little girl started to say, but her mother shushed her.

“Very small,” said Simon patiently. He was thinking that “very small” might also describe his chance of getting away with tonight’s crazy plan. Glancing at his watch, he continued, “The museum is a replica of a sixteenth century French château. It was built here in Sarasota by the Fox-Nugents not only as their home, but also to house the splendid collection of paintings and sculptures acquired during many years of travel. Upon opening it to the public, the Fox-Nugents moved their living quarters to the spacious top floor of the château. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Fox-Nugent continued to expand the collection until her own death in 1960. With its fine view of the Gulf of Mexico, this small but elegant museum is one of Sarasota’s most popular attractions.”

A man in the group asked, “Is it owned by the city?”

“Excuse me?” Simon’s thoughts had begun to wander again. Suppose somebody saw the stuff in his locker...

“I said, does the city of Sarasota own this place?”

“No. The Dorothea Fox-Nugent Museum is privately owned and operated by a board of trustees.” He moved forward. “Please take a few minutes to look around this room, which holds the finest paintings of the collection. On the right wall you see a Copley, a Sargent, and a Tintoretto. On the left wall, a Hals and a Veronese. On the rear wall,” he knew his voice changed as he got to the rear wall, “is an early Van Zeller, one of his most beautiful Nativities. It depicts Mary, Joseph, and the child Jesus in a raised structure resembling a dovecote.”

Simon was always annoyed by the people in these groups who, instead of turning to look at the works of the masters, continued to gawk at the portrait of Mrs. Fox-Nugent. When they raved about it he always wanted to say, “It’s nothing but a second-rate pretty picture and it doesn’t belong in here.” In a way, though, it did. Her museum had been a wonderful gift to the city, and the lady probably deserved to be surrounded by her best treasures. But in Simon’s estimation, the portrait was flashy and too flattering. He’d seen photographs of Dorothea Fox-Nugent and learned a lot about her during his training course. He respected what she’d done for Sarasota, but he thought she looked rather bossy and stuck up.

He said, “Are there any questions?”

Staring at him, a fat woman asked, “How old are you?”

Simon wanted to say, “I didn’t mean personal questions,” but he smiled politely.

“Twenty.”

The little girl asked, “What’s your name?”

“Simon.”

Now everybody was staring at him. He was used to it. He knew he looked great in the red museum blazer, and as the only black tour guide he’d be bound to attract attention.

An elderly man asked, “Are you a student?” to which Simon nodded. “Where?”

“The Ringling School of Art.”

The man smiled. “You’re very well versed in your subject, young man. You give a good tour.”

“Thank you.” The closing bell rang shrilly. “And thank you all for coming. Let me remind you that the museum is not open on Christmas Day.”

There was a patter of applause and the room began to empty. Simon waited until the last person had cleared the door then snapped off the lights. Through the dimness he could still see the gleam of Mary’s halo in the Nativity. He smiled at it thinking, Just a few more hours and you’ll be mine, all mine!

He hurried down the hall to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. The room was bare except for some lockers and a few chairs. He hung up his blazer and tie, took off his white shirt, and pulled on a T-shirt. Then he got out of his trousers and into jeans. Standing before his locker mirror, he was smoothing his hair when a middle-aged fellow guide came in. Simon closed the locker door quickly and said, “Hi, Bill.”

“Big Saturday night date, Si?”

“Just Volanda.” He hated having to sound casual about Volanda because he liked her so much, but everything he said tonight had to sound casual. He turned the key in his locker and went out, telling Bill to have a nice weekend. He was fighting panic. If anything went wrong he’d lose his job, maybe go to jail, and his mother and Aunt Hannah and everybody he knew would be shocked and disappointed — everybody but Volanda. She’d suggested it and said it should work.

Bolstering his courage with that thought, Simon walked down the hall, passing other guides coming off duty. Their pleasant “good nights” made him feel horribly guilty; he was the youngest of them all and knew he was something of a favorite. Stairs took him to a door that opened onto the beautiful garden of the museum. The winter was unusually warm, and the place was a riot of flowers under bordering palm trees. Visitors were still straggling down the gravel path toward the big iron gate that formed one of the two entrances. The grounds were surrounded by a ten-foot-high red brick wall, and Simon had decided that this back gate would be better than the one to the parking lot, which was visible from the street.

Mr. Fitz, the head gardener, herded out the last of the visitors and started to close the gate, looking over his shoulder.

“Last call. You going out this way, Si?”

“No, I was just, er, thinking how pretty the garden looks.”

“I never thought you were much for gardens. You’re usually roaring off on that motorcycle of yours.”

“It’s in the shop,” Simon lied. “I gotta hike to the bus stop.”

“I’m out of here in five minutes.” Mr. Fitz pocketed his keys. “Give you a lift?”

“Oh — no thanks.” Simon backed hastily inside. “Come to think of it, a friend said he might pick me up.”

He joined the parade of employees moving toward the door to the parking lot. A beverage machine stood there and Simon got himself a soda. Then he walked across the lot and halfway down the drive. He sat on a stone bench and opened his soda. Trapped without his bike, he waved at the stream of departing cars, declined offers of lifts in favor of the non-existent friend who was picking him up, and glanced often at his watch with what he hoped looked like a “waiting” frown.

Now the parking lot was deserted except for the night watchman’s car. This week it was Mr. O’Malley, and right now he’d be having his supper in the little sitting room behind the office where the rather antiquated alarm system was. The museum had never had a break-in. Simon had learned in casual conversation with Mr. O’Malley that the watchman’s rounds were every three hours beginning at eight o’clock. Plenty of time if all went well. Simon had told his mother that he and Volanda were going to a movie so she wouldn’t expect him; she was the kind of mom who tended to “expect” you even though you were twenty.

He stuffed the soda can in a receptacle and went down the drive to Sun Circle with its pretty walk curving along the gulf, then up Sapphire Drive to the bus stop and the sign that read DOROTHEA FOX-NUGENT MUSEUM with an arrow. There were nice homes along here and some traffic now, but it would taper off later. Simon knew this because he and Volanda had walked around the area last night. He supposed he should eat something, but he doubted if he could swallow a crumb. Maybe a candy bar would go down. He strolled another block to a Quickmart and bought one. Then he crossed Route 41 and went into the crowded lobby of the Days Inn. He sat down in a corner with a magazine in front of his face and stared at it. And stared at it for what seemed like an eternity.

At eight thirty it was dark, at least as dark as it was going to be with that gorgeous big old moon hanging up there. Simon recrossed Route 41, walked back along the now quiet Sapphire Drive, and stood at the foot of the museum driveway. The château was on a rise and he looked up with a funny chill at its silhouette towering behind the wall. The wall itself cast a deep shadow, but the slope up to that protecting darkness was silvery bright. He figured it would take him ten or eleven seconds to sprint up, and if he was seen that was the end of him.

Simon took a deep breath and dashed. He reached the wall and leaned against it gasping for breath, looking and listening. Not a sound. Not a soul.

The body lay in the street next to a beat-up green Ford Escort, a heavy-set man in a gray T-shirt and jeans, a blue steel semiautomatic pistol lying two feet from his right hand. Detective John Raven Beau, standing in his shirt sleeves on the neutral ground along the center of St. Charles Avenue, loosened his crimson tie with its geometric design that wasn’t a geometric design at all. A closer look would reveal the small white circles were actually human skulls. Went with the territory, working Homicide.

Beau waited for a streetcar to pass, tucking his leather-bound notebook under his left arm and watching the curious faces peering out at the crime scene as the green and brown electric car clanked by, heading downtown. Beau at six-two, a lean one-eighty pounds, was thirty. He was a square-jawed man with dark brown hair and light brown eyes beneath a hooded brow. His sharp nose gave him a hawklike appearance. On his right hip sat his 9mm Beretta Model 92-F, snug in its black canvas holster, his gold star-and-crescent New Orleans Police badge clipped to his belt above the left front pocket of his dark blue suit pants.

The crime scene encompassed the uptown-riverside intersection of St. Charles and Burdette Street, including the corner drugstore and the body in the street. Beau’s sergeant, Jodie Kintyre, stood alongside the drugstore with a young patrol officer. Jodie, five-seven, a sleek one-ten, wore her yellow-blonde hair in a long pageboy cut. Her dark green skirt-suit brought out the color in her catlike hazel eyes, which she blinked at Beau as he stepped up.

“This is Frank Willard,” she said, nodding to the patrol officer whose dark brown face shimmered with perspiration on this typically humid summer afternoon. Willard was twenty-two and stood five-nine, with a thick-bodied wrestler’s build.

She gave Beau the rundown in quick sentences. Willard responded to a Signal 64, an armed robbery, at the drugstore and caught the robber on the way out. There was an exchange of gunshots. The robber missed. Willard didn’t.

“We have six eyewitnesses inside.” Jodie nodded at the drugstore. “Snowood’s taking statements. Stay with Willard till the lab’s done with him and take him to the Bureau.” She tapped Willard on the shoulder. “Don’t talk to anyone but me and Detective Beau here until we take your statement.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call me Sergeant or Detective Kintyre or Jodie, just not ma’am.” She hurried off to join the crime scene technician who’d just arrived with his camera and brown evidence case. Beau smiled to himself. At thirty-six, Jodie was getting sensitive when anyone called her ma’am, unless it was a little kid.

Willard looked up at Beau and said, “Hope the old woman’s gonna be all right.”

“Hope you’re not talking about Jodie.”

“From inside. Behind the counter. Robber pistol-whipped her. Lotta blood.”

Jesus!

“What did your sergeant mean, till they’re done with me?”

“They’ll secure your weapon, then swab your hands for a neutron activation test to determine if you fired a firearm. Perpetrator too. That’s it.”

Willard leaned back against the brick wall of the drugstore and let out a long breath. He looked so damn young to Beau, who tried reassuring him. “I know what you’re going through, man. I’ve been through it. More than once.”

Willard turned his dark brown eyes to Beau and said, “I feel sick.”

“Don’t throw up on me.”

“No, not like that.” Willard closed his eyes. “I just feel like... jelly inside.”

“Not like in the movies, is it? Shoot a man and stand over him making wisecracks. You feel crappy, even when you do it right.” Beau watched Willard breathing heavily. “Relax. It looks like a good shooting.”

“I don’t know how he missed me. Face to face like that.” He gasped as if struggling to breathe. “We should teach how to duck and shoot at the range. I was duckin’, man.”

Beau faced him and said, “Relax. Save it for your statement. Now breathe normally.”

Willard nodded and started controlling his breathing. His eyes opened after a minute. “What’s your name again?”

“Beau.”

“As in John Raven Beau?”

Even rookies heard of me, Beau thought. It wasn’t a satisfying thought.

Willard’s eyes changed, a recognition maybe, a bonding maybe, standing with John Raven Beau, the half-Sioux, half-Cajun cop who always got his man, one way or the other. Beau was sure Willard thought he’d killed a dozen men at least, when the number was three, exactly. All good shootings. Justifiable homicides, declared by separate grand juries.

A streetcar heading uptown stopped and Beau automatically checked out who came off: a teen girl in white polo shirt and red shorts, a teen boy in green T-shirt and khaki pants, and a redheaded woman, late twenties, wearing blue nurse’s scrubs and white tennis shoes. Beau watched her stand motionless, staring at the crime scene as the streetcar pulled away.

She remained frozen in place, just staring at the body in the street.

Beau stepped away from the drugstore and flagged down a passing patrol car. Must have been a slow day in the Second District with all the cop cars passing, drawn to the scene like moths to a light bulb. The cop leaned over and rolled down the passenger-side window so Beau could lean in and ask, “Could you park your unit over there to block the view of the body from the streetcar?”

“Sure,” the eager cop said, pulling into the intersection, hitting his blue lights. His name tag read BERTUCCI. Another rookie.

When Beau looked back at the woman in nurse’s scrubs, he saw her crossing the street heading straight for him. As she arrived, he could see tears in her eyes. She was about five-five, a hundred pounds. She had a very pretty face. Up close, her hair looked strawberry blonde.

She pointed a shaky hand toward the body and said, “I think that’s my husband.”

Beau gently took her elbow and led her away from everyone down to the end of the drugstore and had her lean back against the wall. He pulled his portable radio from his back pocket and called Jodie.

“Can you come around the corner?”

Jodie came immediately and Beau moved toward her, keeping a wary eye on the strawberry blonde.

“You have the robber’s name yet?”

“We’re just going through his wallet now. John Clay.”

Beau led the way back to the woman and asked for her husband’s name.

“John Clay.” She wiped her eyes and Beau could see they were blue ovals.

“Talk to her,” Jodie said, returning to the body.

Beau took the woman’s elbow again and led her to the high curb and sat her down, sitting next to her, feet in the street, but not far enough to worry about passing cars.

“I’m Detective Beau,” he began, letting his voice drop. “It is your husband.”

She nodded and sucked in a deep breath. Then she put her head between her knees.

Beau waved to Officer Bertucci. Pulling out a buck he said, “Go in the drugstore and get me a couple Cokes. Make sure they’re cold.” He glanced back at Willard, who was taking it all in. “You want something to drink?”

Willard shook his head as he watched the strawberry blonde.

“I don’t think they’re open.” Bertucci pointed at the drugstore.

“Then go inside and steal two Cokes. I won’t call the police.” Bertucci gave Beau the I-know-I’m-a-rookie-and-the-butt-of-another-joke look, until Beau narrowed his eyes and said, “Go!”

As Bertucci entered the store, Jodie came back around and waved Willard to the crime lab technician.

Beau leaned close and asked the robber’s wife, “You okay?”

“I’m trying.”

“What’s your name?”

“Barbara Clay.”

He picked up a scent of her perfume now, sweet but not strong. She sat up straight and pulled her hair away from her face, then reached into her small purse for a Kleenex to wipe her face.

“I knew something like this was going to happen.”

“Something like what?”

She stood suddenly and Beau got up as Bertucci came out with two cans of Diet Coke, saying that was all they had. She waved hers away but Beau took both.

“The Ford Escort around the corner,” Barbara said. “It’s ours.”

She looked back at Beau and said, “You’ll want to come home with me. I have the receipts for his guns.”

“Where do you live?”

“Two blocks away.”

Beau turned to wave at Jodie and bumped into Bertucci standing there with the dollar in his hand.

“Go back inside and put the dollar next to the cash register.”

“Yes, sir.” Bertucci bounced away.

Beau waved Jodie over and handed her a Coke.

“Thanks.” She popped the cap immediately.

He told her about the Ford Escort and the gun receipts.

Jodie nodded. “Get what you can from her.” She raised the Coke but stopped at the deadpan look on Beau’s face. “You know what I mean.” She poked him in the ribs. “I’ll get someone to take Willard’s statement.”

Beau moved back to Barbara Clay and pointed across the street at his unmarked Chevy Caprice. “Why walk when we can ride?”

“I need to walk,” Barbara said as she started to cross St. Charles. Beau went with her. They crossed to the neutral ground, pausing for uptown traffic along the far side of the avenue before crossing to the sidewalk.

Barbara suddenly turned and looked into Beau’s eyes. “Did anyone else get hurt?”

“He beat up an elderly woman.”

Tears filled her eyes again and she leaned back against the Caprice. Beau waited, notebook under his right arm, Coke in his left hand. He looked around for a passerby who might be thirsty when Barbara reached for the soft drink, popped it open, and took a deep draught. Beau noticed a fresh, purple bruise on her forearm and two older, yellowish bruises above her elbow.

She took a moment to catch her breath, wiping the tears away with her fingers. She raised the soft drink without looking up and said, “Thanks. Really.” She pushed off the car, and Beau settled in next to her as they moved down the avenue, passing beneath the wide branches of the oaks, the air musty and smelling like chlorophyll now. The scent was familiar to Beau, who was raised on a small bayou just off Vermilion Bay, in swampy southwest Louisiana.

They turned up Adams Street, crossed to the other side up to Hampson. Barbara dug keys out of her purse and pointed to a two story apartment house.

“In back,” she said, guiding him through a fence with no gate, around the side of the wooden building, avoiding air conditioners sticking out of the side windows.

“Watch the stairs,” Barbara said, leading the way up a steep wooden staircase that was once painted white. “Don’t run your hands on the rail or you’ll have splinters for years.” It was then Beau identified her accent. He knew she wasn’t from New Orleans the first time she spoke. She sounded Midwestern.

As Beau waited for her to unlock the door, he reached down and rubbed his left knee. And for a moment, he thought of the orthoscopic surgery scheduled the following week to repair the cartilage in his knee.

It was an efficiency apartment, one large room with a double bed in one corner, mismatched dressers on either side, a small entertainment center with a portable TV, and two narrow doors beyond, a closet and a bathroom most likely. The kitchenette stood on the other side of the room.

Barbara put the Coke in the small refrigerator and her purse on a turquoise Formica table. The table had only two chairs; neither matched the other or the table. She moved to the small sink and rinsed out a coffeepot, then reached for a bag of coffee-and-chicory. She put a fresh pot on her Mr. Coffee machine. Beau noticed the place was very clean, smelling of lemon cleaner, curtains fluffed without a hint of dust. The windows sparkled.

Barbara sat in one of the chairs and nodded to the other. Beau sat across from her. She finally looked him in the eye again and said, “He beat up an old woman?”

“Pistol-whipped.”

Her shoulders sank and tears welled in her eyes again. She put her face in her hands. After a good cry, she got up for a Kleenex, took two matching mugs from the cupboard, and asked in a hollow voice, “Cream or sugar?”

“Black.”

“It’s strong.”

“That’s the way I like it.”

She brought the coffee and sat down across from him.

Beau said, “Earlier you said, ‘I knew something like this was going to happen.’ What did you mean?”

She took in a deep breath. “I should have said something like this was bound to happen.” She stared into her coffee and explained. Beau took notes as Barbara Clay laid out her life with John Clay in short, weary sentences.

Married two years, Barbara was the sole supporter. John Clay, who had served time in juvenile detention and a ninety-day stint in parish prison for battery, was supposed to be in welding school. Previously he’d taken auto mechanic classes and air-conditioning classes.

“He could be sweet,” Barbara said, taking a sip of coffee. “But he had a mean streak.” She lifted her arm and looked at the bruises. “Never hit me, just grabbed and squeezed, and shook me sometimes. When he’d been drinking.”

Barbara got up and moved to the sink, opened the cabinet below, and pointed inside. “I hid his first gun in there. Behind the cans of cleaners. He was drunk. When he woke, I told him he came home without the gun.” She came back to the table. “It was a Colt. Nine millimeter, I think. I threw it in the river.”

She didn’t know what he was doing with a gun. He never seemed to have any money and never came home with anything. “I told him if I ever caught him bringing anything stolen here, I was gone.” Her face seemed to tighten, and her voice was stronger now.

“I got rid of the gun and he went right out and got a bigger gun. A Smith & Wesson. Forty caliber. He said everyone needs a gun in this city. Said he was going to get me a twenty-two.”

She looked into her cup again. “I was going to leave him. Started to time and again, but...”

Beau took out a business card and put it on the table. Barbara leaned over and looked at it before stepping back to the kitchen counter and digging two pieces of paper from the silverware drawer. She sat and passed them to Beau. Gun receipts.

“He bought both at gun shows in Kenner. Even waited the five days.”

The first receipt, for a Colt 9mm, was dated over a year ago. The second, three months later, for a Smith & Wesson forty caliber. Willard was lucky one of those rounds hadn’t hit him.

“Was it a police officer who shot him?”

Beau nodded. “A rookie. Your husband gave him no choice.”

Barbara sighed and picked up Beau’s card and said, “It’s French? Your name?”

“Cajun.”

“I thought you were Mexican. Hispanic.”

“I get that a lot.” Beau’s face remained expressionless. “My mother’s Oglala Sioux.”

Her eyes lit up. “I’m from South Dakota. Sioux Falls.”

“My mother’s back up there with my grandparents. Pine Ridge Reservation.” Beau knew Sioux Falls was on the other side of the state.

A sad smile came to Barbara Clay’s lips. “Fancy meeting a Lakota down here.”

At least she had the tribe’s name right. Sioux was the name given to Beau’s people by their enemies, like the Pawnee and the Crow and the white man. Actually Beau liked the word Sioux better. It ran off the tongue with fierceness.

“May I see your driver’s license?” Beau asked.

She dug it out of her purse and he copied her pertinent information from it, date of birth, social security number. Her maiden name was Crockett. She looked nice in her photo, nicer than most people. She should smile more often. He passed her license back.

“Where do you work?”

“Charity Hospital M.R.I. Unit.”

Beau smiled. “I was in one yesterday.” His mind immediately flashed back to the M.R.I. Unit at Ochsner Hospital, him inside the hollow center of a space-age machine, lying very still for twenty minutes, with the machine making loud noises. He remembered all the warning signs lining the walls, signs warning about pacemakers, the danger of magnetizing metal objects brought into the room. He had to leave everything outside the unit, gun, badge, belt buckle, even his ballpoint pen.

“Why were you there?” Barbara asked.

He rubbed his knee and explained about the torn meniscus cartilage, then went on to explain how he’d torn up the other knee at his spring game at L.S.U., sophomore year, and had been unconsciously relying on his left leg so much, he’d torn the cartilage cushion between femur and tibia.

“You’re getting it repaired, I hope.”

“Next week.” He reached into his pocket for a small plastic case and took out two pills.

“Naproxen?”

He nodded as he swallowed the pills with the last of his coffee. He tore out a fresh sheet of notepaper, jotted down the number of the coroner’s office, and passed it to her.

“You won’t have to physically identify him. Unless you want to. We can match his fingerprints.”

She sank back in the chair and looked smaller. He looked down at his notebook as he told her the city would bury him if she didn’t have the money.

“I have a burial policy.” She got up and went to one of the dressers next to the bed. She rifled through a large folder and came up with several sets of folded papers. “Yes,” she said in a relieved voice. “It’s right here.” She restuffed the folder and started back to him but noticed something with the papers in her hand. She stepped back and pulled out a different set of papers and brought those to the table.

It was a burial policy for five thousand dollars. Barely enough to bury him. The policy was dated a year ago, shortly after her husband bought his first gun.

“Was your husband home when you left this morning?”

“Sleeping. My shift starts at five thirty.”

“Did he tell you what he’d be doing today?”

“He was supposed to be at welding school.” She pulled a business card from her purse. The school was in Metairie. She shook her head. “He never told me what he did. Wasn’t much of a talker.”

And Beau had to wonder why an attractive, intelligent woman like this could marry such a loser? Trying to understand love was an impossibility. Beau’s Cajun father told him that long ago, sitting in a pirogue while fishing with his son. “Never even try to figure,” his old man said. “De heart go where she wanna to go. Notin’ you can do ’bout it. Look at your mama. She too pretty fo’ me, too smart and too good.”

Beau nodded toward his card, still on the table. “If you think of anything else, call me. Oh, what’s your phone number?”

“We don’t have one.” She asked for his notebook and pen and wrote down her number at work.

He stood and told her he’d be in touch when they were finished processing the Ford Escort and she could pick it up. “Is there anyone who can come be with you?” he asked as he stepped to the doorway.

She shook her head and said she wanted to be alone for a while. She gave him a long stare, and he said she should lock the door behind him. As he moved down the stairs, he heard the latch click. He felt the familiar pain in his knee, but his mind was occupied elsewhere.

She has a burial policy. Odd. Maybe not. Maybe she could see the violence in her husband’s eyes.

If he were one of the superstitious herd he so despised, he’d have called it fate that he, who never watched television, should have it turned on just when they announced the discovery of his wife’s body.

He was mounting specimens from a recent trip to Mexico and had the damn thing turned on to the local news station. He planned to go into town later to buy some new hiking boots and wanted to catch the traffic report.

Instead, there it was, the dusty, deserted streets of the Cimmarron Movie Ranch in the desert, south of town. Only this time it was filled with men in hard hats and heavy machinery. The newsreader said, “Highway construction workers at the site of an old movie ranch made a macabre discovery today when digging revealed the remains of a woman...”

He picked up the remote control, turned the TV off.

“Shelley, you bitch, you got me in the end...”

Jingle the elf noticed a peculiar package under the workshop’s massive Christmas tree. There were dozens of boxes nestled around it: gifts to and from Santa, Mrs. Claus, the elves, the reindeer, and Rumpity-Tump the Icicle Man, who worked for the Clauses chasing away National Geographic photographers and cleaning out the deer stables.

But this particular present stood out from the rest for a very special reason.

“Jeez,” Jingle said. “That’s gotta be the crappiest-looking thing I’ve ever seen under Santa’s tree.”

And indeed it was. The wrapping paper was crinkled and smudged, and the bow-work was shockingly shoddy, the beautiful red ribbon mangled and smeared with inky black fingerprints.

Jingle shook his head in disgust. “Looks like the guys down in Wrapping started pounding the glogg before the Old Man even took off.”

“Dishgushting,” said Jingle’s brother Jangle, who’d had a few snorts of glogg himself. “We oughta shay shomething to the foreman. Ish there a name on the tag?”

Jingle moved closer to the package. It was big — almost as big as Jingle himself. He found the tag buried under a long loop of loosely tied ribbon.

“ ‘To Santa,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘From R. with love.’ ”

“ ‘R.,’ huh? Maybe it’sh from Rudolph.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s been in a deer stall,” Jingle said, peering at the wrapping paper. “I mean, it’s got stains on it, but not... you know...”

“Yeah, I shee what you mean,” Jangle agreed.

(Despite Rumpity-Tump’s best efforts, the deer stables were far from pristine.)

“Well, whoever ‘R.’ is, he’s not one of the guys in Cards, Tags & Notes,” Jingle announced. “The handwriting’s terrible.”

He tried to pick up the box and give it a test shake, but it was so heavy he could only lift one corner. Something inside the box shifted with a muffled tinkle, and the edge along the floor turned dark and glistening.

“It’s leaking.”

“Oopsh,” Jangle said. “You broke it. Shanta’sh gonna be pished.”

“I didn’t break it. Whatever it is, it was already...”

Jingle’s words choked to a stop as a sour-sweet smell reached his nose. It was the scent of gingerbread and peppermint and magic, with an undertone of paint and glue and sweat.

Elf blood.

Since Jingle’s reflexes hadn’t been dulled by glogg, he was the one to start screaming first. Jangle quickly joined in, though. The two elves scrambled out from under the tree and dashed shrieking through the hallways of Santa’s castle. Santa himself had been airborne nearly an hour, so there was only one person they could turn to.

“Mrs. Claus! Mrs. Claus!” they yelled in unison (though Jangle’s cries sounded more like “Mishush Claush! Mishush Claush!”).

They found Santa’s wife in the kitchen stirring an enormous cauldron of borscht. It was the only thing her husband would eat for the next six or seven months, so gorged would he be on cookies and milk by night’s end.

“Blood!” Jingle howled.

“Blllllloooooood!” Jangle added.

“Oh my, no,” Mrs. Claus replied sweetly. “It’s just borscht. Goodness, when you elves start nipping at the glogg there’s no telling what you’ll—”

Jingle grabbed one wrist, Jangle grabbed the other, and they pulled her away from the stove, out the door, and through the halls until she was standing before the giant Christmas tree, a dripping ladle still clutched in her hand.

Jingle pointed at the mysterious package. “Blood!” he howled again.

“Blllooood,” Jangle added dutifully, though he was a bit too winded by now to give it much oomph.

“Oh. I see,” Mrs. Claus said. “Dear oh dear. Well, I suppose someone had best open it up.”

A crowd began to gather around, but no one made a move toward the box. Mrs. Claus sighed, whispered another “Dear oh dear,” handed her ladle to Jingle, and stooped down under the tree’s lowest branches. The ribbon and paper slid off the package easily. When she lifted off the lid, a chorus of gasps shook the silver bells on the tree.

Inside the box was the crumpled form of an orange-haired, cherub-faced elf.

“Deary deary dear,” muttered Mrs. Claus, employing the fiercest vulgarities in her vocabulary. “It’s Gumdrop, Sugarplum’s brother.”

Another gasp echoed up into the rafters.

“Could he... could he have been... wrapped by mistake?” Jingle stammered.

Such things had been known to happen. Two years before, a pair of elves named Glitter and Sparkle had crawled into a box for a quick nap between shifts in Wrapping. Come Christmas morning, a horrified eight year old found their lifeless bodies crushed beneath a Star Wars Death Star play set.

Mrs. Claus reached into the package and gingerly shifted little Gumdrop.

“Oh deary deary deary deary dear,” she said, which told the elves that whatever she saw, it was bad indeed.

“Wh-what?” Jingle asked.

Mrs. Claus moved away from Gumdrop, giving the crowd a clear view of his blood-soaked back. Protruding from it was the red and white curl of a large candy cane. The deadly confection was smudged with sticky black fingerprints, just like the wrapping paper and ribbon on the box.

“I’m afraid this was no accident,” Mrs. Claus announced. “Someone here has been very, very naughty.”

The gasps turned to shrieks. A reindeer handler named Holly fainted into the arms of her brother Jolly. Rumpity-Tump the Icicle Man became so frozen with fear he fell over and shattered, and his pieces had to be swept up and placed outside in the snow so he could pull himself together.

“A killer! A killer loose in the workshop!” Jingle wailed.

“And Shanta won’t be back for hoursh!” cried Jangle, who’d been trying to steady his nerves with several long swigs from a flask he’d pulled from his vest pocket.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Claus, nodding sadly. “It looks like the borscht will have to wait.” She stepped out from under the branches and cleared her throat with dainty dignity. “Could everyone hush now, please?”

Her voice never rose more than a half step above a soothing whisper, ever, yet somehow her words carried farther and penetrated deeper than if she’d screamed every word. The elves’ lamentations and gnashing of teeth died away quickly, leaving only the sound of the wind outside and a quiet jingling somewhere high in the Christmas tree.

“Thank you. Now — is there anyone here who saw Gumdrop this evening?”

An elf toward the back of the room raised his hand.

“Yes, Snowflake?”

“Gumdrop was working with us in Nice Management this year. We finished the list up a little early and went to get some... uhhh, eggnog at Carol’s place.”

Mrs. Claus picked Carol’s face out of the throng. “Carol?”

“Yeah, Gumdrop was there for a while. But he and my sister Noel... ummm... had a little too much eggnog and they went off to... make some mulled cider.”

Mrs. Claus scanned the still-growing crowd for Noel’s blushing face. “Noel?”

“Over here, Mrs. C. When we got to the bedro — I mean, the kitchen, Gumdrop realized he didn’t have a... well... a... bag of mulling spices. There was one in his wallet, but he’d left it in his jacket at work. I might have had a bit too much eggnog, but I’m not stupid — I told him no spice, no cider. So Gumdrop went back to work to get his jacket.” Noel wiped away a tear. “He never came back.”

“He went back to Nice Management?”

“Yes.”

“And no one else saw him after that?”

The room was still.

“I see.” Mrs. Claus folded her arms and shook her head. “Eggnog and cider-making and mulling spices? My oh my.”

The assembled elves hung their heads in shame.

“Well, you’ve been working so hard this year... I don’t think we need to mention any of that to Santa.”

The elves peeked back up at her sheepishly.

“But this business with poor Gumdrop...”

Something rustled high above in the tree, and a single ornament dropped from branch to branch to branch, finally shattering on the floor just a few yards from Mrs. Claus. Everyone looked up.

At the top of the tree, tinkering with the brightly glowing star perched there, was a single elf.

“Hello, up there,” Mrs. Claus said.

The elf peered down at her. “Greetingz.” Then he went back to working on the star.

“Aren’t you interested in what’s going on down here?”

“Oh, it iz a zertainty. But I am having verk to do here, yez?”

“I think that can wait. Why don’t you come down and talk to me?”

Mrs. Claus’s tone was as sweet and lilting as ever, yet it was clear this was no request. It was a command.

“No,” the elf said, not bothering to even look at her this time. “I think I finish my verk firzt, yez?”

“Oh. Well then.”

Mrs. Claus took a deep breath and twiddled her thumbs for a moment. Disobedient elves were as rare at the North Pole as murders. There were no precedents for dealing with either one.

“Jingle, Jangle, everybody — stand back please,” Mrs. Claus said when she’d decided on a course of action.

She reached into the lowest branches of the Christmas tree and began pulling off a long strand of shimmering garland. Once she had about thirty feet of it, she tied one end into a hoop and began twirling it over her head. When she let it go, the makeshift lasso sailed to the top of the tree and landed around the obstinate elf’s right foot. With one quick, hard pull, Mrs. Claus closed the loop tight and jerked the little man into the air.

“Blahhhhhhhh!” he squawked as he cartwheeled downward.

“Ooooooooooh!” the elves cooed as they watched him fall.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Claus after she’d caught him by the fluffy white collar of his green tunic, snatching him out of the air before he could splatter at her feet. “But I really do think it’s awfully important that we talk.”

She loosened the garland and set her tiny prisoner down. He was chubbier than most of his kin, and a little taller too. He bent back and stared up at the top of the tree.

“Very imprezzive, Mrz. Clauz,” he said.

“Oh, why thank you,” Mrs. Claus replied with demure humility. “I’ve always been handy with decorations. Now tell me, what’s your name?”

“I em Geeftrep.”

It took a few seconds for the syllables to take shape in Mrs. Claus’s brain. “Giftwrap?” she asked.

“Yez. Bruther of Scotchtape.”

“Hmmm. I don’t believe I’ve heard you or your brother mentioned around here before, Giftwrap.”

The other elves shook their heads and squinted at Giftwrap with growing suspicion.

“Ve are new thiz year,” he said. “Before this ve are... how do you say? Ve cobble the shoez, yez?”

“I see. But this year you decided to become toy-making elves?”

“Yez. The shoemaker ve verk for, he moved hiz factory to Indonezia.”

“My, how terribly disappointing. Well, let me take this opportunity to welcome you to Santa’s workshop.”

Mrs. Claus held her hand out to Giftwrap. He hesitated just a fraction of a second, then grasped her hand and gave it a limp shake.

“Thank you, Mrz. Clauz.”

Mrs. Claus smiled, then glanced down as she let go of his hand.

“Goodness — is that ink on your sleeve?”

Giftwrap didn’t answer directly. Instead, he spat out a word no one had ever dared utter in the presence of Mrs. Claus.

“Oh, now surely that kind of language isn’t going to help matters any,” she began to say.

She didn’t get a chance to finish. The “Oh” was still on her lips when Giftwrap pulled a candy cane from his tunic and lunged at her with it. She barely managed to dodge away in time, and the razor-sharp candy sliced off a corner of her white lace apron.

“Oh, Giftwrap,” Mrs. Claus said. “My niece made that for me.”

But rather than apologize, Giftwrap lunged again.

“Mrs. C!” Jingle called out as he tossed her the ladle she’d handed him a minute before.

Mrs. Claus reached out and let the handle slap into her palm. Then she swung the ladle down just in time to parry Giftwrap’s thrust. Giftwrap tried again and again, but each time Mrs. Claus turned the sugary blade aside.

“Now really, Giftwrap — is this helpful?” Mrs. Claus asked, raising her voice just a bit to be heard above the clink-clank of their duel. “You can’t escape. Why not stop fighting and tell me what you’ve been up to? I bet you’ll feel a lot better if you do.”

“Bah!” Giftwrap snarled. With a dramatic flourish, he hurled his candy cane into the floorboards, where it stuck with a loud, vibrating spronnnng. Then he reached into his tunic and pulled out something brown and log-like.

“Look out!” Jingle yelped. “He’s got a fruitcake!”

“Yez! And I em not afraid to uze it!”

Giftwrap brought the fruitcake to his lips and took a savage bite.

“Daz vedanya, zuckerz!” he shouted, crumbs and bits of candied orange peel spraying from his furiously chewing mouth. He took a big, gulping swallow, and almost immediately his face turned blue. He collapsed, writhing and gurgling. After a few seconds, he stopped moving.

Jingle slowly approached the prone figure and gave it a cautious poke with the curled toe of his elf shoe. There was no response.

“I think he’s dead.”

“Dead? Deary deary dear,” Mrs. Claus said as she stepped over to Giftwrap’s side and stooped down to examine the body. “Oh, I thought so.”

She reached out and plucked the pointy ears right off his head.

There was more gasping and fainting from the elves gathered around.

“Don’t anyone fret now. They’re fake ears,” Mrs. Claus explained. “Giftwrap — or whatever his name truly is... is no elf.”

“A man?” Jingle asked.

Mrs. Claus nodded. “Yes. A midget.”

“Why would a midget come all the way to the North Pole just to kill Gumdrop?”

“Oh, I don’t think he would. Not just to kill poor Gumdrop, I mean.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either, Jingle. But I do know this: We haven’t seen the last of the naughtiness tonight.”

Mrs. Claus put a pair of elves named Mistletoe and Poinsettia in charge of guarding the bodies, then hustled out of the room, Jingle at her heels. Jangle started to follow too, but the glogg had turned his legs to rubber, and the only way to stiffen them up again was to curl up under a bench and take a nap.

Nice Management was deserted when Jingle and Mrs. Claus arrived. They found Gumdrop’s jacket at his desk, lying atop a pile of statistics, graphs, and pie charts analyzing the Naughty-to-Nice ratio of little boys who own albums by Kiss.

“Maybe Gumdrop never made it back to the office,” Jingle said. “He could have been murdered anywhere between here and Carol’s place.”

“No,” Mrs. Claus said. “I think it’s much more likely he was killed right here.”

She headed for the far end of the room, where Santa kept the tilted worktable he slaved over so many long hours each year. It was where he compiled The List — the massive scroll on which he kept the names of well-behaved children who’d earned a visit come Christmas Eve.

Mrs. Claus peered down at the worktable a moment. “Oh, goodness deary goodness,” she said. “It’s just as I feared.”

She moved to the nearest garbage can, shook her head, and pulled out two twisted, broken, ink-smeared feathers.

“What a shame. Santa loved these,” she said. “Griffin feathers. So hard to come by these days. Oh well. We have more to worry about now than Santa’s favorite pens.”

“That we do,” Jingle said, nodding. “Uhhh... and what is it that we need to be worrying about, exactly?”

“Why, the name Giftwrap added to Santa’s list, of course.”

Jingle looked from Mrs. Claus to the feathers to Santa’s worktable to Gumdrop’s desk, blinking blankly. Mrs. Claus took mercy on him and explained.

“There were ink stains on the box Gumdrop was in, and on Giftwrap’s sleeves, as well. And if you’ll look at the table there...”

Jingle followed Mrs. Claus’s gaze. A black smudge marred one corner of Santa’s worktable.

“Southerners aren’t accustomed to quill pens and ink bottles anymore,” Mrs. Claus said, using the term Santa’s elves favored for describing anyone who didn’t live at the North Pole. “So Giftwrap made a bit of a mess. And I can only think of one thing he might have been trying to do with a pen at Santa’s worktable. Poor, unfortunate Gumdrop saw what he was up to when he came back for his jacket. And... well, Giftwrap couldn’t have that.”

“Oh,” Jingle said. “I see. Then Giftwrap had to make sure Gumdrop’s body wasn’t found until after Santa took off.”

“That’s right. Yet he wanted the body to be found eventually. That message on the card — it must have some special significance.”

Jingle shook his head, bewildered and disgusted. “Sending a spy into the workshop, killing an elf, all just to get some kid on the Nice list. It’s beyond naughty. It’s nuts.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps this isn’t about a child.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, maybe someone wants to make sure Santa goes down a certain chimney tonight.”

Jingle gaped at her, amazed that a woman who’d devoted her life to making children happy and hanging out with elves would have such a natural affinity for the workings of devious minds.

“You think it could be a trap?” he said.

Mrs. Claus shrugged. “You know how those toy company people feel about Santa. And the religious fundamentalists. And the Elf Liberation Front. And the Ayatollah. He still hasn’t forgiven us for all those lumps of coal he received as a child. And—”

The longer the list grew, the wider Jingle’s eyes became. “I never realized Mr. C had made so many enemies.”

Mrs. Claus’s lips pulled into a small smile, sad but proud. “The good ones always do, dear,” she said.

“Well, if it’s a trap, we’ve got to warn Santa right away!”

Mrs. Claus sighed. “I wish we could. But you know as well as I do how hard that would be.”

Santa always took the fastest reindeer, naturally, so catching him by following his delivery route would be next to impossible. On top of that, he didn’t really have a set delivery route. If children were still awake inside a house when he landed on the roof, he had to move on and come back later. As a result, the longer the evening wore on, the more he ended up criss-crossing the globe, perhaps alternating a drop-off in Kenya with a stop in Kentucky. That always increased the odds that he’d get lost somewhere in between. Santa would never, ever, under any circumstances, stop to ask for directions, and as a result he could end up hovering confused over Antarctica or looking for Evansville, Indiana, in the Amazon rainforest.

“Plus,” Jingle said after they’d both ruminated on all this for a quiet moment, “maybe he’s already been captured or...” Jingle gulped. “Or whatever. He’s been gone over an hour now.”

Mrs. Claus grew pale, and an expression came to her face Jingle had never seen there before, a frown. But it only lasted a second.

“Now don’t you worry, Jingle,” she said, the rosy glow returning to her round cheeks. “Santa’s going to be just fine. In fact, I think I know how we can help him. You run and find Ribbons and Bows. I want to meet them in their office.”

Jingle straightened up and saluted. “Yes, ma’am!” And off he went.

He found Ribbons and Bows downing glogg shots at a hastily organized wake for Gumdrop. They were gruff, gnarled old elves who ran Request Processing with two little iron fists.

“Frank! Hank!” Jingle called out to them. Only the Clauses could get away with calling them “Ribbons” and “Bows.” Anyone else who tried it got a punch in the nose. “Mrs. C needs you! Quick!”

They both threw back one more shot, then staggered off after Jingle. When they got to Request Processing, Mrs. Claus was already there sorting through the files on Frank’s desk — an offense that would have gotten any elf another sock in the schnoz. But while Frank and Hank were too devoted to the Clauses to openly show their displeasure, Frank couldn’t resist the urge to take the files out of Mrs. Claus’s hands and begin fussing with the papers on his desk, spreading them around until they were in exactly the same state of disarray he’d left them in earlier that evening.

“What does the Missus need now, hey?” he asked. “You just sit back and let us dig it out for you.”

“Thank you, Ribbons.”

Frank’s left eye twitched ever so slightly.

“We think a name was added to the Nice list at the last minute. But if someone wanted to lure Santa to a certain home—”

“They’d have to tell him what to bring, eh?” Hank finished for her.

“Exactly.”

“So you’d be lookin’ for requests that arrived today, hey?” Frank said.

“The later the better.”

“Well,” Frank said, thrusting his hand into a swaying tower of paper almost as tall as Mrs. Claus, “these are the last ones we got.” Somehow he pulled out five letters without burying himself under an avalanche of envelopes.

“Double-rush late,” Hank said. “Popped up when we thought we were all done. Barely got ’em processed in time.”

“I see. Then these are the ones we want, Bows.”

Hank’s right eye twitched.

Mrs. Claus took the letters from Frank.

“Why, this first one’s from little Martha Ortmann,” she said. “Santa and I know all about her. She’s a little angel.”

Frank nodded. “Nice to old people.”

Hank nodded too. “Kind to animals.”

Even Jingle joined in. “Picks up her room. Brushes her teeth. Wipes off her boots before coming into the house.”

Mrs. Claus shuffled the letter to the bottom. “I don’t think we need to worry about Martha. Now how about this next one? Steve Hockensmith?”

Frank shook his head this time. “Picks his nose.”

Hank shook his head too. “Fights with his brother.”

Jingle joined in. “Pouts. Cries.”

“My goodness. Coal?”

“Coal,” the elves sang in chorus.

“Ahhhh.” Mrs. Claus moved on to the next letter. “Gina McIntyre?”

“Nice,” said Frank.

“But,” said Hank.

“Read the letter,” said Jingle.

Mrs. Claus cleared her throat and took the letter out of its envelope. “ ‘Dear Santa,’ ” she read aloud. “ ‘I have been extra good all year long, but I do not want any dolls, games, or books this Christmas. You can give my toys to a poor child who needs them more than me.’ ” Mrs. Claus smiled. “How precious.”

“Keep reading,” Jingle said.

Mrs. Claus looked back down at the letter. “ ‘But there is something I would like — my very own...’ Oh.” She peeked back up at the elves, who stared back at her, frowning indignantly.

“ ‘Elf,’ ” Mrs. Claus read. “ ‘I promise to feed it and take it for walks and...’ Oh my.”

“She’s getting a puppy,” Jingle said.

“I see. Well, I think what we’re looking for wouldn’t be quite so... colorful.” Mrs. Claus pulled out the next letter. “Like this one. This little boy wants books, games, and a Farrah Fawcett Majors poster. All very normal. What do we know about this—” She squinted at the name scrawled across the bottom of the page. “Bill Reeves?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Oh.”

Hank rolled his eyes. “That one.”

Jingle shrugged.

“Naughty?” Mrs. Claus asked.

“Eh,” said Frank.

“Could be worse,” said Hank.

“That’s not the problem,” said Frank.

“He’s thirty-seven years old,” said Hank.

“Ahhh,” said Mrs. Claus. She placed the letter on Frank’s desk. “Well, that is suspicious — if a bit transparent. I suppose it’s the best candidate we have so far.”

She flipped to the last letter, obviously hoping for something better.

“Ah-ha,” said Frank.

“Oh-ho,” said Hank.

“Umm-hmm,” said Mrs. Claus.

“I’ll get the sleigh,” said Jingle.

Minutes later, he and Mrs. Claus were in the air, headed for Sweden behind a team of young back-up reindeer.

“Now, Pac-Man! Now, Disco! Now, Yoda and Vader!” Mrs. Claus called out, giving the reins a gentle snap. “On, Ford! On, Carter! On, Alda and Nader!”

The reindeer strained in their harnesses, rocketing over Greenland and the Norwegian Sea toward Sweden. But they weren’t fast enough.

“Oh no!” Jingle cried when they reached the outskirts of Kalmar. “We’re too late!”

He stood up and pointed at the rooftops below. They were covered with sleigh tracks, hoofprints, and discolored snow — telltale signs that Santa had already come and gone.

The reindeer veered to the east then, changing course so suddenly Jingle lost his balance and nearly toppled over the side. The only thing that kept him in the sleigh was Mrs. Claus’s hand reaching out to snag a handful of his green tights.

“Thanks,” Jingle squeaked. “But where are we?”

“Look! Up ahead!”

In the distance, a pinprick of light gleamed through the gentle swirl of snow. As they got closer, they could see shapes in its soft red glow.

Antlers, a rooftop, a chimney.

And an empty sleigh.

“Take it easy, everyone,” Mrs. Claus told the reindeer. “Let’s try to make this a very quiet landing.”

The reindeer slowed to a flying trot, then a gliding amble, and Mrs. Claus’s sleigh slid into place next to her husband’s almost without a sound.

“Well done, my dears,” Mrs. Claus said as she stepped carefully onto the roof. There wasn’t much room to move around. It was a small house, dark and forlorn, with no neighbors in sight other than a decaying factory half a mile up the road.

“Keep it steady there, buddy,” Jingle told Rudolph, whose nose was beginning to strobe with excitement. “Where’s Santa?”

Rudolph grunted and sneezed simultaneously, making a wet, snorting noise that, translated roughly, meant “I dunno.” Comet and Cupid and the rest grunted and sneezed in agreement.

“Deary deary dear,” said Mrs. Claus.

She was peering down into the chimney. Jingle crept over and pulled himself up to see what she was looking at.

A few feet below, metal bars gleamed in the moonlight. Mrs. Claus cleaned her glasses with her apron and leaned in to give them a closer look.

“They’re mounted on some kind of spring mechanism,” she said. “So when Santa got to the bottom of the chimney—”

“He couldn’t get back out!” Jingle blurted. “You were right. It is a trap!”

Mrs. Claus shushed him. “Listen.”

She turned an ear downward and bent over the chimney. Jingle imitated her.

Voices echoed up from inside the house.

“Me? Work for the KGB? Ho ho ho! Ridiculous!”

There could be no mistaking who it was. Santa was all right — for the moment.

“What could I possibly do for you?”

“Vell, you know vhat they zay,” a heavily accented man replied. “ ‘He zeez you vhen you’re zleeping. He knowz vhen you’re avake. He knowz if you’ve been bad or good, zo be good for goodnez zake.’ ”

“Yes?”

“Don’t be denze, fat man! You are the greatezt zpy the vorld haz ever known!”

“ ‘Zpy’?”

“Yez, zpy!”

“I don’t—”

“There iz no zecret our enemiez could keep from uz vith you on our zide!”

“On your what now?”

“Our zide! Thiz cowboy the Americanz have elected — Reagan. He planz to zpend hiz vay to victory over uz. Vell, let him try! Ve vill have zomething money cannot buy. You!”

“Wait now. What’s all this about a cowboy?”

“Zoon you vill be zmuggled to the Zoviet Union in one of our zubmarines. And then... imagine the propaganda value vhen Zanta Clauz — the living embodiment of Veztern materializm — renounzez hiz vayz and zayz, ‘At lazt, thiz red zuit of mine really ztandz for zomething!’ ”

“Fez turn materialism? My red zoot? Ho ho! Goodness, lad! I can’t understand a word you’re saying!”

“Here iz all you need to underztand. Our operative at the Pole haz hidden a bomb — a very powerful bomb — in your vorkshop. If you do not cooperate, ve vill reduze your toymaking elvez to zo much zmoke and duzt.”

Mrs. Claus and Jingle locked eyes on each other, each of them stifling a horrified gasp.

“Zmoke and duzt?” a baffled Santa mused.

“Da! Zmoke and duzt! You know — boom!”

“Hmmm. I’m sorry. You’re just not getting through. Maybe one of you other fellows can tell me what your friend’s so excited about.”

A string of Russian curses bounced up out of the house. “I vill blow up your caztle! It iz that zimple! Thiz iz the deztruct button here in my hand!”

“Oh! Ho ho! A bomb! I thought you said a very powerful bum. Now I see! Clever! Naughty, but clever! Ho ho ho! But let me tell you something, my friend. You’ll never get anywhere in life with bombs and threats. Generosity and good cheer! Those are the things that really matter! Now why don’t you let me out of this cage so I can be on my way? I’ve got toys to deliver! Ho ho!”

Santa’s ho-hoing was cut off by more curses. The Russians were learning what Mrs. Claus and everyone else at the North Pole already knew.

Santa Claus was the sweetest man on the face of the Earth — and he was nowhere near the brightest.

At that moment, the real mastermind of the Claus clan was whispering quick instructions to Jingle. The elf gulped, nodded, hopped into Santa’s sleigh, and told Rudolph and the other A-list reindeer it was time to fly their furry butts off. They were careful to take off quietly, but once they were airborne they streaked out of sight like a red-nosed rocket.

“Get it through your thick zkull, Clauz!” the Russian spymaster was screaming as they left. “Ve are not letting you go!”

“Really? My my my. That’s a wee bit selfish, wouldn’t you say? Think of the children.”

“I am thinking of the children! The children who vill grow up in a better vorld because ve have overthrown decadent capitalizm and freed them from the grinding boot heel of the bourgeoizie!”

“Well, I don’t know about all that. I just know how those good little boys and girls love their toys! Ho ho! And if they don’t find them under the tree tomorrow — goodness! We can’t have that, can we?”

Mrs. Claus heard a strangled cry that was, no doubt, “Oh, shut up!” in Russian. Santa didn’t get the message.

“If you let me go now I’ll still have time to stop and eat all the treats the kids have left out for me. You wouldn’t believe how disappointed the children are if I don’t eat those cookies! And all those glasses of milk to drink! Speaking of which, I should probably make a quick pit stop before I get going. Ho ho ho! So if you’ll just let me out of here...”

Mrs. Claus couldn’t wait any longer. Another minute and the Russians might kill her husband out of sheer frustration. So she hopped in her sleigh, brought it around for a landing on the ground below, walked up to the front door, and knocked. A minute passed without an answer, so she knocked again. This time the door opened just wide enough for a tall man in a black turtleneck and black leather trenchcoat to peek out at her.

“Yez?” the man said.

“Hello,” Mrs. Claus replied pleasantly. “I’m here about my husband. May I come in please?”

The tall man frowned. “It iz late. You should go home. There iz no—”

Pac-Man the reindeer sneezed. The man poked his head out the door and saw the sleigh for the first time. A hand poked out the door too. There was a gun in it.

“Inzide, if you pleaze.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Claus said.

In the house were four more men in black turtlenecks and black leather coats. They were all wearing berets and sunglasses. And all of them had guns.

Santa was on the far side of the room, standing in a cage that surrounded the fireplace.

“Gladys!” he called out when he saw her.

“Gladyz?” one of the turtleneck men said. Mrs. Claus recognized the voice immediately. It was the spymaster.

“No, dear. Gladys,” she corrected him. “With an s. But you can call me ‘Mrs. Claus.’ ”

She moved toward him with her right hand out. There was a gun in his, and the look on his face indicated that they were not about to share a hearty handshake. Mrs. Claus stepped past the gun, threw her arms around the Russian, and gave him an enthusiastic hug. The spymaster stiffened like he’d been given an electric shock.

“Unhand me, voman,” he spat.

“Oh, come now. Everyone needs a hug from time to time.”

“Let me go!”

Mrs. Claus stepped back, shaking her head sadly. “Alright then. But you really shouldn’t be afraid of a little human warmth.”

“Ho ho ho! She’s right, you know! You look like a man who could use a few hugs!”

“Zilenze, zimpleton!”

There was a comfy-looking armchair near the fireplace, and Mrs. Claus walked over and took a seat. All the guns in the room pivoted to follow her as she moved.

“Don’t you worry, Santa,” she said, folding her hands primly in her lap. “We’ll have you out of there soon.”

“Wonderful! Time’s a-wasting! I’m not even halfway through my route! So many toys to deliver! So many notes to read! So many cookies to—”

“Yes, darling, of course. We know.”

“No one iz going anyvhere!” the spymaster barked. “A threat far away could not penetrate your thick zkull, Zanta. But now fate haz delivered uz a new hoztage — one you can zee with your own eyez.” He brought up his gun and pointed it directly at Mrs. Claus’s forehead. “Perhapz now you vill underztand that ve mean buzinezz. Vow to zerve uz, or your vife diez.”

“Well, now... that’s... I...” Santa stammered, finally beginning to grasp the situation. “You wouldn’t really do a mean old thing like that, would you?”

A malevolent grin slithered across the Russian’s lips. “Yez,” he said. “I vould.”

“I think he really would dear,” Mrs. Claus said. “But he won’t.”

The spymaster cocked an eyebrow at her. “Oh? And vhy vouldn’t I?”

“Because we returned your bomb.” Mrs. Claus pulled out the control mechanism she’d slipped from his jacket after giving him a hug. “And I have this.”

One of the turtleneck men blurted out a Russian phrase so foul it would have made a reindeer blush.

Mrs. Claus looked at him and shook her head reprovingly. “Such language,” she said to him in perfect Russkij. “What would your mother say?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the henchman mumbled.

“Vhat do you mean vhen you zay you returned the bomb?” the spymaster asked, eyeing the remote control in her hand nervously.

“We took it back where it came from.”

“Took it back? You mean... Mozcow?”

Mrs. Claus nodded. “The Kremlin.”

Two of the Russians burst into tears. Another threw himself down and began kicking and pounding the floorboards. Another, the tallest and palest of all the turtleneck men, simply rolled his eyes and sighed loudly as if he’d already been through the exact same experience a hundred times before.

“Zteady, comradez,” the spymaster said. “She iz bluffing.”

“Oh, I assure you I’m not bluffing,” she bluffed.

“Yez, you are. If you vere telling the truth, you could tell me vhere the bomb vaz hidden.”

“Why, in the star at the top of our Christmas tree, of course.”

There was really no of course about it. It was a guess. That little assassin Giftwrap had been up to something in the tree, hadn’t he? If she were wrong, at that very moment Jingle would be dumping a perfectly good star in the Arctic Ocean while a bomb sat in the workshop, ready to blow the place to peppermint-scented smithereens if the Russians got their hands on the remote control again.

The spymaster laughed.

It took Mrs. Claus a moment to realize that it wasn’t a gloating, “You old fool!” laugh. It was a bitter, “Why me?” laugh. Then she saw the slice of fruitcake he’d drawn from his black trench coat.

“Oh, come now,” she chided him. “You don’t have to take it that hard.”

But it was too late for the spymaster. Within seconds his chin was covered in crumbs, and he was dead.

The tall, sighing spy moved quickly to the cage around the fireplace. He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door.

“Go,” he told Santa. He turned to Mrs. Claus. “Hurry.”

He followed them out to the sleigh and helped them both up into the front seat.

“I have to azk you,” he said once Santa had the reins in hand. “At the North Pole, do you have... how you zay? Political azylum?”

“A xylowhat?” Santa asked.

Mrs. Claus smiled. “Get in.” She waited for the tall Russian to get settled into the back seat, then swiveled around to face him. “So tell me, young man. What can you do?”

The secret agent shrugged. “I have been a zpy for zo many years. All I know iz thiz Cold Var.”

“You don’t have any skills?”

“Vell... I do know one hundred and thirty-zeven vays to kill a man.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Claus stroked her chin for a moment. “Well, maybe Rumpity-Tump could use some help in the stable.”

“Ho ho ho!” said Santa.

The reindeer knew what to do when they heard that. So they did it.

The soft flesh of Kim Ji-na’s pudgy fingers shook as she poured steaming barley tea into an earthenware cup.

“He beat me, Older Sister,” she said. “And then he stole my money.”

Kimiko lifted the cup to her nose, savoring the aroma. Ji-na, the much younger woman, knelt on the warm ondol floor on the other side of a short serving table. The man Ji-na was talking about had been her boyfriend of almost six months, an American soldier by the name of Greene. His first name Ji-na didn’t know, something difficult to pronounce. His rank, however, was corporal. One of his tattered fatigue shirts still hung in the wooden armoire. What unit had he been assigned to? Ji-na only knew 8th Army, which didn’t narrow the possibilities much. Less than a mile away from this village of Itaewon stood the huge 8th Army headquarters, Yongsan Compound, teeming with over five thousand American GIs. He worked with engines, Ji-na told Kimiko. That much she knew because almost every night when he came home his fingers were cut and bleeding and covered with grease.

“Why did he leave you?” Kimiko asked.

Demurely, like a well-trained Confucian child, Ji-na lowered her eyes.

“He’s returning to the United States,” Ji-na said. “In a few days. He said we have to finish.”

“But why did he beat you?”

Ji-na stared at Kimiko, black eyes flashing with indignation. “He said he wanted his money back. For the final month he wouldn’t be spending with me. I refused.”

Kimiko nodded her head sadly. She’d heard such things before. Since the end of the Korean War some twelve years ago, the people of Korea had been poorer than they’d been in living memory. Even poorer than they’d been under the Japanese occupation during World War II. And people had been forced to do anything to survive. For a young girl like Ji-na, a young girl from the countryside, to land a rich American to take care of her was thought of as a great victory. A victory against hunger. A victory against begging on the street. What with their steady paychecks and their access to the PX — with its cornucopia of imported American-made goods — GIs were rich. Much richer than the average Korean.

Through a cloud of rising steam, Kimiko studied Ji-na. The young woman’s eyes were blackened and her nose had swollen red and angry to almost twice its natural size. Her entire face was round, flushed with blood, and puffier than Kimiko remembered seeing it before.

Ji-na busied herself with offering a bowl of nurungji, crisp flakes peeled from the edge of an earthenware pot. Kimiko picked out one of the stiff shards of burnt rice and nibbled on the tasteless wafer, staring all the while at Ji-na’s mangled fingernails.

“And why, young Ji-na,” Kimiko asked, “did you call me?”

Ji-na bowed once again.

“Because you have vast experience,” she answered. “With the Americans and with all sorts of foreigners.”

This was true. When she turned fourteen, Kimiko had been expelled by her poor farm family who could no longer afford to feed her. She caught the train to Seoul, arriving only a few months before the forces of the Imperial Japanese Army surrendered to the Americans on V-J day. Since then, she’d lived here in Seoul in the district of Itaewon, making a living as best she could. She knew foreigners. She knew them very well.

“And what would you have me do?” Kimiko asked.

“Find him for me,” Ji-na answered.

“To what purpose?”

“To retrieve my money.”

Kimiko knew why Ji-na didn’t go to the police. First, it was unlikely that the Korean National Police would ever be able to retrieve Ji-na’s money. On their fortified compounds, the Americans were a government unto themselves. If the KNPs asked to talk to Greene, they’d be laughed at. Second, even if by some miracle the Korean police did manage to retrieve Ji-na’s money, they would keep it for themselves. They certainly wouldn’t turn hard cash over to a lowly “business girl.”

Kimiko sighed and set down her cup. She was used to this. Many of the naive young country girls who flooded into Itaewon came to Kimiko for help. They had no idea how to deal with Americans or what thoughts ran through their strange foreign minds.

“What’s in it for me?” Kimiko asked.

“Ten percent of what you recover,” Ji-na answered immediately.

Ten percent of nothing, Kimiko thought, but she held out for twenty. Ji-na quickly agreed.

“I saw Vlad in New York. He looks better.”

“Did you speak?” Charles Marley asked.

“Of course not. No point in opening old wounds.” Oleg sipped tea, glanced at the wintry bustle on Connecticut Avenue, and steered the conversation back to his book. “The work on my memoir is three-quarters finished, more than three-quarters. But the publisher has lost enthusiasm. There are too many memoirs from the period, they say.”

“There have been others,” Marley agreed.

“If pages full of lies are a memoir, then you are both right.” Oleg squeezed the cup onto its saucer with a rattle. He settled back. It was warm in the hotel dining room, but he wore his expensive overcoat on his shoulders to prevent its being stolen. He had held his cup the same way, Charles Marley thought, and to the publisher’s dismay, Oleg had probably held tightly to his better secrets as well.

After both men had been silent for a minute, Oleg said, “We were onto him early. I’m speaking of Vlad. You only received from him what we intended for you to have.”

“He was never productive,” Marley agreed. The words triggered an unwanted thought that if Vlad had been productive the intelligence service might have taken better care of him. He said, “Is Vlad in your book?”

“No, I would not embarrass you, my old friend.” Sighing, Oleg added, “Besides, this publisher wants tales of adventure, when I am not giving away the dirty little secrets. Vladimir Davidovich was nothing, there was no excitement in capturing him. He was a coward who finally told us everything he knew. Where is the value in such a story? In our time, Charles, we seldom encountered adversaries worthy of us. Don’t you agree?”

“When you saw Vlad, where was he?”

Oleg raised his hands. “Near my publisher’s building. Let me tell you, I was surprised. A taxi had brought me from the train station and when I got out almost the first thing I saw was this bony rat’s face from the old days. He did not notice me. He was operating a vendor’s cart, and a policeman was arguing with him.” Between his fingers, Oleg laughed. “Still getting into trouble, after all these years.”

For a moment, Marley dropped his gaze to his cup. The coffee had gone cold. He thought he could leave.

Oleg shook a finger at him. “Your people were always so sanctimonious about our handling of social parasites. Well, what did you expect? We produced so many of them! Vladimir Davidovich is proof that some people will end at the bottom of whatever society adopts them. Don’t you agree?”

“Is she dead?”

Jack slipped into the dark booth and flagged down a waitress. “I’m afraid so, Fred.”

Fred Owens lowered his face into his hands. “I don’t know how it happened. One minute, Molly and I were arguing, and the next thing I knew she was lying on the floor.” He glanced up. “I didn’t even touch her. She just tripped over the coffee table.”

Jack ordered a drink, then waited for the waitress to leave. “You didn’t tell anyone else about this, did you?”

Fred shook his head. “I just straightened the table and picked up in the living room, hoping she would wake up. But she didn’t.” He pulled his eyes tight as if the image was too horrifying to relive.

Jack accepted his drink from the waitress and took a sip. “Don’t worry about it, Fred. It’s all been taken care of.”

“What do you mean?”

Jack leaned forward. “I mean why should you spend your life in prison for something that was an accident?”

“It was an accident! I swear it.”

“You and I know that,” Jack said. “But the police may have other ideas. So why take the chance of spending the rest of your life paying for it?” He gulped his drink. “As long as there’s no body, there can’t be a murder.”

Fred’s eyes widened. “You got rid of the body? How? Where?”

“That’s not important,” Jack told him. “The important thing is that you won’t be arrested for murder.”

Fred exhaled and folded his arms across the table. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“That’s easy,” Jack remarked. “I did you a favor, now you’ll do a favor for me.”

“Anything. Just name it.”

“Kill my wife.”

Fred gasped. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“But why? Marge has already filed for divorce. She’ll be out of your life soon enough.”

“With half of everything I’ve worked hard for during our twenty-year marriage.”

Fred put up his hands. “I can’t do it. I’m no murderer!”

“But you are, Fred,” Jack reminded him. “And if it weren’t for me, you’d be facing a murder charge.”

Melanie Skeets arrived at the mini-mall minutes before the killing, in nice time to settle into a ringside seat and take a few sips of white wine.

The new shopping mall was a ring of sorts, albeit a broken one. It formed rather more than a half circle, two floors high, starting and ending at the main street opposite a London underground station. The sweep was punctured in the middle by a short passage to the minor street beyond.

To the left of the archway was a supermarket, the rest of the circle held a cafe and wine bar, a members-only gym, and a ticket agency, with more stores entered from the passageway. Outside the wine bar were scattered light metal chairs, and on a fine day there were few better spots for people-watching in comfort.

The arena held by the building’s outstretched arms wasn’t cluttered with the usual benches, litter bins, and concrete planters. The architect had decreed a textured surface with cobblestone stripes, colored brick swirls, and ribbed tile walkways, suggesting a giant pinwheel frozen as it whirled. Melanie Skeets often wondered why all that didn’t look a mess, but somehow it worked and was fun.

Mrs. Skeets looked at and appreciated the world rather than just seeing it. Often she thought it a shame that so few people using the mall noticed what passed beneath their feet, or understood that its patterns and materials weren’t random.

Ninety yards wide, the pinwheel seldom seemed crowded, although pedestrian traffic was constant. People hurried into the supermarket, others left less speedily, lugging plastic bags. Something about the newness of the half circle persuaded some to detour from the main street and stroll beside the arc before going on their way.

Busy, busy, Mrs. Skeets mused smugly. She’d retired recently and dawdling in the middle of the day still had a taste of playing truant. Where were they all going, and why?

Silly, she scolded herself immediately, use your eyes, half of them are shopping and most of the rest are on lunch break.

The talkers were good value. Right arms raised in permanent salute — unless they were left handed, of course — they sleepwalked hither and thither over the arena, chattering on mobile phones. Mrs. Skeet’s game was to guess what kind of conversation was in progress: business, romantic, or domestic. One had about twenty seconds to pick up messages of body language and facial expression, then the target was out of sight.

The pretty girl there, hair with a raven’s wing sheen — goodness, those heels, she was living dangerously, given the cobblestones and furrowed tiles — was fending off an unwanted date. No question about it, from her yeah yeah whatever toss of the head as she snapped the phone shut and passed on.

Such a minx, and good luck to her. Melanie Skeets nearly giggled aloud. Amusement gave way to a frown. She was trying to pin down a what-is-wrong-with-this-picture query at the back of her mind.

Then it came to her. More passersby were talking on mobile phones than walked in silence. The scene was not wrong, simply different. If we had seen that when I was a kid, and I’m not that old, we’d have assumed they were funny in the head, she mused. And the notion of phoning on the hoof without trailing miles of wires — science fiction.

Now it was so commonplace that if she mentioned her mild wonder she would be called silly or a perceiver of the obvious. All the same, animated conversation with one’s hand, as it looked like at a glance, was rather strange.

This time the giggle escaped Melanie. Any poor soul drawing suspicious glances by talking to himself in the street could achieve instant normality by pressing a matchbox, cigarette pack, or whatever to their ear.

Four minutes before the killing, Melanie Skeets smiled at her whimsy and returned to the game. Several talkers were easily pigeonholed, but a youngish man baffled her despite being in range for longer than average.

She could not see much of his face, though it left an impression. An El Greco face, she thought vaguely, dark pits for eyes and an aura of intensity as he prowled the same few square yards near the main street. The phone rode at his temple but his lips seldom moved. Melanie surmised that he was being passed from department to department with increasingly unwelcome results — no basis for her hunch, merely empathy. That morning had been spent trying to get sense out of her bank and cursing the robot voices shunting her around.

Melanie heard an automatic door sigh open behind her. The gym was next to the wine bar, and the man who’d just emerged was drenched in aftershave. Not the cheap stuff, either, but too much was too much, and she took against him on the spot. A large brute, hair damp from the shower, radiating arrogance and power. Moneyed, they usually were, with gold winking on a thick wrist and fingers. No class, hits first and asks afterwards, she accused.

Over there on the main street a stretch limo pulled up. Bet it has come for him. Just his style, the jerk. Avoiding eye contact while the object of disapproval paused at her elbow, Melanie caught a sidelong flash of designer-stubbled chin jerking at the limo. Doors opened and three men obeyed the summons, one waiting by the car, the others marching forward.

Villains, Mrs. Skeets diagnosed with weary distaste. Running an East End pub had taught her to pick out professional criminals and most varieties of policemen on sight.

Refusing to take any more notice of the crew, she saw that Bad News Man was making for the archway. The phone was still at his ear; evidently he had got through at last because he was talking hard and his free hand was chopping the air for emphasis.

The noise was sharp and a freak of acoustics in the arena brought out its special quality — not particularly loud, but indefinably out of place. It was an ugly rip in the everyday fabric of traffic sounds, voices, and occasional snatches of trills and tunes from those pervasive phones.

Pigeons erupted from the gym’s roof. Mrs. Skeets started violently and spilled wine on her dress. People halted or missed a stride, staring around for the source. The large man reeking of cologne was halfway to the limo, and Melanie had the confused impression that he’d flinched an instant before anybody else reacted, which made no sense.

Suddenly he was falling like a tree, the bodyguards, one kneeling beside the casualty, were shouting and pointing wildly.

Only the unhappy young phonetalker whom Melanie Skeets had pitied was immune to the disturbance. By the set of dark-suited shoulders, misery made him oblivious to anything short of a crack of thunder.

His head turned toward the limo, where his cronies were dancing in indecision, the kneeling thug shouted, “They shot him!” That started a panicked rush for cover.

Melanie Skeets stayed right where she was. Courage didn’t come into it; she was stunned by a revelation. She understood that she had not observed events but interpreted what she was seeing. Conned myself, me and my empathy. What a daft article I can be.

She hoped the police would show up soon. There was urgent need to speak to them. More to the point, she hoped that one of them would listen to her.

“Armenian, come with me. The Russian requests your presence.”

I left off sorting the bright silk scarves the southern traders had brought in the day before and glanced up. The schoolteacher for the Tereski Cossack Regiment stood in the doorway of my hut, a hut that I had rented on a previous trip for my business here. During the few other times I’d seen the teacher, he had carried himself with the air of authority, but on this early morning he seemed perturbed over some weighty matter that occupied his mind. Ah, those sorts of things were for the local officials to handle. I had no wish to meddle in the affairs of the tsar’s representatives, nor to be drawn into them. I was merely a seller of goods in this foreign land.

“If His Honor wishes a silver dagger from Turkey or some trinkets for the village girls, then pray let him come here. I cannot carry my entire shop around on my back.”

The regimental schoolteacher cast a hard gaze on me.

“He doesn’t wish to buy.”

“Then what does he want with me?” I asked.

In answer, the schoolteacher grabbed my elbow and hurried me out into the yard.

“I can’t tell you much for now, he only said to bring you.”

I yelled over my shoulder for the Nogay boy whose sun-browned face displayed the stolid features of his Mongol forebears. The youth had somehow attached himself to me in the last year and found ways to assist in my trading concern. In return, I fed him and taught him the business. But for right now, I wanted him out on the front steps with an eye on the goods. If anyone came to buy, he should tell them to come back in the late afternoon after the Cossack girls drove the cattle through the main gate and into the yards of their owners. I should return by then and have everything ready for sale.

The schoolteacher led me up the wide dirt street, past the wattle fences that enclosed every Cossack yard, with its hut set up on posts a few feet above the ground. A dirt embankment then surrounded each hut. Few people were about the village at this time of day. Most of the Cossack men were out on expeditions against the Chechens or stood guard at one of the cordons along the brown waters of the Terek River sweeping down from the snowy Caucasus. As for the women, they worked in the vineyards with the ripening black grapes or else kept an eye on the cattle in the fields.

Along our way, the schoolteacher spoke very little other than to say that something of importance had happened during the night, something upon which the Russian staff captain wished to consult with me. Further than that he wouldn’t explain, even though I tried to draw him out with small talk.

“Where are we going?”

“To my second house.”

“The one that you rented to the staff captain after he and his orderly were quartered on you by the army?”

The schoolteacher glanced at me, then seemed to ignore my presence as much as possible under the circumstances. We passed two more huts before coming to his yard and entering through the arched gate.

As we approached the house, I observed the staff captain sitting calmly in a wooden chair on the front porch. His right leg was crossed over his left at the knee, and his right foot, encased in a brightly polished black leather riding boot, swung lightly back and forth. He was young, with a stern look of self-importance and a reckless black mustache. From a lit pipe in his mouth drifted white tendrils of smoke.

We were all the way up the stairs before I noticed a body — it looked like the staff captain’s orderly — stretched out on the porch to the far side of the Russian officer. Judging by the knife protruding at a slant from the orderly’s chest, I was fairly sure the man was dead. And recently so. But what did this have to do with me?

The Russian spoke first.

“Is this the Armenian?”

The schoolteacher nodded.

“Good. Now listen to me, Armenian. It seems your reputation precedes you in your travels. I am told that you are good at finding things that have been lost.”

I had trouble taking my eyes off the dead orderly, but the Russian officer had fixed his attention on me and I had to answer.

“I’ve had some luck in the past. Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” He reached into the pocket of his scarlet Circassian coat and brought out a small stack of gold coins. Selecting one off the top, he held the coin out toward me. “This is advance payment.”

Gingerly I took the coin.

“For what, Your Honor?”

“My favorite horse was stolen last night. He’s a Karbada horse, sixteen hands high, with dark color and a long, low stride. I named him Karagyoz, Turkish for ‘black eyes.’ Find where he is and more of these coins will be yours. You would be wise not to fail me.”

My gaze kept drifting back to the dead man on the porch.

The staff captain deigned to look at the limp heap lying at his doorstep.

“Whoever stole my horse also killed my orderly with his own knife. The serf I can replace, but Karagyoz is one of a kind.”

“Chechens,” spoke up the schoolteacher. “It was those Abreks from the Tartar side of the river. I’ll tighten the cordons and see if we can catch them before they cross back.”

“Not so,” replied the staff captain in a dry voice. “I think it was one of your local Cossacks, and when I find him out, I will whip him, then hang him.”

The schoolteacher turned away in the direction of the Caucasus Mountains off in the distance, south across the river. From the little I knew of the man, he appeared to be engaged in some inner turmoil.

To break the silence, I inquired, “What has been done so far?”

It was the Russian that answered. “My Moscow soldiers have searched every hut, shed, and yard, one at a time. Not a trace was found. But they can’t hide him for long. See if you can find my Karagyoz.”

I wasn’t sure where to begin.

After some parting words with the Russian officer, the schoolteacher grabbed my elbow again and led me off the porch. We were through the gate and back onto the broad dirt street before I ventured a question in his direction.

“The Russian disturbs you?”

“He is a noble and is closely related to the tsar. We must be especially careful around him.”

“And beyond that?”

“We Cossacks were a free people once. That’s the meaning of the word cossack from the old kazak. At one time or another we successfully fought off the separate armies of Poland and of Russia and of the Turkish sultan. In the end, we allied ourselves with Russia because they are of the same faith, Old Believers, like us. Even so, they squeezed us tight. But after we Cossacks lost the rebellion, Moscow took away many of our freedoms. Now we have Russian troops quartered in every village. They pollute our homes with pipe smoke and treat us like underlings.”

I pondered his statements and wondered.

“You dislike the Russians, but they are your allies. And your Cossacks dress like Chechen braves, yet you fight these same Chechens across the river.”

“In the beginning, our Cossacks intermarried with the hill tribes. We respected the Chechens and adopted their dress, but today’s politics demand that we fight against them.”

These machinations of governments were not my concern, except as possible pieces to the puzzle of a crime. Personally, I wanted nothing more than to trade with both the Cossacks on this side of the river and the hill tribes on the far bank of the Terek. Now I found myself dragged into the middle. And I had the feeling that neither the Russian nor the schoolteacher had told me everything.

At the next intersection of dirt streets, the schoolteacher left me alone with my thoughts, not even a farewell, just a meaningful glance that I couldn’t interpret.

I stood in the dusty road, wanting to return to my unpacked trade goods, but the gold coin in my pocket said I had to look for a stolen horse. The best person I knew for information in this village was Daddy Eroshka, a giant Cossack with a long white mane and full beard. Most of his time was spent hunting and fishing, the rest in drinking parties with the Cossack girls where he heard all the latest gossip. He’d be the one.

I found him still asleep in the back of his two-room hut. The walls of the bigger room in front were covered with brass basins, weapons, fishing nets, drying animal skins, and a couple of blankets. On the floor under a wooden bench rested pumpkins and melons. Three hunting dogs lay on a pile of rags in the far corner. In the back room, amongst rugs and bedding, sat a well-worn camp bed where the old man lay snoring. His musket stood against the nearest wall. I gently shook his shoulder.

His eyes opened and fixed on me.

“What do you want so early in the morning?”

“I would like to talk with you.”

“If you want me to be sociable at this time of day you will have to stand me to a pail of chikhir.”

For myself, I too like a good wine, but with my supper — this was not yet breakfast. However, if that’s what it took to loosen his tongue, then so be it.

I nodded.

Daddy Eroshka immediately sat up on the camp bed. His voice roared out into the yard. “Lukashka, come quickly. Your uncle has money for a drink.”

With grimy hands, he reached under the camp bed and picked two bottles off the floor. Blowing a light film of road dust off the bottles, he held them up by their necks in one hand, then stuck out the callused palm of his other hand. It took me a minute to realize what he wanted.

As I counted out several small coins into his palm, a young boy rushed into the room. With the two bottles, the coins, and instructions to go to Auntie Ustenka’s hut, the boy left in a hurry. Daddy Eroshka lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Not sure what I was supposed to do, I waited quietly until the youngster returned. At this point, the old Cossack resurrected himself.

He handed me a cracked porcelain cup with brown streaks on the inside and made as if to pour wine into it for me. I quickly wiped it out with my sleeve. He filled my cup halfway, then he drank straight from the bottle. I noticed that the second bottle had gone under the bed, presumably for later.

He wiped his lips on the back of his sunburned hand and raised his bottle again.

“To your health, Armenian.”

Having no wish to buy more wine, I began my questions.

“You hear all the gossip in the village. What have you heard about the staff captain?”

“Ah, the Russian noble, related to the tsar they say.”

“Yes, that one.”

“Of course. It is said that he receives a large monthly allotment from his family estates back in Russia. And it must be true because he parties with the prettiest girls, buys them sweetmeats and silver trinkets, drinks to all hours of the night, and plays their games. He lives well.”

“Any problems there?”

“Not as far as the Russian himself is concerned. He favors one girl, beautiful Marushka, who carries herself like a queen. Oh, the captain spends a lot of money on her, but she is undecided. You see, sometime back, her mother spoke to the mother of one of our Cossack lads, Yermack, and the two of them were to be married some day. You should know this, our Yermack is a fine lad. After his father was killed by the Chechens, I trained him myself to ride a horse in the Cossack way. I taught him everything he knows about horses.”

“Anything else for me?”

The old man drank from the bottle again and screwed up his face as if he were trying to remember something important so I could get my money’s worth.

“There’s some of the other village girls, who are not as pretty as Marushka and her friends. And I hear that the staff captain’s orderly sells some of the household silver bowls and cups for money to party with those girls. But then, all the Moscow soldiers quartered here flirt with the village girls, if that means anything to you.”

I wasn’t sure it did, but there wasn’t much else the old man seemed willing to give up. I thanked him and left. Out on the broad street, my stomach complained about how high the sun had risen in the sky, which settled the matter of priorities.

Back at my hut, I brewed tea, munched on a piece of bread, and mulled circumstances over in my head. Marushka herself probably wouldn’t talk to me about Yermack, but maybe one of the other girls would... especially if I had something to offer.

Once again, I left the shop in the hands of my Nogay helper and walked up the main street. This time I continued out the village gate and less than a verst up the road to the vineyards. Lowing of the oxen that pulled the grape-laden carts, interspersed with the voices of the girls calling out to each other, rose above the dusty vines.

Eventually, I found one of Marushka’s friends. She was cutting bunches of the sugar black grapes and piling them into an ox cart.

“Good morning, Bela. How is the harvest?”

She paused to wipe the sweat off her handsome face.

“Armenian, you’ve come to help me.”

“No, no, I merely wished to talk.”

Immediately, she returned to cutting the next bunch of grapes.

“No time to gossip. I have work to do.”

I whisked a bright yellow silk scarf from out of my sleeve and dangled it in front of her face.

She stopped cutting and looked at the scarf, then me, then back to the scarf. Cleaning her hands on the hem of her smock, she reached for the yellow silk.

I let her have one end.

“Tell me about the Russian and Marushka,” I said.

“Oh that.” Bela laughed. “That’s nothing. The captain buys all of us sweetmeats and silver lockets, but he wants only Marushka for his ‘little soul,’ his mistress.”

“And what does Yermack say about that?”

Bela’s smile faded.

“In front of Marushka, he pretends it doesn’t matter. He laughs and says there are plenty of other beautiful women in the next village to love him, so what does he care.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

She puckered up one cheek.

“Because in private he mutters that the Russian stole something he loved away from him, and therefore he will steal away something that the Russian loves.”

“Could that something have been a horse?”

Bela snatched the scarf out of my grasp and turned away.

“I have grapes to cut before they dry on the vine. Go ask your questions of someone else.”

She was right, and I had a fair idea whom to speak with. Only this time, I would be better prepared.

In the late afternoon as the heat of the day began to cool, I was seated on Daddy Eroshka’s porch, waiting for his return. Down the street he trudged, with still-wet nets thrown back over his shoulder, his naked back carrying the weight of both fish and equipment. A pelt of snowy white hair covered his massive chest and he walked barefoot with his pants legs rolled up to his knees.

I knew he saw me sitting there on his porch, but he ducked his head as if to give himself time to consider what business I might have with him now. His whistling stopped, but his outward appearance seemed cheerful enough as he came up the steps.

“Armenian, you’ve come back to me.”

He unslung the nets and dropped them onto the porch.

I held up the small pail of vodka I’d had the foresight to bring along this time.

His voice boomed.

“And you’ve brought me a present. We may become kunaks, yet. Yes, we may become very good comrades.”

Using the only drink container in the hut, I scooped up some of the vodka and held the cup out to him. He toasted my health, downed the liquid in two swallows, and returned the empty porcelain. This time, after refilling the cup, I held it in sight, but made no proffer.

“You forgot to tell me about the horse. But then it was early morning when I came to your hut, and it’s possible that you were still groggy from your sleep.”

He stared at the vodka.

“Which horse is that?”

“The Karbada horse that belonged to the staff captain, the one that Yermack stole. As I recall, it was you that taught Yermack everything he knows about horses.”

The old Cossack had a troubled look on his face.

“I wish no evil on the lad. He is a brave one like the Cossacks in my youth.”

“There will be no worries from me. I will only speak with Yermack and then he can do whatever he wishes.”

I extended the cracked porcelain halfway.

Daddy Eroshka’s large hand wrapped around the cup of vodka, but I wasn’t ready to let it go yet.

“I’ve heard rumors,” he said at last, “that a dark-colored Karbada horse, much like the staff captain’s, might be found tethered in the dense woods along the Terek.”

I released my grasp.

“And when will Yermack come to the village again from the cordon?”

The old Cossack eyed the pail of vodka on the floor at my feet.

“Tonight,” he replied, “at sunset. Some of the girls are having a party and he will be there.”

I handed him the pail and left.

By early evening, I had stationed myself by the main village gate. The girls in their beshmets and smocks with their hair tied up in colored kerchiefs had already herded the cattle through the gate and into the yards. All the ox carts with their loads of black grapes had also come home. I’d seen Marushka with her long black hair, bold figure, and dark eyes, and knew why both the Cossack lad and the Russian captain sought her affections. Now I waited for Yermack.

As the sun began to set, a young rider on a gray horse came down the road. He wore a tattered, light brown Circassian coat with the coat’s long skirts covering down to his knees. A white cap sat back on his head like a Chechen brave. His musket was strapped to his back in a warrior’s carefree manner, and it made no noise as he rode.

When the horseman approached the gate, I stepped into the road and inquired, “Yermack?”

He stopped the gray horse with its shoulder almost touching mine.

“I am. Who are you?”

“I’m a friend.”

He leaned forward on his saddle.

“I know all my friends, but I think you are the Armenian trader from the south.”

“I know about the Karbada horse, Karagyoz, hidden in the forest.”

Yermack shrugged the musket off his shoulder and into his hands.

“You picked a poor place to die, Armenian.”

“And you would be killing the wrong man.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have an answer to your problems,” I replied.

His countenance remained stern; there was no joy in the hard smile on his lips.

“Go on.”

“First, take the Karbada horse across the river and sell him to the Chechens.”

“He’s an excellent horse; I will keep him.”

Ah, I had forgotten the stubbornness of youth. I now reconsidered the situation before us.

“Then is there a Chechen on the other side that you trust to hide the horse for a while?”

“Yarbay Khan is my kunak, we’ve raided the horse herds of the Nogay together. He will do anything I ask.”

“Good. Take the horse across the river to him tonight. Second, find an elder from the pro-Russian Chechen village near your cordon, and send the man to me at this gate just before the sun rises tomorrow. He and I will take care of the rest. Now go.”

Yermack had a disappointed look on his face.

“There’s a party tonight.”

“You’ll have several parties if we do this right. Otherwise, you may lose both of your ‘dark eyes’ to the staff captain.”

He brandished his musket. A frown creased his forehead.

“I would gladly shoot that Russian right off his porch, but then I would become an outlaw with no village, no family.”

His horse stood motionless for a while before Yermack spoke again.

“Maybe I will try your way this one time.”

Reining his horse partway around, he suddenly stopped, his head turning back in my direction.

“You and I have not known each other that well. Why do you do this for me?”

“I have an inherent distrust of Turks and Russians. Besides, who knows what the future holds, perhaps sometime you will do a favor for me.”

Yermack nodded and rode off up the road toward the woods along the Terek. He had no idea how soon I might request this favor I’d mentioned, but with the manner of man we were both dealing with, I felt sure I would be in need of Yermack’s services, probably within a day. There was nothing else to do now except sleep and see what the morning brought.

As the stars winked out of the fading night and the sky grew pale blue in the east, I once again stood at the main village gate.

Red streaks had covered the bottom of the distant clouds hanging on the mountaintops before I saw the old man walking out of the morning mist along the river. When he drew closer, he hailed me.

“Are you the Armenian?”

“I am. Are you the friend of Yermack?”

He greeted me in Chechen fashion. In turn, I pressed silver coins into his palm and explained his part in what we were about to do. He agreed and asked no questions.

From there, we walked to the schoolteacher’s house and I roused the teacher from his morning samovar.

“We must speak with the staff captain,” I said.

“He may still be sleeping,” replied the teacher. “Perhaps we should wait until he stirs.”

I shrugged.

“We can wait until tomorrow if it pleases you. But yesterday, the Russian noble seemed anxious to hear word about his horse. The choice is yours to make.”

The schoolteacher pursed his lips.

“I see. And this is a matter of great importance?”

I assured him that it was. Also, that I needed himself and one other male as witness.

The teacher glanced at the Chechen elder, then studied my face as if he could read my mind. And perhaps he could, for he immediately sent his oldest son to get fully dressed, and bawled for his old wife to get his regimental coat ready. The one with all the medals. As he slid into his jacket, his daughter hurried forward with his black leather riding boots.

Made ready, the four of us trooped across the yard and up the steps of the second house. The staff captain must have heard the thud of the regimental schoolteacher’s boot soles on the porch boards. He slung the door open and leaned insolently against the door frame.

“So much noise. Must be important.”

“We know where your horse has gone.” This I could say without a lie upon my lips because I had made these arrangements myself. And since the Chechen elder had come to me at dawn, I could assume that the rest of my message was true, therefore I could speak with a relatively clear conscience. I tugged on the elder’s sleeve until he stood beside me on the porch. “This old man from a village across from one of the cordons has word of your Karagyoz.”

The village elder proceeded to relate a story of watching a Chechen Abrek ride across the Terek leading a dark-colored Karbada horse while yesterday’s morning mist was still upon the water. Horses and rider then disappeared in the direction of the foothills.

The staff captain stared at me.

“How does he know it was an Abrek and not one of the local Cossacks?”

I gently prodded the old man.

“Because I saw his blue trousers; shaved head with the long tuft of hair on the right side; and his red-dyed, short-cropped beard and trimmed mustache. Truthfully, an Abrek has your horse.”

This had been the easy part.

The Russian grunted his displeasure at the news.

I turned the old Chechen around and pointed him down the stairs. I had more business to conduct with the captain.

“You wished me to find your horse and I have done as you requested.”

“True,” replied the Russian, “but since the horse cannot be recovered, you should not expect further reward from me.”

He made a shooing motion with his fingers.

With a shrug, “So be it,” I turned for the stairs, but made sure I was the last to depart. When the teacher, his oldest son, and the Chechen elder were what I judged to be far enough away to hear a normal voice, yet not so close as to understand a whisper, I stepped back onto the porch.

The Russian eyed me warily.

“One more matter.” I spoke in a low voice. “About your orderly...”

“He was obviously killed by the Abrek,” interrupted the captain, also in a low volume. “The same one that stole my horse.”

“No. The orderly knew his killer. No Chechen could have gotten close enough to kill him in such a manner. There was no struggle, no defensive cuts on the hands or arms, no blood splattered on the front wall of the house.”

“So?”

“So the killer stood directly in front of him and thrust the orderly’s own knife in an upward motion under the rib cage to reach the heart. I remember the slant of the knife in the body and the empty knife sheath. The orderly knew his killer, but didn’t realize he was about to die for stealing the household silver.”

A noticeable pale swept over the Russian’s face. He started and quickly recovered. His voice didn’t carry beyond me.

“I am kin to the tsar. Be careful about starting malicious rumors.”

I glanced over my shoulder to ensure that my three witnesses waited nearby. They stood in a clump halfway across the yard, obviously wondering what was being said. That was all I required of them at the moment.

“Rumors have been known to tarnish a reputation,” I replied to the captain, “but fortunately, one frequently forgets what one no longer sees.”

“What do you mean?”

I held his glare.

“It is said that your regiment is going on expedition next week. Perhaps your place is now better spent at your colonel’s side in regimental headquarters. With you gone from the village, everyone will soon forget your orderly’s mishap.”

We stood facing each other in the ensuing silence.

Finally, the Russian spoke again in a low murmur.

“Perhaps, you’re right. I am needed by my colonel in these troublesome times. I’ll ride out by noonday.” He pointed his index finger at me. “But you, Armenian, are too clever by far. Take care not to be near me in the days to come. You might find you have something in common with my orderly.”

With a slight bow, I left the porch and rejoined the waiting trio.

“The staff captain is leaving for his regiment,” I told the teacher. “I’m afraid you will lose the six rubles he pays in rent for the second house.”

The schoolteacher barely concealed a smile. His oldest son spat on the ground. We parted and I sent the Chechen elder on his way. I had one more visit to make.

Once more, I found myself in Daddy Eroshka’s hut, waking the white-maned Cossack.

“Did you bring vodka or chikhir?” he muttered as his eyes opened.

“Not this time, my friend. But give this message directly to Yermack at the cordon and maybe he will stand you to a pail. You should tell our young Cossack friend that the Russian leaves today for his regiment. Make it known that the staff captain’s route will take him through a rough gorge where Abreks and lawless Circassians sometimes prey upon travelers. Tell Yermack this message comes from me, the Armenian. He is a smart lad and will know what to do.”

Daddy Eroshka sat quietly on the camp bed for a while. Then a sly grin crept across his face.

“Armenian, you should have been a Cossack with me in the old days. What great kunaks we’d have been then.”

At last I could get back to my trade goods. After all, trading was my business and it had long been interrupted. At least now I would soon be free to trade on both sides of the river and not have to worry about who I met on the road “in the days to come.”

Dear Grandma,

How are you? I am fine, except Dad’s giving me a hard time about some dumb stuff that happened. Mom’s being mean too, but she always gives me a hard time about stuff like this. Dad is usually cool; he just looks confused, mumbles about me making my own decisions, and finds an excuse to leave the house. Then Mom gets madder at him than at me, and I can pretty much slide past the whole thing. This time Dad’s backing Mom all the way, and I don’t think I can stand up to both of them. It’s not fair.

Please write to him and tell him to back off. Tell him it’s not nice to pressure a little kid. He’ll listen to you — he always does.

Thanks for the fielder’s glove. It is neat. If you straighten Dad out, maybe I’ll get a chance to use it. If not, Little League might be just a memory for

Your loving grandson,

Kevin