I dialed Los Angeles directory assistance and asked for the number of Big Joe’s Cleaning Service. I got it and dialed it.

“This is Bill at Rennie’s Catering,” I said. “We got a party Saturday night at 1121 Aster Drive in Hollywood Hills. I wanted to know if one of your girls would check for Mr Dolan’s big punch-bowl in the cabinet over the stove. Could you do that for me?”

I was asked to hold on. I did, somehow, although with the passing of each endless second I became more and more sure that he had smelled a rat and was calling the phone company on one line while I held on the other.

At last – at long, long last – he came back on. He sounded upset, but that was all right. That was just how I wanted him to sound.

“Saturday night?”

“Yes, that’s right. But I don’t have a punch-bowl as big as they’re going to want unless I call across town, and my impression was that he already has one. I’d just like to be sure.”

“Look, mister, my call-sheet says Mr Dolan ain’t expected in until three P. m. Sunday afternoon. I’ll be glad to have one of my girls check out your punch-bowl, but I want to straighten this other business out first. Mr Dolan is not a man to fuck around with, if you’ll pardon my French…”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” I said.

“…and if he’s going to show up a day early, I got to send some more girls out there right away.”

“Let me double-check,” I said. The third-grade reading textbook I use, Roads to Everywhere, was on the table beside me. I picked it up and riffled some of the pages close to the phone.

“Oh, boy,” I said. “It’s my mistake. He’s having people in Sunday night. I’m really sorry. You going to hit me?”

“Nah. Listen, let me put you on hold – I’ll get one of the girls and have her check on the…”

“No need, if it’s Sunday,” I said. “My big punch-bowl’s coming back from a wedding reception in Glendale Sunday morning.”