"Okay," the staticky voice responded. "Elevator's on its way."

"You wanta beer, Arnie?"

"No," Gittleman said firmly.

Son Two looked at him curiously.

"I want two goddamn beers."

The marshal cracked a faint smile. The most response to humor Gittleman had ever seen in his tough face.

"Good for you," Son One said. The marshals had been after him to lighten up, enjoy life more. Relax.

"You don't like dark beer, right?" asked his partner.

"Not so much," Gittleman responded.

"How do they make dark beer anyway?" Son One asked, studying something in the well-thumbed magazine. Gittleman looked. It was a pistol, dark as dark beer, and it looked a lot nastier than the guns his surrogate sons wore.

"Make it?" Gittleman asked absently. He didn't know. He knew money and how and where to hide it. He knew movies and horse racing and grandchildren. He drank beer but he didn't know anything about making it. Maybe he'd take that up as a hobby too-in addition to gardening. Home brewing. He was fifty-six. Too young for retirement from the financial services and accounting profession-but, after the RICO trial, he was definitely going to be retired from now on.

"Clear," came the radio voice from the hallway.

Son Two disappeared out the door.

Gittleman lay back and watched the movie. Janet Leigh was on screen now. He'd always had a crush on her. Was still pissed at Hitchcock for killing her in the shower. Gittleman liked women with short hair.

Smelling the spring air.

Thinking about a sandwich.

Pastrami on rye.

And a pickle.

Feeling safe.

Thinking: the Marshals Service was doing a good job at making sure he stayed that way.