Shayne stopped his Buick behind Doc Waters’ Thunderbird. Waters had been watching for them. He came down the porch steps, a drink in his hand.

“This surprises the hell out of me,” he said, looking in at Harry. “You let a couple of punks stick you up?”

Harry took Waters’ drink out of his hand and emptied it in a long swallow. He handed it back.

“I don’t remember asking you here, Doc,” he said evenly.

“Well, for God’s sake,” Waters said uneasily, “if I need an invitation after all these years-I waited a solid hour. I’m under pressure, Harry. I told you that.”

“You’re a rat and a son of a bitch,” Harry told him. “It’s your own fault you’re under pressure. You know what I’m talking about.”

His secretary and Shayne helped him out of the car and up the steps. Waters tried to get in on it but Harry twitched away.

“I don’t want your crummy hands on me.”

Shayne maneuvered his friend through the front door. He looked at Theo, who said helplessly, “Put him in here, I guess.”

Shayne steered him into the living room and lowered him onto a broad sofa. Harry touched his head and groaned.

“Give me another jolt of whiskey before that last one wears off. What happened to Billy?”

“He was on the right side of the wall,” Shayne said, “so he probably traveled by ambulance. Look at this cigarette.” He held a cigarette in front of Harry’s eyes. “Can you focus?”

After trying for a moment, Harry shook his head slightly. “OK, call a doctor. But I want to get you moving first.”

Waters said behind them, “I’ll call him, Harry. Who do you use?”

“Jason Goldstein, in Surfside.”

Theo ran in with a pan of warm water and towels, and knelt beside the sofa. “You look awful,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “Hold still, I want to clean you up a little so you won’t scare the doctor.”