Midway through the operation, the telephone on the wall let out two beeps. With a gowned elbow the operating-room nurse deftly punched the intercom box and told the caller that Dr. Graveline was in the middle of surgery and not available.

“It’s fucking important, tell him,” said a sullen male voice, which Rudy instantly recognized.

He asked the nurse and the anesthetist to leave the operating room for a few minutes. When they were gone, he said to the phone box: “Go ahead. This is me.”

The phone call was made from a pay booth in Atlantic City, New Jersey, not that it would have mattered to Rudy. Jersey was all he knew, all he needed to know.

“You want the report?” the man asked.

“Of course.”

“It went lousy.”

Rudy sighed and stared down at the violet vectors he had inked around Madeleine’s eyes. “How lousy?” the surgeon said to the phone box.

“The ultimate fucking lousy.”

Rudy tried to imagine the face on the other end of the line, in New Jersey. In the old days he could guess a face by the voice on the phone. This particular voice sounded fat and lardy, with black curly eyebrows and mean dark eyes.

“So what now?” the doctor asked.

“Keep the other half of your money.”

What a prince, Rudy thought.

“What if I want you to try again?”

“Fine byme.”

“So what’ll that cost?”

“Same,” said Curly Eyebrows. “Deal’s a deal.”

“CanI think onit?”

“Sure. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

Rudy said, “It’s just that I didn’t count on any problems.”

“The problem’s not yours. Anyway, this shit happens.”

“I understand,” Dr. Graveline said.

The man in New Jersey hung up, and Madeleine Margaret Wilhoit started to squirm. It occurred to Rudy that maybe the old bag wasn’t asleep after all, and that maybe she’d heard the whole conversation.

“Madeleine?” he whispered in her ear.