I didn't really have to go home first. I was dressed all right in what I'd worn to work that morning. They haven't got a dress code in the subway, and I don't suppose they've got one on the streets of Riverdale, but one wants to avoid calling attention to oneself, and the only thing my khakis and polo shirt might call to anyone's attention was the relative poverty of my sartorial imagination.

It was spring-I may not have mentioned that-and, if the thermometer dropped a few degrees with nightfall, I might feel the chill in a short-sleeved shirt. Even if it didn't, I'd had a pair of stiff scotches at the Bum Rap, and it wouldn't hurt me to give them a little extra time to wear off. There was nothing on the agenda that required a sober head or quick reflexes, but my mission, while lawful enough all by itself, was part of a larger campaign that was as felonious as a monk. I'd had a slice of pizza on my way from the Bum Rap to the subway, and I suppose that had a sobering effect, but why not make assurance doubly sure? Why not stop home, and even make myself a cup of coffee while I was at it?

As it turned out, it didn't cool off that much, but I couldn't know that ahead of time, when I stopped at my apartment for my windbreaker. It was tan, a shade or two deeper than my slacks, and completed the costume of an ordinary guy, Mr. Middle of the Road, leading a blameless and certainly law-abiding existence.

My apartment's in a prewar building on West End and 70th. Much of my life centers in the Village-the bookstore's there, of course, on East 11th, and Carolyn's apartment on Arbor Court is less than a mile south and west of our two stores, in the West Village. She walks to work every day, and it's often occurred to me that it would be nice to be able to do the same. I suppose I could as things stand, but I'd have to allocate two hours to the process, and so far it's never seemed like a good idea.