I tipped the cabby a buck. My own doorman, a glassy-eyed young fellow who worked the midnight-to-eight shift in a permanent muscatel haze, did not rush to open the door of the taxi. I suppose he’d have held the lobby door for me but he didn’t have to. It was propped open. He stayed on his stool, greeting me with a sly conspiratorial smile. I wonder what secret he thought we shared.

Upstairs I fumbled my own key into my own lock, for a change, and opened the door. The light was on. Considerate of them, I thought, to leave a light for the burglar. Wait a minute, I thought. What was this them stuff? I was the one who’d left the light on, except I hadn’t, I never did.

What was going on?

I put a foot inside, then drew it warily back, as if trying to get the hang of a new dance step. I went on in and turned toward the couch and blinked, and there, blinking back at me like a slightly cockeyed owl, was Carolyn Kaiser.

“Well, Jesus,” she said, “it’s about time. Where the hell have you been, Bern?”

I pulled the door shut, turned the bolt. “You picked your way through my Rabson lock,” I said. “I didn’t think you knew how to do that.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t tell me the doorman let you in. He’s not supposed to, and anyway he doesn’t have a key.”

“I have a key, Bern. You gave me keys to your place. Remember?”

“Oh, right.”

“So I stuck the key in the lock and turned it, and damned if the thing didn’t pop open. You ought to try it yourself sometime. Works like a charm.”

“Carolyn-”

“Have you got anything to drink? I know you’re supposed to wait until it’s offered, but who’s got the patience?”

“There’s two bottles of beer in the fridge,” I said. “One’s going to wash down the sandwich I’m about to make, but you’re welcome to the other one.”

“Dark Mexican beer, right? Dos Equis?”

“Right.”

“They’re gone. What else have you got?”