"That's nice," Dortmunder said.

"However," Stan said, "that was Ralph on the phone, the meet is off."

Ralph was Ralph Winslow, the rye-and-water-in-a-tinkling-glass. Dortmunder said, "He called the meeting, now he calls to say it's off."

"Some cops found something in his car," Stan explained. "He couldn't go into details."

"No, I know."

"In fact," Stan said, "he's got me on his speed-dial, so the cops think he's still on his one permitted call to his lawyer."

"Call Andy," Dortmunder suggested. "He's on his way, save him some time."

"Good idea. He's on my speed-dial. You don't have one of these, do you?" Stan asked, unleashing his cell.

"No," Dortmunder said simply.

As Stan made the call to warn off the final attendee of the non-meeting, he and Dortmunder walked back down the hall and around the regulars and over to where Rollo was firmly wiping with a dirty rag the part of the bar where he'd made all those strange drinks. At the booth, the ladies were gone and those glasses were all empty except for some dirty ice. That was fast. They'd taken the parasols with them.

"Sorry, Rollo," Dortmunder said, returning the bottle and glasses. "Change of plan."

"You'll be back," Rollo said.

As Dortmunder and Stan headed for the street, the first regular was saying, "You want my idea of Heaven? You go there, you take a nap."

The third regular veered half around on his barstool to get a better look at things. "Yeah? Then what?"

"What what? It's over. The Last Nap. Can you think of anything better?"

Into the profound silence that followed upon that, Dortmunder, on his way out the door, said, "I was counting on this. I could use something."