But something was familiar about that goddamn voice. I couldn't keep myself from turning around. And there he was, standing out from that suntanned crowd like a dead guppy in a tropical aquarium, tall and slack-faced and not at all sure of himself. Dolmacher. When he recognized me, it was his nightmare come to life. Which was only fair since he was one of my favorite bad dreams.

"Taylor," he sneered, ill-advisedly making the first move.

"Lumpy!" I shouted. Dolmacher looked down at his fly as his companions mouthed the word behind his back. Grinning yuppie hyenas that they were, I knew that I had renamed Dolmacher for his career.

The implications did not penetrate and he sauntered forward a step. "How are things, Taylor?"

"I'm having the time of my life. How about you, Dolmacher? Pick up a new accent since we left B.U.?"

His soon-to-be ex-associates began to file their teeth.

"What's on the agenda for today, Sangamon? Come to plant a magnetic limpet mine on an industrialist's yacht?"

This was vintage Dolmacher. Not "blow up" but "plant a magnetic limpet mine on." He cruised bookstores and bought those big picture books of international weapons systems, the ones always remaindered for $3.98. He had a whole shelf of them. He went up on weekends and played the Survival Game in New Hampshire, running around in the woods shooting paint pellets at other frustrated elements.

"Yachts are made out of fiberglass, Dolmacher. A magnetic mine wouldn't stick."

"Still sarcastic, huh, S.T.?" He pronounced the word as if it were a mental illness. "Except now you're doing it professionally."

"Can I help it if the Groveler lacks a sense of humor?"

"I don't work for Basco any more."

"Okay, I'm stunned. Whom are you working for?"