Michele was sorry, but someone else would have to find him. As soon as she was released she meant to hide in the nearest movie, coming back only after all the excitement had died down.

As the car slowed, approaching the lobby, the big man gripped her arm above the elbow and moved her to face the door. She tried to force a smile.

“You don’t have to smile,” he told her. “We’ve been married a long time.”

“That hurts.”

“Too bad.”

The door opened and he walked her out into the lobby. She was surprised to hear the hidden musicians still picking away at the same Rodgers and Hammerstein number. All her plans had been turned upside down in the time it took a dance orchestra to play thirty-two bars. Thank God there was no one in sight. Then her breath caught. There was movement behind them and a voice called suddenly, “McQuade!”

The big man turned, keeping his hold on Michele’s arm. The man who had come out from behind the second bank of mailboxes was short and pugnacious-looking. He needed a shave and he seemed very tired. His eyes were bloodshot.

“Where’ve you been keeping yourself, Mac?” he said.

“Wrong number,” the big man said, his voice easy and unflurried. Michele felt the tension in his grip. “My name’s Carl Williams.”

“Like hell your name is Carl Williams, honey,” the short man said. “It’s been a couple of years, but I don’t forget faces that easy. I do forget what we had you down for. A payroll in Brooklyn, wasn’t it? About seventy-five G’s?”