“I’d rather be bit in the rear by a boa constrictor than sitting here waiting for something to happen, and I can’t even guess what,” he complained bitterly.

“All I’m waiting to happen is for them to get those wrecks apart,” Coffin Ed grated.

It was three minutes past seven when they turned into East 19th Street from Third Avenue and began looking for the house.

They had no trouble finding it. It had a four-story yellow brick-veneer front, with candy-striped awnings at all the upper windows sagging with snow. The first-floor lounge had a wide picture window overlooking a three-foot strip of lawn. The window curtains were a translucent pale-blue silk, behind which the silhouettes of people moved in a frantic saraband. Black steps led up to a door covered with a plate of blackened bronze set in a white frame. In the upper panel was a knocker that looked vaguely obscene; overhead was a carriage lamp.

Coffin Ed drove past and parked three houses beyond. In unison they turned about and looked at Roman.

“We want you to go in that, house back there and ask for Junior Ball,” Grave Digger lisped.

“I didn’t understand you,” Roman said.

“Let me talk,” Coffin Ed said to Grave Digger.

Grave Digger waved him ahead.

Coffin Ed repeated the order.

“Yes, sir,” Roman said, then asked, “What do I say to him if he’s there?”

“He ain’t there,” Coffin Ed said. “He’s dead. They know he’s dead, but you’re not supposed to know. You just got off shipboard and you came looking for him at this address that he gave you last time your ship was in.”

“I’m supposed to be one of those?”

“That’s right.”

“What do I do when they tell me he’s dead?”

“They’re not going to tell you. They’re going to invite you in and ask you to wait; they’ll tell you they expect Junior to arrive any minute.”

“What do I do while I’m waiting?”

“Hell, boy, where have you been all your life? It’s a pansy crib. They’ll find things for you to do.”

“I don’t go for that stuff,” Roman. muttered.

“What kind of square are you? This ain’t the docks. These are high-brows. Who do you think you’re going to find in a hundred-thousand-dollar house a block away from Gramercy Square? They’re going to try to make you, but they’re going to test you first. You just sit there and drink your cocktails and look embarrassed—”

“That ain’t going to be hard.”

“Act like you’re waiting for Junior. Then, after about five minutes, start looking impatient. Let your eyes rove around. Then ask whoever you’re talking to what time will Baron be in.”

“Baron!” Roman sat up straight. “Mister Baron? The man who sold me my car? Is he going to be in there?”

“We don’t know. He might; he might not. If you see him when you go in, you just grab him and yell for help.”

“I won’t need no help,” Roman declared.