“And can’t you think of someplace better for me than here? This old man can’t leave me alone. He treats me like I’m some kind of child.”

I replied more soothingly than I felt, “And if you really want to go someplace else, I don’t have any objection. I’ll see if I can arrange something with Murray Ryerson at the Herald-Star when I talk to him this afternoon. Of course he’ll want some kind of story in exchange.”

I hung up on his shrieking that I had to promise not to go to the papers about him, but I did forbear to mention his name to Murray when I called.

“You know, Warshawski, you’re a fucking pain in the ass,” he greeted me. “Don’t you ever check in with your answering service? I left about ten messages for you over the weekend. What did you do to the Chigwell woman? Hypnotize her? She won’t talk to the press—she says you can handle any queries we have about her brother.”

“It’s a course I took by mail,” I said, surprised and pleased. “You send in all these matchbooks and they ship you a set of lessons on how to make yourself invisible, how to enter the thoughts of another person—all that kind of stuff. I just never had a chance to try it before.”

“Right, wise-ass,” he said resignedly. “Are you now prepared to reveal all to the people of Chicago?”

“You told me you didn’t need me—that you were getting all your info direct from the people at Xerxes. I want to talk to you about something much more exciting—my life. Or its possible termination.”

“That’s old news. We already covered it last week. You’ll have to go all the way this time for us to get excited about it.”

“Well, stay tuned—you may get your wish. I’ve got some heavy guys gunning for me.” I watched a handful of pigeons vying for space on the windowsill. Tough dirty urban birds—better decor for my office than original prints by Nast or Daumier.

“Why are you telling me this now?” he demanded suspiciously.

A train rattled by on the Wabash el tracks. The pigeons fluttered momentarily as the vibrations shook the window, then settled back on the sill.

“In case I don’t live through the night I want someone who’ll follow my trail to know where it’s been taking me. I’d like that person to be you, since you’re better able to think ill of the gods than the cops are, but the hitch is, I need to talk to you before one-thirty.”

“What happens at one-thirty?”

“I strap on my six-guns and walk alone down Main Street.”

After some more poking, to see if matters were as urgent as I claimed, Murray agreed to meet me near the newspaper for a sandwich at noon. Before leaving the Pulteney I sorted my mail, tossed everything but a check from one of the clients I’d done a financial search for, then called a friend to replace my office door. He said he’d get to it by Wednesday afternoon.