They took off in Bernie’s Bonanza, Lindy in back and Mitch in the copilot’s seat. He got Bernie to sweep past the yacht harbor at Half Moon Bay, on the off-chance that they would spot the red ketch. Nothing they saw resembled her. They banked and sped south over wave-beaten cliffs. At Santa Cruz he saw a red ketch anchored out, and got Bernie to dive again. He buzzed her viciously, almost taking her masthead off, but it was not the same boat: too stumpy, Hannah-designed, built more like a stubby middleweight than the graceful light-heavy they were searching out.

He did not ask for further aerobatics. They skimmed elegantly down on the Monterey runway, rented a car, and drove to Lou’s Fish Grotto in the pier.

They sopped up two quarts of champagne over magnificent lobster. Lindy grew giggly, which almost never happened. Bernie lifted his glass.

“To Gordon, Bertelli, et al—”

“Who have et all,” interposed Mitch. Lindy ho-hoed dutifully and Bernie looked pained.

“May its clients prosper,” continued Bernie, “and its enemies wither, and tomorrow may its name be on all tongues—”

“We didn’t call the paper,” Mitch cut in. He felt out of it. Lindy was having more fun than he, which wasn’t fair, since she had pricked his conscience in the first place.

Bernie had been relaxed, for him, but now he stiffened. “You didn’t call the paper? Why not?”

Arguing with Bernie was a no-win proposition. Mitch was tempted to tell him that he’d simply forgotten; instead, he blurted: “That poor damn doctor’s got enough problems without coming home to a spread in the Examiner."

Bernie looked at his watch. “Well, it’s too late now.” His cheeks had reddened, his voice had dropped ominously. He was furious but keeping it down. “Maybe they’ll pick it up from their courthouse guy, tomorrow.” He lifted his glass again. “Anyway, to bigger and better things.”

Mitch did not lift his glass. “Not bigger.”

Bernie regarded him thoughtfully. “What’s that mean?”

“We’re getting too big. And hard.”

“You’re right, Mitch,” said Lindy. “But not now, OK?”

“Bullshit,” said Mitch. “Now’s as good as any.”

“Aw, Mitch,” she begged, “it’s a party!"

She was right, he had picked the wrong terrain. It only made him madder. He faced Bernie. “You gambled with that poor gal’s settlement—”

“And our fee, and made her a millionaire, OK?”

“Well, me, I don’t like gambling. And I’m losing the joy of combat.”

“You’re never in combat anymore,” Bernie pointed out. “You run the aid station. I’m the bad guy.”

“Then maybe you better go it alone.”

“Mitch!” Lindy exclaimed. “Not now!"

“Sure, now,” Bernie said softly. “Let’s talk about it now.”

Bernie was seizing the high ground while he could. “The hell with it,” muttered Mitch. “You’ll start playing your goddamn violin, and—”