THERESA ARRIVED HOME a little after six and at a run. As she closed the door behind her, she caught sight of a man in her living room. He was short, clipped bald, and had a flat nose: much like Curly of the Three Stooges, but with a more sinister mien. She stalked into the living room and found him pouring Butch a drink.

“Hey, sis,” he said, waving his glass. “This is my pal Curly. You can see where he gets the name. We shared a cell for the last year. I thought that, since there are twin beds in my room, he could stay a couple of nights with us while he gets reoriented.”

“You thought wrong,” she said. “I want you both out of the apartment NOW, and when I get home, about ten, you’d better be here alone. Got it?”

Curly raised both hands in submission. “Hey, I don’t wanna be where I ain’t wanted.”

“I’m glad you understand. Butch, get him out of here.”

Butch tossed off the Macallan 12. “We’re gone,” he said.

Theresa saw them out and bolted and chained the door behind her. She ran into her bedroom, threw her dress at a closet, stripped and dove into the shower. When she came out and went to her dresser for some things, she noticed that her underwear drawer had been disturbed. Someone had been searching for something. She did her hair, got into a dress, grabbed a jacket, and let herself out of the apartment. As she came out the front door, a green Bentley glided to a halt, and Laurence got out and held the door for her.

“I would have come up for you,” he said.

“Not necessary. My apartment is a mess, anyway. Butch brought home a friend, and they got into my scotch and God knows what else.”

“Butch is staying with you?”

“He’s moving to the Y tomorrow, but he doesn’t know it yet.”

“Oliver, the Monkey Bar,” Laurence said, then turned back to Theresa. “I would not deny you shelter, should you need it.”

“Would you like to shelter Butch and his friend Curly?”

“Thank you, no.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Who’s Curly?”

“You remember the character from the Three Stooges?”

“I do.”

“Him, but not in the least funny.”

They arrived at the Hotel Elysée, and Oliver had the door open in a flash.

“Hover, please, Oliver,” Laurence said.

“Yes, sir.” He handed him a card. “My cell number, sir.”

“Get something to eat,” Laurence said. “We’ll be a couple of hours.”

The Monkey Bar was crowded with handsome young people, some of them waiting for their tables. They checked in, were inspected and shown to a good table. The walls were hung with period paintings, and good jazz played in the background. They ordered drinks.

—