His eyes gleamed. "So it's a she, is it? That makes the mystery even more intriguing. How do I know she'll speak to me? Or that the story is worth my time?"

"You won't. Not until the case is done. But if everything works out, it might be a big story, Shmuel." I didn't let my face show what I thought of the chances of this case ever working out. "Very big."

Those two final words seemed to hang in the air between us like bait. Birnbaum grimaced at my obvious ploy. He did not appreciate being played.

Birnbaum pursed his lips and scratched his cheek. Then he blew out a breath and nodded. "Fine. It feels like a big waste of time, but I'll do it. Maybe that fist to the jaw did rattle my brain after all. Call me at my office in three days. I hope to have something by then."

I thanked him, stood up to leave, then decided to add something.

"One more thing, Shmuel. I don't want you sniffing around while I'm working this case, understand?"

"Would I ever do something like that?" he said, his face a mask of childlike innocence.

"Yes," I said flatly. "You would. I'm telling you right now, Shmuel, that I won't appreciate it. Are we clear on that?"

I had leaned forward, putting my hands on the table, so that I loomed over him. I locked my eyes on his. He gulped and gave another dismissive wave, trying unsuccessfully to mask his nervousness.

"All right. All right. You made your point. Now go on. Get out of here. Let me finish my soup in peace."

Half an hour later, I was at Greta's Café. I was setting up my chessboard for a game when Greta came to my table with a cup of coffee and some toast. She put the food on the table and took a chair. Apart from me, there was just one other customer in the place. The only noise was the rattling of the ceiling fan and the hoot of a car horn outside.

"What happened to your arm?" Greta asked.

I had noticed it this morning when I awoke. Blood had pooled under the skin of my left forearm where Max had punched me the previous night. An ugly purplish lump had formed. At its center, raised like an offering to a vengeful god, was my number tattoo.

"I ran into a little trouble last night at Rachel Weiss's place."

"What sort of trouble?"

"Let's just say that it was a lesson in the importance of not being arrogant," I told her with a wry smile.

Greta did not smile back. "Are you injured?"

"Apart from this ugly thing, no. It doesn't hurt, just looks bad."

"So it all worked out with Rachel?"

"Yes. I solved her problem."

I took a bite of toast and helped it on its way down with some coffee.