The cripple limped to the middle of the living room and turned so he could see who the hell the man in the armchair was. “If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad will come to the mountain. Let me introduce myself. I’m—”

“This is my lawyer, Sigmond Levy,” said the producer.

The lawyer named Sigmond Levy remained seated. Glancing at the cripple, he mumbled, “Good evening.” He wore an expression of someone repulsed by the intrusion of a despicable stranger.

One thing was quickly apparent and that was no amount of tailoring, no matter what the cost, would ever prevent the fat, burly stranger from looking anything but sloppy. Sigmond Levy had a large, red, round face; thick, wet lips almost covered by a long curved nose; and several chins under his jaw. His bushy hair was tight and curly. But the feature that frightened the old cripple the most were the lawyer’s eyes. They were malevolent and froglike, with dark pouches under them. The grossly obese lawyer was constantly changing his position in the leather armchair. He seemed to be perpetually uncomfortable.

The cripple had worn his best clothes for the occasion. He wore a cardigan sweater over a black T-shirt and a pair of old, stained jeans. The sweater was the only one the cripple owned without holes.

“Now that you have finally arrived,” said the producer to the cripple as if the cripple were late, “let us have dinner.”

Was he late? wondered the cripple. He didn’t think so. He was waiting for the limousine to arrive outside in front of the Umanov Guitar Store before eight. The car arrived at exactly eight o’clock. So what was the sly dig about? To put me on the defensive, guessed the cripple. And it succeeded, didn’t it? he mused.

The producer led the procession to the dining room, followed by the lawyer and then the cripple limping as fast as he could on his crutch, trying to keep up. In the dining room the butler was standing behind the chair at the head of the table. The butler pulled the chair from the table, allowed the producer to sit down, then he and the producer pushed the chair close to the table.

The producer said, “Thank you, Bunter.”

The lawyer sat in a chair to the producer’s immediate right. The butler also helped Sigmond Levy into his chair. The butler told the cripple, “This way, please,” and led him down to the other end of the long dining room table, miles from the producer and his lawyer. The butler pointed to the cripple’s place as if the cripple were a fox terrier that knew how to get up on a chair. Then the butler named Bunter left the room.

“You serious about this Rosie girl?” asked Jimmy Joel Jenks.

“Think so,” said Billy Constable thoughtfully. “I must be ’cause I met her mishpokhe.”

“Her what?”

“Her mishpokhe.”

“What’s a mishpokhe?” asked Jimmy Joel Jenks.