IV

Across the street from the Umanov Guitar Store…

Across the street from the Umanov Guitar Store in the West Village, a dirty gray van worked its way into a parking place. Dark blue letters across both sides of the van read Edward Antoian & Sons Oriental Rug Gallery. Three men with the company name stitched on the backs of their blue jumpsuits stepped out of the van’s front seat and onto the street. They walked to the back of the van, opened its two doors, and pulled out a long Persian rug tied by rope at both ends and in the middle. The three men hoisted the rug onto their shoulders—one man at each end and one in the middle—and carried it across the street. They stopped at the black door with the bronze letter slot that led to the rooms above the guitar store. The man in the middle released the rug, opened the door, and pushed the button of the name that matched the one written on the piece of paper he held in his hand.

After a while the door buzzed open.

The three men lugged the long rug into the dark hallway and began to walk up the stairs. The old cripple suddenly appeared, standing on the floor above them. He leaned over the rail and shouted, “Hold it! Where the hell do you guys think you’re going with that rug? I didn’t order any rug.”

“This is a present,” said one of the three men.

“From who?”

“Wait just a second, please,” said the speaker politely. With his free hand the man pulled a piece of paper from a back pocket, unfolded it, and read the note aloud: “‘This beautiful Persian rug is a gift from your partner in The Death Game. I want to make amends for my rude behavior at dinner last week.’”

“The prick had second thoughts, did he? Can’t say as I blame him,” said the cripple from over the banister to the delivery men below.

“I’m sorry, what did you say, sir?” said the man.

“Nothing. So what the hell am I going to do with a friggin’ rug, for Christ sake?”

“We have strict instructions to make sure we put it down on your apartment floor,” said the speaker, “or we get our heads handed to us.”

“That rug isn’t going to fit in my place. It’s too big.”

“We’ll make it fit, sir. Don’t you worry about that.”

The cripple thought for a moment. For one thing, he didn’t have a rug. A rug would be nice under his bare feet. For another thing, the rug must be worth something. He could always sell it.

“Okay,” said the cripple, “bring it up.”