“You just lost fifty-four dollars.”

“Yeah, I guess so. So can I go now? It’s punishment enough, right?”

“Fifty-four dollars is hardly a sufficient fine for breaking and entering, attempted theft, and the assault of an elderly man—”

“But . . . wait . . . I didn’t assault you!”

He smiled viciously. “Who do you think the police will believe, me or you?”

By now most of the dogs had quieted down. A few had wandered off, a couple came over to sniff at me, but the rest all clustered protectively around the old man.

“I really am sorry, Mr. Crawley.”

“There are countries where delinquent children are caned for their misdeeds. Do you know what caning is?”

“Kind of like whipping?”

“Yes,” he said, “but more painful. You’d probably choose a few dog bites over a caning.”

He put the poker down across the arms of his wheelchair. “You can tell your friend to come out from behind the curtains now.”

My heart sank. “What friend?”

“Lying does not help your case,” snapped Crawley.

Before I could say any more, the Schwa emerged from behind the curtains, looking sheepish, like a dog who just dirtied the rug.

“How did you know he was there?”

“Let’s just say I’m observant,” said Crawley. “I don’t usually keep sneakers poking out from beneath my curtains.”

Four out of five people didn’t notice the Schwa. It figures Crawley had to be a fifth person. He stared at us there, saying nothing, waiting for the police to arrive.

“I . . . I didn’t know you were an invalid,” I said, which is a pretty stupid thing to say, but my brain tends to become spongelike when under stress.

Crawley frowned. I thought he already was frowning. “I broke a hip,” he said, annoyed. “The wheelchair is only temporary.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry sorry sorry,” he mocked. “You sound like a broken record.”

“Sorry,” I said, then grimaced.

“What’s your name?”

“Wendell Tiggor,” I said, without missing a beat.

“Very good. Now tell me your real name.”

This guy might have been old, but he was as sharp as a shark tooth. I sighed. “Anthony Bonano.”

He turned to the Schwa. “And your name?”

I had hoped he might have forgotten the Schwa was there, but luck was in short supply today.

“Calvin. Calvin Schwa.”

“Stupid name.”

“I know, sir. It wasn’t my choice, sir.”

I could hear sirens now, getting closer. I supposed Wendell and the Tiggorhoids had all deserted. No one in that crowd would risk their necks, or any other part of their anatomy, for us.

“Well, there they are,” said Crawley, hearing the sirens. “Tell me, is this your first arrest, or are you repeat offenders?”

As we weren’t actually arrested at the American Airlines terminal, I told him it was a first offense.

“It won’t be the last, I’m sure,” he said.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, sir, but I think it will be.”